Shattered

It was a lovely spring day, May 24, 1994. I clicked on the television to watch Jackie Onassis's funeral. My two month old son Max was on my shoulder fighting sleep as I sat down to watch and pay my respects. I felt sad for Jackie’s children. The camera panned to them, Caroline with her children and John Jr. holding the hand of his beautiful young wife; his head slightly bowed and his forehead furrowed. Both he and his sister were dignified and composed as befitted children of a former POTUS. This wasn’t their first time at a very public funeral and it would not be the last.

Max began to make his hungry cry so I got him a bottle and sat back down with him to watch. Suddenly my mind was jolted back to a memory I had long forgotten. My mother and I sitting on a couch, cuddling while we watched the small black and white television. It was November of 1963 and I gasped as I realized it was a forgotten memory of watching President Kennedy's funeral. My mother had explained it as simply as she could to me. You see, just days before, I, along with several other children were seated in front of a large television in Boston, watching the Dallas parade. I had witnessed the chaos but was too young to understand the implications, yet just old enough for a bright young child to be curious, especially a child like me who felt things very deeply.

As I closed my eyes I suddenly recalled the sound of my mother's voice explaining to me as simply as possible what a funeral was. I had a moment of crystal clarity and I heard the sound of her voice in my mind for the first time in many years. “That’s President Kennedy’s little boy John John and his sister Caroline”, she said. I didn’t have a daddy then, but I had already experienced loss in my young life so I was empathetic. I took the explanation of death my mother gave me quite seriously and had many questions.

Max finally fell asleep for a short nap and I watched the rest of the funeral. I felt a strong urge to call my mother. That was unexpected for me. I had not seen or spoken to my mother since my grandmother’s funeral in 1985. That was her choice due to her continued allegiance to the Watchtower organization. I wondered…perhaps it was time to pick up the phone and just see if she would talk for a few minutes. It had been nine years already. Perhaps finding out she was a grandmother would give her a reason to reconsider that choice.

I decided to do it. I didn’t see how it could be any worse than it already was. If my mother were to hang up on me, it wouldn’t crush, or even surprise me. I decided there was nothing to lose. I grabbed my telephone diary from the side table and looked up my mother’s number. At least the most recent number I had.

“Hello?” the deep voice on the other side asked. I recognized the voice immediately as my mother’s friend Pat. “Hi Pat. This is Leslie, please don’t hang up. I just want to say hello to my mother and tell her she’s a grandmother now.” After a pause I heard a mumbled “yeah okay” and unbidden, my heart began to beat faster. I found myself nervous and anxious. But I was also hopeful. How could anyone resist the news that they were a grandparent? I had no illusions that this would miraculously heal their relationship. But I hoped it might open a door for some dialogue and exchange of pictures and other correspondence.

I heard a voice on the phone I didn’t recognize; “Molly? Is that you?” I asked. Slowly she replied “Yes. It’s me. What do you want?” That was a sharply unexpected stab." "Mom...you don't sound like yourself, are you well?" I asked worriedly. That was not the voice I remembered, something was off. "I had a stroke" she said slowly. I realized at that moment my mother had facial paralysis. I held back tears as I tried to visualize her. I had nothing to reference, just a lot of unanswered questions. "I wanted to know you were okay. I am married now Molly and we have a baby boy, Max. I thought you would like to know that.”

After a brief pause, Molly asked, "Is he good to you?" I quickly reassured her that he was a kind man. "He doesn't hit you?" she followed with. "No, Mom he has never hit me nd he never will. We have a good relationship." The next question was the one I hoped she would skip. "What religion are you Leslie?" I took a deep breath and replied, “I’m Jewish. My husband is Jewish and we are going to raise our son as a Jew."

Then the ugliness returned. With a hateful tone I could not ever remember hearing from my mother before, “I can’t believe you are Jewish. You are an apostate!! You don’t believe in Jesus. You will be destroyed when Armageddon comes!” My heart hurt at those words but I calmly answered “Molly, I did not call to fight with you. I called to say I’m still your daughter and I still love you. The door is always open Mom. I want to send you some pictures of your grandson. You don’t have to write me or call me, but I’m sure you would enjoy seeing the pictures. I also want you to know how to contact me in case you ever need me or want to speak with me. I won't bother you, I assure you."

My last bit of hope was shattered into a million pieces after my mother’s reply, “He’s not my grandson… because you are not my daughter. Don’t call me again.”

The pain those words caused was unbearable. One more thing to add to my list of traumas and experiences, but this seemed worse. It's one thing to be estranged; it's quite another to be told you are not your mother's child. I had a premonition as I hung the phone up from the conversation. I knew this would be the last time I would ever hear my mother’s voice.”

It was the same kind of certainty I had experienced in 1985 when I pulled out of my grandmother’s drive-way with her in the back seat to take her to the hospital. I knew then, that was the last time she would see her house. I remembered the wave of emotion that accompanied that certainty. I often had moments like this but not quite as dramatic. This premonition brought a peculiar feeling of emptiness and finality. Not because I wanted it that way. Because in this, I was powerless; it was better in the end to accept that reality and find a way to move on. Finally, all of my illusions were shattered.

Leslie Perkel