The end came early for Garthia Pierson my beloved grandmother, who died of bone cancer at age 49. Her story is detailed more fully in my book, "What Happened to Suzy."
DEATH OF AN ANGEL
(Excerpt from What Happened to Suzy)
Ode to My Beloved Grandmother
Mamus (mom-us)
It was a weekday morning in July of 1965. I missed my grandmother and the freedom and privileges of being in her company. Within the household, Bill was becoming a monster. He locked us in his room and lined us against the dingy mattress in an attempt to keep us under his control during the daytime while mother was at work. As we sat on the floor in the boy's room, I had anticipated Mamus, my beloved grandmother - walking through the door and freeing us any minute. It never happened. However, days, weeks, and what seemed like months passed before anyone spoke of our grandmother's curious absence. So much around the house regarding daddy and mother was secretive and suddenly a lot of whispering was going on when we kids came around. I recognized how sad mother was these days. She cried a lot now. Carmelia, seventeen, consoled mother's endless tears and she was crying too.
A day before mother escorted my sister Debbie and I to our grandmother's house, I was scared and certain that if I did not see Mamus soon, I was going to collapse. We were being punished in my brother's room more now. Daddy came by the house less and less. The punishment chamber was a hot room. Inside, we were under tremendous pressure to endure my brother's every whim. The future would reveal that my brother's madness was only going to get worse. I couldn't worry about that. I wanted to see Mamus. The anticipation of seeing Mamus again was far greater than any concern I had about school, mother, daddy, or Bill.
On July 15, 1965, my mother seated my sister Debbie and I inside the car for the long-awaited trip to Mamus’ house. Mother had always dressed Debbie and I like twins. Today we were dressed in pink and blue sear-sucker short sets. I was nine in blue. Debbie was ten in pink. Debbie was said to be the prettier one. At least Daddy told me Debbie was the prettiest. He told me Debbie had the more striking features and he told me Debbie's hair was longer, straighter, and better than mine was. It didn't matter what color we were wearing, or who was the prettiest; it was hot. This day the heat penetrated through the blue and white sear-sucker short sets Mamus had bought us. For the first time in my life, I was extremely apprehensive and nervous. In the back seat of my grandmother's car, I flicked the silver ashtray up and down, pinching the tips of my fingers until mother demanded I cut it out. I recognized mother's pitiful face with dried tears and bleeding red eyes. The bags beneath her bottom lashes caused her eyes to droop, and when she wept, Debbie patted her on the back. The more I stared at the back of mother's head, the more furors enveloped my body. I hated mother for not having been up front with us concerning our grandmother's absence. I knew as a child there are certain things you do not tell children. But I also knew that Mother was clearly aware of what our grandmother meant to each of us. Not telling us she was sick or even dying was cruel to me.
I hated mother for this. I was forcing myself to swallow my rage, or I would have surely yanked the bulk of mother's wild hair. Her sniffing and crying made me want to scream. She steered the car so slowly that I was sure we would not get to Mamus’ house ever. Only when mother finally did turn onto Cambridge Street and I could see the top of our grandmother's car did some of the tension ease from my body.
Once mother parked the car, neither Debbie nor I raced up the hump on route to the small white house in the back. We marched in time with mother's slow, dragging steps. Along the strip leading to her house, I caught sight of dying flowers. Her once spotless blue stairs were thick with dust. On top of the front porch, mother opened the screen door and its rusty hinges lacked the significant pop once there when we ran in and out. The three of us set foot in Mamus' house where upon entrance the stale aroma of strong medication almost forced me to back up outside. Mother instructed Debbie and me to sit on the red divan in the den.
As I took a seat on the sofa, I scanned the room only to see rolled Herald Examiners held together by splitting rubber bands. Mail had been shoved beneath the door. Particles of flying lint floated around the room. Mother dried her tears, and then entered the room where Mamus lay. I was sick. I could no longer defend the truth in my mind at this point. Mother and her mother were only fourteen years apart. Why would God threaten to separate Mamus from her only child? Though I did everything within my power to dismiss the painful thoughts that flowed through my mind, I had no business at all viewing life without Mamus. I rocked against the back of the strong sofa. In the other room, mother squealed loudly now. At an age where children can usually block things out, I couldn't deny what was happening to me and my family. This was the beginning of what would be the most tragic moment in my life. I had no business at all thinking like this. I rocked against the sofa harder. Debbie leaped off the sofa and once she peered inside my grandmother's room, the overwhelming trauma of my grandmother's impending demise lowered my sister to her knees outside of my grandmother's bedroom door. In the room ahead of where I was seated, the old cold spot sang a familiar snarling tune. I had never believed in God before. I liked him because Mamus said she liked him. Unlike most blacks, we were not brought up in the church and the only thing I knew about our faith was that it was Catholic. We didn't practice it unless an earthquake happened or a president died, like President Kennedy. I tried to have faith now. If it would save Mamus, I could believe now that God was not selfish and that whatever mother and Debbie were wailing about really was not that bad. If God was the powerful man Mamus said he was, surely he could work this out. Later, Mother exited her mother's room. I don't know how much time later it was, but I do remember her lifting Debbie up off the floor. Then mother allowed entrance to two strangers dressed in white. They had been pounding at the door for the longest time. I didn't answer it. I was just as bewildered over all of this as mother and Debbie. I was trying to block everything out. They entered my grandmother's door. Shortly thereafter, the paramedics exited the room with a skeleton-like figure. She lay limply on the stretcher. Her hair was all white; the strands were scattered about her balding head. Skin once so smooth and yellow was now blotches of blacks and blues. Bones were all she was now. Her thin arms hung loosely over the sides of the wheeled bed, revealing green and blue veins. Immediately my stomach jittered back and forth. It seemed I had no control over my revolting body. Seeing Mamus this way sent shock waves throughout my body. As they wheeled Mamus outside into a waiting ambulance, I set foot inside of her bedroom. The radio screamed out “Cupid” and a soft breeze lifted Mamus' peach colored draperies. The room was dusky. I searched the stinking atmosphere for answers as to why this was happening to the woman I loved so dearly. Behind me, the helpless whimpers of my sister, along with the deflating smell of sickness, forced me to sit on the feces-filled bed. At this moment I covered my face with both hands, then allowed my mind to face the horrifying candor of reality. Upon closing my eyes, rivers of tears washed my face and all of me was consumed with the love I felt for my grandmother. I pictured her vividly in her white uniform with her black hair neatly combed off her glowing face. I remembered her singing her spirituals while she scrubbed our dirtied laundry out on the back porch. I remembered her kindness to me. I remembered her generosity to others. She was a good woman who treated people right. I loved the way she treated her daughter, as if she loved her more than life. Mamus was always there for us. Now my body jerked, causing me to grieve in a way so hurtful that I could no longer suppress my grief and I yelled. After my body was soaked with tears I could not tell if I had pissed on myself, or if my tears had traveled even that far down my body. I was sure, however, that we had indeed suffered the most horrendous loss ever. There was no way to tell at this moment that Mamus’ loss would be felt for a very long time. It was the singular most significant passing I would know. I was so devastated that I had lost track of all my senses. I do not even today remember a time in my life when I was ever so despaired over the loss of a loved one.
Two days following our visit to Mamus' house, our grandmother died of congestive heart failure brought on by Myeloma bone cancer. No heart sank as deep as mine did on July 17, 1965. Two years, four months, and five days after losing a great President, another enormous figure in the Brown household had died and faded to memory. Worst of all, knowing that we would no longer sing the familiar tune we sang when our grandmother's car entered our driveway was a hard pill to swallow. Nevertheless, in my heart, her short-lived life gave me a lifetime of love that would never die. In my heart, “Mamus is here, Mamus is here,” forever.
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