The Confession Read Online Free Page B

Earth. Had she been born in this generation, she would almost surely have become a physician. Many of the women of hertime pursued nursing or teaching—they were the major career pathways available in those days—but my mother’s commitment was its own kind of calling, one that stemmed from a deep love of medicine, a faith in the body’s capacity to heal, and a certain knowledge that God’s will prevails. Watching her tend to her patients, and to her students at Middlesex County College in Edison and Muhlenberg Regional Medical Center in Plainfield, I was always awed to see how deeply Mom understands the human condition.
    In the McGreevey clan, she is our bedrock. Whenever any of us has come to her in confusion, she has talked us through to clarity. If we felt inadequate, she gave us tools to overcome. When sadness or illness strikes, she had an unfailing ability to usher us back to health.
    As I said, she wasn’t exactly indulgent, not when it came to the bumps and scrapes of childhood. Once, when I was about seven, I was playing in a park around the corner when I lost my footing and landed headfirst on a concrete bench post. My scalp split open and started streaming with blood. The wound looked much worse than it was, of course, but I ran home terrified. On my way I passed Mrs. Decelis, our next-door neighbor, who took one look at me and screamed as if she’d seen a ghost, which only frightened me more. By the time I reached our kitchen, I was sure I was close to death. Mom looked down from the dishes and sized up my condition. “Here,” she said calmly, handing me a cold, wet cloth. “Put this against your head.” My fear vanished instantly.
    My mother’s steady nerves have helped our family weather even the most heartbreaking passages. When her father, Herbert Smith, was in his late seventies, he began using a cane to steady himself as he moved around the small one-bedroom apartment he shared with my grandmother. One afternoon he left the cane leaning against a door, and my grandmother, whose vision was failing, fell over it, shattering her hip when she landed. She was rushed into surgery, but her age complicated the procedure, and my grandfather was so overcome with worry that soon he was in the same hospital as his injured wife. For five months my mother cared for them both, never leaving the hospital. But my grandfather was suffering from a broken heart, unable to forgive himself for his wife’s accident, and despite my mother’s efforts he succumbed a short time later.
    When my grandmother was discharged, she came to live with us; twice daily my mom guided her through physical therapy, not always with Grandma’s eager consent. But soon she was strong enough to move to a small apartment over my aunt and uncle’s home in Rutherford, where she lived on for many years. When she died, her whole family gathered around her bed in prayer. My mother leaned into her ear and whispered, “It’s okay to let go. Daddy is waiting for you to come home.”
    Then Grandma’s mouth opened and the life in her escaped.
    A few minutes later, I was startled to see my mother calmly dialing the local health department to notify them of Grandma’s passing. I was still dazed, unable to do anything, even cry.
    Seeing my distress, my mother comforted me in the way she knew best. “Here,” she said, taking my hand and cupping it under my grandmother’s chin. Together we eased her mouth closed. “Her jaw will lock soon, and we don’t want it to be open when that happens. Hold it right here, like this; that will help keep Grandma’s mouth closed, as it should be.” To this day I’m not sure if what she told me was true or a distraction. But I did as I was told, and as a chaos of grief filled the room, I focused all my attention on my grandmother’s cooling chin and her beautiful face, and in time my own heartache became