Acceptance

My hands tremble as I open the envelope. I know what is inside. I have been expecting this; I’ve seen the Facebook posts. Why are you friends with your ex? my friends ask. We were friends before we were lovers, is my response. It never satisfies them.

             I take it out, a neat little postcard from Shutterfly. So cute and adorable. Photographs of him – Ethan, my ex. Photographs of her – Ana Sofia, his wife. And photographs of her – the baby.

             My hands shake and I drop the card. It flutters gently to the ground, face up, so I can see the pudgy baby face with dark blue eyes staring out. I can see the name – Gabriela. That was my name, the name I’d chosen for my first child. Ethan and I were going to get married, and our first daughter would be named Gabrielle.

             Flustered, I pick up the card, put it in my back pocket, and head to the den, where my great-grandmother is resting in her rocking chair, eyes lazily focused on the informercials on TV. She is still in awe of modern consumerism, and she loves to watch commercials.

             “Mor-garinion,” she mumbles, the Irish word for “great-granddaughter.” She spent the first six years of her life in Ireland, arriving in America during the Great Depression, fleeing one poverty-stricken country for another.

             I sit next to her, on the arm of the flower-patterned couch, and I gently push her hair out of her eyes. She has Alzheimer’s, it runs in the family, every woman gets it, and every grand-daughter – or great-grand-daughter – cares for the elder woman when she declines. It’s our generational pattern. Fortunately, it starts super late; her memory only started declining a few years ago, and she’s 95 now. We’re the luckiest Alzheimer’s family, I guess.

             Mamo doesn’t always know that I’m her great-granddaughter. She knows my name is Rosie, but all the women in our family are named some version of Rosie – Rose, Rosalie, Rosemary, and so on. My daughter was going to be Gabrielle Rose.

             My daughter – I’d been on the pill when Ethan and I were dating, that was the smart thing to do. Finish school, start careers, get married, then get pregnant. That was the plan. And now it is all gone.

             “Oh, Rosie-Boy, don’t be sad,” Mamo says. Rosie-Boy was her mother’s affectionate nickname, and Mamo sometimes gets confused, calling me by her deceased mother’s childhood nickname.

             “I’m Rosie-Girl, Mamo,” I say, reaching for the cup of water and placing it in her withered hands. “Here, take a sip,” I say, and I guide her hands to her lips and help her drink. A few dribbles wind up on her chin, and I wipe them away with a napkin.

             “I used to drink out of the spring,” she says, “back when the water was fresh.” They’d lived in rural Ireland – most of Ireland is rural – and as she gets older, her memories seem to be getting stronger. She’s losing memories of everything except the earliest parts of her life.

             “Tell me about the spring,” I say. Happy moments are important, and that’s what I’m here for – not just to be her nursemaid, give her her medicine, help her eat, drink, and bathe, protect her from falls, but also to help her be happy. Surround her with comfort and family.

             “Oh, Rosalie, let’s go there. You and me, hold my hand.” Rosalie is my mother. I grasp Mamo’s hand and hold it firmly yet gently, letting her feel my presence. “Do you see it?” she says, taking in a deep breath. “Can you smell it?” She smiles, and I can feel the cool breeze, smell the fresh air with hints of green grass and recent rainfall, and I can hear the gurgling creek.

             I’ve been to Ireland once. Ethan and I took a trip, and we visited County Mayo, where Mamo was born, where all the Rosie’s in my family are from. We found families named Burns and Boyd – our family names – but we weren’t sure how closely related we were to them or where Mamo’s old house was. We only stayed two days before heading south towards County Clare and the Cliffs of Moher, tourist destinations.

             “Rosalie, be careful, Rosalie – oh!” Mamo calls out and she reaches out her arms, towards the TV.

             “Mamo, it’s okay,” I say. “Rosalie’s okay, I promise you.” I know not to contradict her, to tell her what she thinks is true is not. She won’t accept that and then she’ll just get stubborn. So it’s best just to play along.

             “Rosalie broke her leg, don’t you remember?” Mamo asks me. I know that Mom took a trip to Ireland with Nana and Mamo back when she was just a toddler; I’ve heard the stories that she was a rambunctious child and often ran off. One day she was running on some jagged rocks near a stream and she fell and sprained her ankle.

             “It’s just a sprain, Mamo,” I say.

             “You can see it?” she says.

             “Yes,” I say, although all I’m staring at is the TV, the woman with too-poufy hair touting some kitchen gadget. Mamo pats my hand.

             “It’s okay,” she says. “You will.”

             The informercial ends and a commercial comes on. “Would you like to go outside?” I ask. “I’ll go get your shoes.”

             “I’m already outside,” she says then mumbles something I can’t understand.

             “Yes, Mamo,” I say, returning with her slip-on shoes. “I just meant let’s go out back, to the garden.” I’ve spent the past year tending a wildflower garden, complete with fresh green moss. It’s beautiful, and during spring, it’s full of butterflies and hummingbirds.

             “Not as beautiful as Ireland,” she says, and I laugh.

             “No, Mamo, nothing’s as beautiful as Ireland.” Slowly, carefully, I help her with her shoes and sweater; I help her stand up and hold her cane; I guide her out back. We sit on a swinging bench surrounded by a light, fresh breeze and colorful flowers. “Still, it’s lovely,” I say. “It’s our oasis.”

             “Thank you, Rosie,” she says, patting my hand in a moment of clarity. “You worked hard on this, and I appreciate it. I love you.” I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her gently.

             “I love you, Mamo,” I say. She helped raise me as a baby, but she spoiled me. I remember Mom and Nana fighting over all the treats she gave me, the permissions to run wild outside. And she read to me; I would stay up way past my bedtime listening to stories, envisioning them in my head, and those moments were magical.

             “Oh, Rosie-Girl,” she says, “you shall have a child – in due time. You must be patient. It’s not like in my day, when we were considered old maids by twenty. I had your nana at nineteen. A very long labor, that was, but worth it.”

             I take a deep breath and say the words no elderly Irish grandma wants to hear. “I’m not sure I want to have children.” The postcard weighs heavy in my back pocket, and I question whether I ever truly wanted children, or just wanted to follow a plan.

             I know I don’t have to tell her; she’s 95 and has Alzheimer’s. She’ll never know if I never have children. Yet I’ve always told her everything, and she’s always listened with silent wisdom. “I don’t want to pass on … you know… our bad luck gene.”

             “It’s not Alzheimer’s,” she says stubbornly, as she always has. “They always say Alzheimer’s when they don’t understand. You’ll have a child, Rosie, and you’ll name her Gabrielle Rose, just as you planned. Ethan and his bride can name their child whatever they want, that doesn’t take the name from you.”

             My hand reaches towards the card, still in my back pocket. Had I told her that Ana Sofia was pregnant? Maybe. I know I’d been upset at the news. But I hadn’t told her about the name; I’ve only just learned.

             I take the card out and show it to her, even though I know her vision is blurry. I help her adjust her reading glasses and she squints. “They named it Gabriela,” I say. “They stole my name.”

             “And so they did,” she says. “What of it? He’s not in your life anymore. You know it’s for the best.”

             I frown. Mamo usually takes my side in everything, or she just listens. But with Ethan, she has always told me that he wasn’t for me. I’d met Ethan as a sophomore in college; we were in the same art history class. I immediately fell for him; he was my ideal man. What every girl dreams of – tall, dark hair, deep eyes, caring, studious, motivated. He swept me off my feet with roses and dinners. He charmed me. We went out to movies, to concerts, to museums. It was a whirlwind, perfect romance, and throughout it all, Mamo told me it wasn’t to be. At first, she just listened silently, and I could tell by her silence that she didn’t agree. When I finally pressed her on it, she smiled and told me, “I just want you to be happy.” When Ethan and I started fighting, she begged me to let go.

             It took me five years to let go, and that was only because one night we fought so hard I went out drinking and made out with a stranger. When I came home, wasted and apologetic, Ethan said it was over.

             That was it.

             My hands are shaking again as I hold the card.

             The fights – they were all the same. He’d say something insensitive but not outright mean; I’d take offense and start crying; he’d get frustrated that I was crying; I’d start screaming because he was frustrated. And on and on. Always the same. I can hear us now, his voice loud and booming, a crack in his voice, on edge yet trying to control himself.

             “Rosie, you’re being unreasonable!”

             My voice, high-pitched and shrill, shouting through tears: “Stop saying that! You’re being rude!” I hear the thud as he bangs his fist into the wall, the crash as I drop a bowl or plate – a glass this time. I look down and I can see the glass, as if it’s really here, in the present, a tall, clear glass of water, different-shaped shards splayed across the kitchen floor, puddles of water around.

             “Why do you always break things?” It’s his voice again, so angry and frustrated.

             “I dropped it! I’m upset! Can’t you see that you hurt me?”

             Why does it all feel so real?

             Suddenly, I feel a warmth and a strength I haven’t felt in years. Mamo’s arms are wrapped around me, no longer weak and frail. She murmurs into my ear, “I’m so sorry you had to live that again.” I rest my head on hers and let her hold me as the fight-scene fades from my mind and once again I am surrounded by wildflowers and butterflies. “That was just one fight of hundreds,” she says, her arms growing weak again. I sit back up and help place her arms on her lap. “He wasn’t right for you.”

             “Did you see it?”

             “Oh, dear, I see many things,” she says.

             The cool, fresh breeze whips across my face, the sunshine pours down, and the dewy green grass sparkles. There is a low stone wall before me, likely hundreds of years old, and beyond it, endless soft mounds of gently rolling green hills, spotted here and there with the odd rock. A herd of sheep graze calmly in the distance.

             I blink. I’m only twenty-seven. Is this early onset Alzheimer’s?

             Mamo’s hand squeezes mine, once again firm and strong. “The hills have not changed in thousands of years,” she says, “that is the beauty of Ireland.”

             A red-headed teenaged girl jumps over the wall; I have no idea where she came from. She is dressed in a very simple, old-fashioned brown skirt and dirty white blouse. Her hair has been tied loosely but mostly come undone. Her blue eyes sparkle with tears.

             “Rosie-Boy, don’t be sad,” Mamo says.

             The girl sits on the wall and stares at her. “He said no!” she spouts out and then bursts into tears. “Come, come,” Mamo says, and the girls approaches us and kneels; she lays her head in Mamo’s lap. Cautiously I reach out my hand to stroke her hair. It’s real.

             “Rosie-Boy, so precocious,” Mamo says.

             “My name’s Rosie Boyd,” the girl says, “only Mama and Papa call me Rosie-Boy.” Her accent is a very thick Irish accent, difficult to understand. Mamo’s is much less pronounced.

             “Yes, I know,” Mamo says, “I am very close to your ma and pa.” The girl sniffles and wipes her nose on Mamo’s skirt.

             “I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t even know you – Do I?” She looks curiously in Mamo’s eyes. “But he said no and now my life is ruined!” She bursts into tears again.

             “The women in our family are so dramatic,” Mamo says to me. “This is how you feel today, Rosie-Girl, am I right? As if your world is over because Ethan has not only rejected you but moved on?” I feel the sting of truth in her words.

             “Not Ethan,” the girl whimpers. “Kieran. Kieran Dowd. We were going to get married and move to the New World together!”

             “Sh,” Mamo murmurs, stroking the girl’s head. “Don’t you worry. You will get married, you will have children, you will move to the New World. All is right in the world.”

             “You don’t know that,” the girl says, “you can’t know that.”

             “Look at me, Rosie-Boy,” Mamo says, taking the girl’s chin in her hands and gently lifting it up so they are staring into each other’s eyes. Deep, sapphire-blue eyes, the both of them. Same slightly-angular nose. High cheekbones. Pale, rosy skin dotted with freckles. Wild, uncontrollable hair, although Mamo’s is a pale gray now. “When you look at me, you look at hope,” she says, her voice soft and soothingly melodic. “Your life will be full of ups and downs – great downs but magnificent ups. Who do you see when you look at me?”

             Rosie Boyd’s lips tremble as she stares into Mamo’s eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispers.

             Mamo gently kisses her forehead. “When you have your daughter, name her Rose Elizabeth," she says softly. “Do that for me.” Rosie Boyd smiles and slowly disappears; the world of fresh rolling hills and old stone wall disappear with her. We are back in the backyard garden.

             “I think I’m dreaming,” I say, rubbing my temples. Mamo smiles.

             “It takes a while to understand,” she says, “and even longer to control. But it’s important for you to see, Rosie-Girl. Your life is not over just because Ethan named his kid Gabriela.” She leans over and kisses me on my forehead. “Just one more trip,” she whispers, her voice suddenly hoarse and cracking. “And then I must go.”

             “You can’t go anywhere,” I say. “Your legs are too weak.”

             “My darling,” she murmurs, and I hear a baby crying. It’s a shrill, piercing cry, and quickly I hear a man’s voice humming.

             The man – a tall, lanky man with overgrown sandy blond hair – picks up the baby and rocks her gently in his arms. He is staring at her with total adoration, oblivious to Mamo and me. “Gabrielle Rose,” he says in a sing-song voice, “you are my angel.” The baby stops crying, gives a gentle coo, and then falls asleep. The sound of her breathing is rhythmic and peaceful. The man continues to rock her.

             Mamo puts her finger on her lips to signify silence, and she is smiling broadly beneath the finger. Her eyes are sparkling. I stare in awe at the tiny, plump, bald baby, wrapped in a kelly-green swaddling blanket, and the man in the wrinkled, dirty clothes who is lovingly holding her. His clothes are splattered with spit-up stains.

             And then I enter the room – we are in a room, a brightly-lit nursery, with a crib and a Winnie-the-Pooh mobile over it. And there I am – a slightly older version of myself, my auburn hair cut short, my clothes loose-fitting, my stomach slightly bulging. But it’s me.

             This other version of me walks over to the man and the baby, looks down at the baby and smiles. “She’s sleeping,” whispers the man. “Isn’t she beautiful?” I nod – both versions of me nod. Then the man whispers, “Go back to sleep, I’ve got this.”

             As the older me exits and closes the door, the nursery vanishes. The man and baby fade with it. We are back in the garden.

             “You two fight,” Mamo says serenely. “All married couples fight. But you fight far less than you and Ethan. You resolve your problems. When you first see him, you don’t think he’s right for you – he’s not your type. He knows nothing about art and history. Haha, Rosie-Girl! Your ideal man is the opposite of Ethan.”

             “Mamo,” I say, “am I crazy?”

             She laughs and clasps my hand. “All the women in our family are crazy,” she says, “if that’s what you want to call it. But it’s a crazy I’m more than happy to have.” She turns and stares me into the eyes, with such a direct gaze that I feel nervous. “I love you, but I have to go.”

             “I can take you,” I say, standing up and preparing to help her stand.

             “No, no, no,” she says. “Not that kind of go. Tell your mother and grandmother good-bye. I love them.” Her head drops lightly, her chin below her shoulder. Her eyes close. She takes one deep breath and then no more.

             I stare at her for some time, waiting for the chest to rise. But it doesn’t.

             I don’t understand.

             But I am at peace.