beside Mother, she clung to my hand until she slipped into a profound, frowning sleep, her eyes moving beneath her blue-veined lids in some desperate nightmare struggle. At times of emotional pressure, Anne-Marie would fall into so deep a sleep that I sometimes feared she would never awaken. She needed large draughts of calm and peace each day, like she needed food and drink, and she suffered if she couldn't have them.
I woke in the chair at dawn one morning, sweaty and with my clothes all twisted. The apartment smelled of mustard and eucalyptus, but Mother's breathing was better and her skin was cool, even a little clammy. But that evening the fever and coughing began again and she had a three-day relapse that left her wan and frail.
Finally the crisis broke and Mother lay back against the pillows and looked at me with vague, defocused eyes. She squeezed my hand to thank me. I squeezed back three squeezes, our secret family code for 'I love you', then I went in to her bed and slept the rest of that night and half of the next day.? HYPERLINK “file:///C:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Administrator\\Impostazioni%20locali\\Temp\\Rar$EX00.266\\Trevanian%20-%20The%20Crazyladies%20of%20Pearl%20Street.htm” \l “note4#note4” ??[4]?
Another typical attack of her lung fever had passed. In a couple of days she would be full of pep and playfulness again, ripping through the housework with her mania for cleanliness, playing street games with us, singing songs from 'Your Lucky Strike Hit Parade' or showing us dances from her heyday back in the 'Twenties. Her bouts of lung fever frightened me, of course, but not so much as they frightened my sister, who could only look on and dread the outcome of something she could do nothing about, while I had lots to do, and I took pride in the important role of carer and healer that made me, for a few days, boss of the house. I relished being permitted to stay home from school to care for her. So I coped fairly well with the physical fragility that lay just beneath the surface of my mother's stubborn vivacity. Her emotional frailty, however, was a different matter.
Just as her health could be shattered by the slightest chill or fatigue, so her moods could plunge overnight from resilient self-confidence to the darkest acedia, where life seemed hopeless and pointless. And there was the omnipresent threat of that famous French-'n'-Indian temper of hers, but while her self-indulgent, short-fused temper could punch a raw red hole into the middle of an otherwise good day, it always passed off quickly, leaving her sorry for having shouted or smashed something and eager to play with us or make us a treat to compensate for having behaved badly. The condition she called 'the blues' or 'down in the dumps' was longer lasting. For a week or more the spark was out of her and she couldn't see how we could ever get free from the centripetal cycle of poverty, ill health and bad breaks. She continued to make meals, clean the house, wash and sew and mend, but there was no life in her voice, no lightness in her movement. She was a gray presence that dragged dully through the house exuding chill and despair.
In time, she would pull herself out of the slimy depths of depression, back into the light of hope, but not without considerable emotional cost. And not only to herself.
We children knew that Mother had had more than her share of bad luck and disappointments, and we knew that the struggle to keep us with her sometimes absorbed so much of her energy that she was left her unable to ward off bouts of depression or to control her occasional rages. Anne-Marie and I understood this in that intuitive, nonverbal way that children perceive the emotions and attitudes of the adults around them. But for all our understanding, we still resented her bad moods, and felt guilty for resenting them. She was a wonderful woman, but not an easy woman to live with; her health was always close to collapse, her emotions always
I woke in the chair at dawn one morning, sweaty and with my clothes all twisted. The apartment smelled of mustard and eucalyptus, but Mother's breathing was better and her skin was cool, even a little clammy. But that evening the fever and coughing began again and she had a three-day relapse that left her wan and frail.
Finally the crisis broke and Mother lay back against the pillows and looked at me with vague, defocused eyes. She squeezed my hand to thank me. I squeezed back three squeezes, our secret family code for 'I love you', then I went in to her bed and slept the rest of that night and half of the next day.? HYPERLINK “file:///C:\\Documents%20and%20Settings\\Administrator\\Impostazioni%20locali\\Temp\\Rar$EX00.266\\Trevanian%20-%20The%20Crazyladies%20of%20Pearl%20Street.htm” \l “note4#note4” ??[4]?
Another typical attack of her lung fever had passed. In a couple of days she would be full of pep and playfulness again, ripping through the housework with her mania for cleanliness, playing street games with us, singing songs from 'Your Lucky Strike Hit Parade' or showing us dances from her heyday back in the 'Twenties. Her bouts of lung fever frightened me, of course, but not so much as they frightened my sister, who could only look on and dread the outcome of something she could do nothing about, while I had lots to do, and I took pride in the important role of carer and healer that made me, for a few days, boss of the house. I relished being permitted to stay home from school to care for her. So I coped fairly well with the physical fragility that lay just beneath the surface of my mother's stubborn vivacity. Her emotional frailty, however, was a different matter.
Just as her health could be shattered by the slightest chill or fatigue, so her moods could plunge overnight from resilient self-confidence to the darkest acedia, where life seemed hopeless and pointless. And there was the omnipresent threat of that famous French-'n'-Indian temper of hers, but while her self-indulgent, short-fused temper could punch a raw red hole into the middle of an otherwise good day, it always passed off quickly, leaving her sorry for having shouted or smashed something and eager to play with us or make us a treat to compensate for having behaved badly. The condition she called 'the blues' or 'down in the dumps' was longer lasting. For a week or more the spark was out of her and she couldn't see how we could ever get free from the centripetal cycle of poverty, ill health and bad breaks. She continued to make meals, clean the house, wash and sew and mend, but there was no life in her voice, no lightness in her movement. She was a gray presence that dragged dully through the house exuding chill and despair.
In time, she would pull herself out of the slimy depths of depression, back into the light of hope, but not without considerable emotional cost. And not only to herself.
We children knew that Mother had had more than her share of bad luck and disappointments, and we knew that the struggle to keep us with her sometimes absorbed so much of her energy that she was left her unable to ward off bouts of depression or to control her occasional rages. Anne-Marie and I understood this in that intuitive, nonverbal way that children perceive the emotions and attitudes of the adults around them. But for all our understanding, we still resented her bad moods, and felt guilty for resenting them. She was a wonderful woman, but not an easy woman to live with; her health was always close to collapse, her emotions always
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