Chapter 4 - Celia and Beatrice
My mother and Celia had never loved each other.
I knew that.
I had called it:
different personalities.
That phrase is often how people avoid admitting two women openly dislike each other.
Celia came from a public-school family in western Massachusetts.
Her father repaired industrial refrigeration systems.
Her mother ran a dental office.
My mother came from old Boston money.
Not billionaire money.
Enough to create habits.
Private schools.
Boards.
Summer houses rented from the same families for thirty years.
Celia hated social hierarchy.
Beatrice hated people who made hating social hierarchy into a personality.
They were both sharp.
Both proud.
At first it was funny.
Then Lowri was born.
Everything sharpened.
My mother wanted:
A naming ceremony at the family church.
Celia wanted none.
My mother bought heirloom dresses.
Celia put Lowri in dinosaur pajamas.
My mother said:
“Children need tradition.”
Celia said:
“Children need clothes they can throw up on.”
I thought they would adjust.
Then cancer arrived.
My mother became useful.
Too useful.
Meals.
Appointments.
Childcare.
Insurance forms.
She stayed at our house often.
Celia appreciated some.
Resented some.
I became referee.
Then exhausted.
I started saying:
“Can we please not fight about this?”
That sentence never resolves conflict.
It teaches the louder person to wait for the tired person to stop listening.
Celia once told me:
“Your mother treats help like a deed to the property.”
I said:
“She’s trying.”
Celia replied:
“So am I.”
I remembered that now.
Another conversation:
“If I die, do not let her raise Lowri.”
I had heard it as fear.
“What are you talking about? I’m her father.”
“I know.”
“Then Mom won’t raise her.”
“She’ll try to.”
I laughed then.
Not because funny.
Because impossible.
I was healthy.
Present.
Celia said:
“You don’t see how much you let her decide when you’re tired.”
I became defensive.
“She’s helping us survive.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“That doesn’t mean she gets to design what happens after I’m gone.”
I kissed her forehead.
Promised:
“No one replaces you.”
I believed the promise.
May you like
I did not understand how actively I needed to enforce it.
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