Amanda in the Summer (4 page)
My heart aches, I miss Daddy so much already. I didn’t mind not returning home quite yet. The city reminds me of him so much more than here. I have good memories of beach time with him, but so often he’d split for the city and leave Mom and me here. Well, you know that. Years ago you saw as much, if not more, of him during the summer than we did. And even after you moved to California, he didn’t spend as much time here as Mom and me. It almost seems wrong for him to rest eternally just off the sand dunes in view of the ocean and so far from the city. But then, Mom had her way about that, too. In the end, I don’t suppose it matters. Truth of it is, it must not have meant that much to him. Daddy pretty much pampered Mom for as long as I can remember, so why not let her choose their final destination?
Through all my sadness, I will always remember the end. My God, Auntie Tilly, I’m convinced he felt some sense of happiness in those last few moments. Forever, I will remember Mom on his one side, you on the other, and he gripping both of your hands. Years seemed to lift from his face as he smiled and closed his eyes. Thank you for calling me from the foot of his bed to take the hand you held as he left this world. You always know exactly what to do in any circumstance.
I’m not sure Mom will come back to the beach again this summer. Your standing vacation together here the second week of August is probably not on her mind at the moment, and I’m not sure you can get away from whatever commitments you have in San Diego so soon again. You do always lift her spirits, so I’ll bring it up in a few days. Or not. Perhaps I should wait to call you when I’m back in New York, because if you can’t come, I don’t want her to be disappointed.
Thank you for coming when you did. I know Mom needed you. I needed you.
Love and Peace,
Amanda
August 2, 1996
Dear Tilly,
I’ve carried your letter out to the beach and read it again, although I don’t know why I would think there would be anymore to glean than the first time. As always, Tilly, your brevity on some subjects is maddening. You would think, after all these years, I would be accustomed to your letters. I drove in to town to call you. Wasted effort as you’ve already had your phone disconnected with typical Tilly efficiency. Why the hell don’t you have a cell phone? I don’t suppose I’d have one either if it weren’t for my daughter.
If I get this letter in the mail this afternoon, you’ll have it waiting when you arrive in New York. How absolutely wonderful you managed to get a flat in your old apartment house. Ten years ago, I might have driven back to the city and met you in person. Now, you’ll have to settle on a letter to greet you. The drive tires me out lately. Many things tire me out lately. I’m sure you’re as spry as I am tired. Damn you! (said with love)
I’m quite beside myself with excitement. Whatever reason has made you abandon your lovely San Diego apartment for the Big Apple, I don’t care. Well, I do care in that I can’t wait to find out the details. Details—what your letters always lack. My guess is, taking into consideration my own melancholy of late, you merely have a desire to return to your roots. And I wouldn’t mind it a bit if you are flat out missing me. Our one week a year here on the beach is always so marvelous, but always leaves me wanting more. Now, we’ll be able to have lunch in the city, shop or museum hop whenever we choose the rest of the year.
No, we won’t dwell on the melancholy I’ve mentioned when you arrive. I’ll be all over that having my dearest, oldest friend to keep me company. But for a moment, I will confess something. The sun, the beach and the air are the same as they’ve been for all seventy-three of my years. Lying on the beach, I can close my eyes and almost hear Mother telling me not to get overheated. I can hear Amanda’s giggles as the waves chase her back beside me. In deeper thought, Robert’s hands smooth suntan lotion across my shoulders as he plants a kiss on my neck. With open eyes, one glance down at my old legs dispels the illusion in a flash. I can hear you laughing. No illusion there.
This is the first summer in many years that I’ve spent the entire season here. Everyone has visited a few times. My beautiful granddaughter is twenty-five and quite an astounding woman. She spent a few days with me, just the two of us. She’s only a couple of years older than when Amanda became pregnant with her. See how my mind is wandering of late? It will be wonderful to reminisce with you, and then you’ll ground me in the here and now. We’ll build our fire on the beach and roast those awful brats I’m sure you’ll bring. We’ll go into town and have sundaes at Culver Soda Fountain. Yes, it’s still there, and we’ll gorge ourselves. One good thing about growing old—who gives a damn about too many calories? We’ll put on our swimsuits and flaunt our aged bodies as we have a walk up the sand.
Once back in the city, we must visit the Bronx Museum of Arts—no I have not been there in many years. Now and then, we really must take in an afternoon, off-Broadway play, go back to your place for a Manhattan and fall asleep well before the real nightlife in New York has geared up. We shall be wild and crazy in our golden years.
I’ve got to get this to the post office so you have some sort of a welcome greeting when you hit the city. I’m so happy, Tilly. So very, very happy. You’re coming at the exact right time when the connection I feel with you and for you is much needed. See you soon.
Much love, my dear Tilly,
Amanda
June 7, 2004
Dearest Aunt Tilly,
Like my grandmother, your best friend, and Mom to who you were Auntie Tilly, I lie on this stretch of beach writing a letter as they did.
You are a sly woman, aren’t you? My doubts about motherhood and my determination to name this child anything but Amanda have all melted away. I’ve spent the morning in the sun, reading letters to you from Grandmother and Mom, feeling their presence while feeling the presence of the child in me. Past, present and future.
When I visited last month, you were weak, and as concerned as I was for you, we only talked about me. You’re very good at deflecting the attention from yourself. My heart lightened with the telling of my problems and the assurances from you that all I needed to do was come here to the beach. Your gift of the blue hatbox in the top of the guestroom closet, your room, made no sense to me then. After reading years of letters, it now does.
All my doubts about my impending motherhood have flown away on the ocean breezes. This child will not stop me from being me, but only compliment my life. My personal quests, my career and my marriage will be so much more because of opening my heart and my life to this gift. If my own mother had lived to see this moment, she’d have laughed at how my doubts mirrored hers about having me. Only six months gone—I miss her so. At least I still have Aunt Tilly. How smart you are directing me to these letters. You put me back in touch with who I am. And I will name this child Amanda.
Rummaging through your hatbox gave me strength to go through some of Mom’s things. I remembered a trunk she kept in the attic full of keepsakes and letters. Dad hasn’t been able to tackle any of this since her death. Starting at the top of the trunk were flyers from Mom and Dad’s protest days, letters from friends and family, drawings and cards I made for them. As I peeled back layers like the bark on an old tree, I exposed the rings of history of the Amandas. You have known three of us. I can only hope to live up to the name.
After reading how many times Gamma and Mother wished they could call you from this old house, I laugh that I can and won’t. There are questions some of these letters bring, and I’m not sure I could broach the subjects if I had to hear your voice. I feel as if I am snooping even though you gave me this hatbox and permission to snoop. While composing a letter, my thoughts can digest, my emotions can temper and my words can flow without worry of your reaction. My curiosity so piqued, I can at least turn to the computer and salve my ragged emotional edges with knowledge. Distractions are welcomed for a while.
The line of Amandas stretches back to 1882. Did you know that?
The name Amanda is of Latin origin and means love or worthy of love. And then there is Venus, goddess of love. What has Venus to do with all my Amandas? On December 6, 1882, the birth date of my great, great grandmother (the first Amanda) the Venus Transit occurred. The Venus Transit occurs when Venus crosses the sun. I plan to see it tomorrow, right here on this beach. It will be the first Transit in one hundred and twenty two years. My Amanda’s due date is December 6, the birthday of her great, great, great grandmother. Isn’t this all amazing? So you see, it’s practically a spiritual name. How can I not name this child Amanda?
Distractions aside, your blue hatbox put me on a path of discovery that has, in addition to my own self-awareness, revealed much about the Amandas before me, and about you. I’ll admit, your lecture last month, when I visited, pales in comparison to the lessons learned, or should I say revealed, in these letters, which is entirely what you intended. I see myself as clearly as the clean, ocean air allows me to see along this beautiful stretch of beach.
At first I thought you didn’t mean for me to see all that lies in this box.
I thought it must have been your memory slipping when you directed me to your blue hatbox, a Pandora’s Box of secrets. I thought maybe I would write to you and not mention what all I found. You must have forgotten and didn’t mean for me to find it, but, Tilly, your mind is as clever as the day I was born. You knew all my doubts would be allayed if I immersed myself in the lives of my grandmother and mother, in their doubts and their joys with their daughters.
My grandmother loved you. That is quite obvious from her letters. And apparently my grandfather loved you, also, even before my grandmother loved you, and certainly before he loved my grandmother. That note from him, at the bottom of the hatbox, was a beautiful tribute to you, and in a way to Gamma. It took me awhile to piece together the puzzle of your relationship, a relationship that preceded his love for my grandmother. My memories of him are vivid, and losing him when I was eight was sad. But it occurred to me that I have no recollections of the two of you together. Whenever you came to see us at the beach, he would be in the city. I remember a few trips to your house in the city, but Grandfather never accompanied us.
The letters tell of another time. All those times you both happened to end up in the city, for so many years—you weren’t such a lonely bohemian after all. Then one summer it all changed. God, I yearn to know the whole of it, but I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anymore than what I can discern from the letters. What purpose would it serve other than to satisfy my curiosity?
At first, shocked at discovering the double life of my grandfather, a sliver of judgment wedged an opening in my heart. As I read on, a strange understanding pushed aside the wedge and closed the beginning of a rift in my love. He managed to give all of himself to his beloved wife and child, yet still share a piece of himself with you. And that’s all either of you ever wanted. Your letters are rich with a life you loved. You had exactly what you wanted. Perhaps my grandmother was blind to you, and perhaps you were dishonest in your friendship with her, but it’s hard for me to make that judgment when each of you lived life as you did. I can only wonder at the way you were.
You’ve called me a romantic when you’ve patted my cheek with affection; you’ve called me indifferent when my passion has not risen to an occasion. With all the Amandas before me now dead, my grandfather dead, you knew the truths and lies hidden in those letters would lead me down a path of self-discovery as I came to know the Amandas before me. So, all this had to be revealed in order for you to make me see? You thought it was more important that I make this journey of self-discovery than for you to keep your secrets. I love you for that.
But…Aunt Tilly? You can’t relinquish ownership of your blue hatbox quite yet. You must make one more trip to Amanda’s beach house. As soon as you feel strong enough, I will bring you here to lie on this beach and watch my Amanda play in the sand.
Until then—dearest Tilly, groovy Auntie Tilly, clever Aunt Tilly.
With Love,
Amanda.
A word about the author...
I was born and raised in Arizona. Outside of Arizona, my travels had gone only as far as California, Nevada, and New Mexico until I married a man doing a stint in the Army. If the Army offered nothing else, we at least had the opportunity to see a good part of the world. And we found we liked moving around.
Our frequent moves continued into our civilian life. Our gypsy lifestyle has finally landed us in the northern prairies of Arizona. We’re transitioning from city people to country folk. We share our rambling farmhouse with our son the farmer, his wife, my granddaughter, and three dogs. Together, we’ve embraced an age-old lifestyle that has been mostly lost in the United States—multiple generations living under one roof, who share the workload, follow their individual dreams, and reap the benefits of combined talents.
Although I didn’t start out to write romance, I’ve found all good stories have to involve complicated human relationships. I’ve also learned, no matter a person’s age, a new discovery is right around every corner. Whether humorous or serious, straight contemporary or mystery, all my books revolve around those two facts.
Visit Brenda at
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She blogs on the 9th and 24th of every month at
http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com
and blogs about prairie life and writing at
http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/
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