* * *
January 3, 1944
My Dearest Ed,
Darling,
Lydia and Dottie surprised me with a bridal shower! Here are the things I
received––all things for my hope chest; a sweet satin nightie, imperial glass
candle holders, two linen guest towels, a lace doile, a flower vase, a vanity
case, Yardley’s Dusting Powder, Apple Blossom Soap, $2 (Which I put into
defense stamps at once).
Honey,
how sweet of you to send the mirror, comb and brush set––it’s beautiful. Your
taste is always excellent. Your presence would have made the party completely
perfect, but we’ll be joined together forever very soon.
I’m
praying for your furlough. Darling, I can’t wait to be your wife.
Yours forever,
Ibby
P.S. Take care
of your cold, darling.
* * *
The move was
imminent. Lakeview Reserve provided us with movers, two women who owned a
business called “Nest Makers,” specializing in re-locating the elderly. These
ladies looked at the floor plan of the two-bedroom two-bath apartment and
helped Mom and Annette determine what furniture to move. Two-thirds of Mom and
Dad’s belongings went to the new apartment. All else was left behind to be
sorted later.
On the dreary
morning of November 15, 2006, Dad was still in bed as the movers began loading
furniture. Mom said he’d fallen out of bed in the night and didn’t sleep well.
Annette and I knew we needed to wake him. We stood at the bedroom door, looking
back and forth at each other, both of us waiting for the other to make the
first move. Meanwhile, Mom meandered around with the movers.
We waited until
the last minute to disturb him. The house was full of noise, so we knew he must
be awake. I don’t remember which one of us walked toward the bed first, but the
other followed. We told him the movers had arrived. He responded to our voices
by opening his eyes, rolling them, closing them again, and curling up in a
ball. We had to coax him to stand up. It was obvious he would not or could not
dress himself. Neither Annette nor I had ever dressed Dad, but this morning, one
leg at a time and one arm at a time, we helped him out of his flannel pajamas,
pulled on a polo shirt and khaki pants, then slipped loafers on his feet.
With one of us on
either side, holding his arms, we walked him out of the bedroom so movers could
load the bed. We continued to the living room, opened the coat closet, held
their coats behind them, then I buttoned Mom’s tan trench coat and Ann zipped
Dad’s jacket.
As we walked through the dining room,
without speaking, Mom paused to brush through the clutter on the dining table,
picked up her wine-colored lipstick and dropped it in her purse which hung on
the back of a straight chair. Placing the purse on her shoulder, she took a
deep breath, tried to straighten her stooped spine, and took my hand as I
guided her down the two steps to the garage. With Annette holding his hand to
steady his swaying, Dad dragged his feet past his red Caddy, to my Jeep.
We helped them
settle their fragile bones and stiff joints in the backseat, fastening their
seatbelts. They sat erect, blank-faced, pale, looking straight ahead as I
backed out of the driveway, and pulled away from the life they’d loved––their
home on Orchard Lane in Rivertown––Mom and Dad filled with too much pain to
even glance back. Only I turned and stole a glimpse at the moving van in the
driveway, trying to compose my face with a pasted empty smile, sucking in my tears––imagining
their happy lives vanishing through the rectangular rear window––vanishing like
a fleeting memory––vanishing like their minds...
