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WHAT FAMILY DOES 4/29/2013 12:27:57 PM
Rachel and I long for what we never had ...
“Thanks so much for all you’re doing,” my sister-in-law kept saying. My husband’s cousin had passed away, and we were attending a celebration of her life. We pitched in to give her a proper farewell—setting up tables, arranging pastries on platters, and helping to pay for refreshments.
“Of course,” Scott and I replied each time. “We’re family. That’s what family does.”
But I wondered, “Do I know what family does?” I’m an only child who grew up with no relatives nearby. “Over the river and through the woods” is just a line in a song. I never went to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving because one grandmother was long dead and the other lived in in a small apartment in New York. Much of my husband’s clan has remained in the Chicago area, so he has a small network, but he hasn’t made an effort to stay close. We see most of his relatives only at weddings and funerals.
Looking for similarities: my husband (right) and cousin
The following week, I drove from Cincinnati to northern Indiana to join my own cousins. (I’ve changed their names for this post.) Elaine entered assisted living last fall. She now lives in another state, close to her son Michael. Now I was helping Mike and his sister Rachel prepare Elaine’s house for sale.
I didn’t grow up with these cousins. My mother had four brothers, but they were scattered around the Midwest and visited rarely. Elaine is my first cousin, daughter of the oldest brother, but I am closer to Michael in age. I have a vague memory of him as a toddler, romping with his dog. I saw Mike next at eleven, then at fifteen, then not again till he was grown. A graduation, a wedding, a funeral.
A few years ago, I was in the area, so I dropped in at the little house where Elaine lived with her husband, Joe. As I was about to leave, Joe pulled me aside. He spoke of his concerns that he and Elaine would not be able to remain in their house. Her memory was failing; he was physically frail. I promised Joe that I would do whatever I could to help. That’s what family does, isn’t it?
We all love animals: beagle cousin
Joe died the next spring. Since then, I have tried to be a presence in the lives of Elaine and her children. I’ve visited on Elaine’s birthday, called and written with some regularity, helped with expenses. Now, when we’re together, I search for similarities between us. We’re all good with words; we love animals; we laugh at the same jokes. “You’re so much like my son,” I tell Rachel. It’s true, but the two have never met. He lives in Seattle now, and he didn’t grow up with his cousins either. I regret that. However, not only did we live apart, there is no one on either side of the family within eight years of his age.
My cousins and I trade memories and anecdotes, but we have precious few. Stripping the house, we find Rachel’s baby book. The family tree inside it is bare above my grandparents, who came to this country from Russia. None of us know my great-grandparents’ names.
A rare keepsake: my mother with her parents and brothers, around 1920.
Rachel and I envision what could have been. Sundays at Grandma’s: three generations of women laughing in the kitchen, cousins playing hide-and-seek, Grandpa teaching us to bait a hook, being tucked into the same bed at the end of a long day. We might not have liked it after all, but we long for what we never had.
Now that Elaine has relocated, Mike and I have little reason to return to Indiana. But I hope my cousins know they can count on me. I want to be there for them if I know how. That’s what family does, I think. Isn’t it?
