This year, has been, to not even exaggerate, probably the worst one of my entire life. I've had too much time to work on myself these past few weeks. Sadness, depression, laughter, and then joy cruelly followed by falling into the darkness again and again. I've felt as if I've been lost in a forest, with a million trees in front of me blocking my path to the Emerald City. What next will jump out at me from the dark?
Yet, as I sit and work on getting better, yesterday, I found some joy.
It's a story that is probably very familiar to some. My mother was a child of divorce in the 1930s, something that was taboo and because of the sins of the parents, the child was forced to endure the hatred and stupidity of the adults around her. For reasons that are semi-clear, and that I've pieced together from my mom's stories and what history says about the times, neither her mother or father was granted custody in the divorce. Instead, she lived with her Aunt Nancy, in South Boston, the younger sister of her father. But was my grandmother, Lillian, an alcoholic? Or did she simply love her vodka, bars and men? Was she a "party girl," or worse, a "loose woman?" Whatever the case, my grandfather was not granted custody until he remarried. Was that the reason he married my mom's step-mother or was it also because that same woman was pregnant with my uncle? I surmise it was a combination of both and for those reasons, the woman who I thought was my grandmother resented her new husband's daughter. In a letter to me, my mom described her father's new wife as "the real and true evil step-mother."
"I was Cinderella," she told me. "She called me a dirty Lithuanain, I had to do the chores, I couldn't talk back. And the one time I did, she hit me across the face so hard that my nose bled. I was told to tell my father I fell down the stairs, which is what I did. I guess your father was my real Prince Charming."
Throughout it all, Lillian made an appearance in her daughter's life. Even, at one point, living with them. I don't know the reason for this, perhaps she had no where to go or my grandfather felt sorry for her. Whatever the case, it didn't last long and she came home drunk one too many times and was told to leave. From that point on, my mother saw her only on weekends. Waiting on the South Boston stoop for her to show up. Often times, Lillian was late, but she always showed.
Bringing my mother to places where she was dating her latest beau, Lillian would often times leave her for the day. My mother told me often that she was left in a Chinese restaurant while Lillian galavanted all day with the "really nice Chinese man who liked me." When the day was done, Lillian would say, "Now, don't tell your father what you did all day." This story made it clear to me while for as long as I can remember, my mother relished in going for Chinese food and could never get enough.
Off she would go back to Southie, looking forward to seeing her mother the next weekend. One particular day, Lillian was late and my mom's step-mother looked at her and said, "Your mother's not coming, she doesn't want to see you. Go out with your brother." And so my mother left and when Lillian showed up, she was told, "Your daughter got tired of waiting for you, she doesn't want to see you so she left."
And so the game continued until my mother was 17 or 18, when the visits and communication ceased for some years. Growing up, the phone would ring, and my mother, visibly upset, would hang up. Letters would come in the mail only to be ripped up. Once at my cousins house, someone turned to her and said, "Now Rosemarie, what happened to your other mother?" and my mother covered as best she could.
"No, no, Nonnie," I remember she said, her voice shaking. "I only have one mother."
Years later, when we were in high school, my mother finally told us the truth. Looking back, it was a foreshadowing of my coming out. Like a rubber band, almost falling down in the doorway, supported by my father, she told me that "Nana is not my real mother." And so the unfolding of the story began and then it was a subject she said was in the past, yet as the years went on she would bring up wondering about Lillian.
It was nearly impossible back then to find someone. There was no internet, no Ancestry.com, no 23andMe. Finding records was a laborious process and each time I started, I ran into roadblocks. From my mother's birth certificate, I deduced that my grandfather went back to his full Italian name of Buccafusca after he re-married. My mom was born Bucca, she was never legally a Buccafusca. However, on her christening certificate after his second marriage, she is indeed listed as Rosaria Buccafusca. Did her step-mother refuse to be known as the second Mrs Bucca? Did she force her husband to return to his proper Italian name? It's a question that I will never have answered and one that will make me wonder for the rest of my life.
In any event, my mother made sure my brother and my childhoods were the very best they could be. She was always there when we got home from school, she was always on time, she constantly took us into Boston and never missed kissing us good night. Every Christmas, the gifts were overflowing under the tree and every birthday was full of presents and desserts, and every New Year's Eve - you guessed it - we had Chinese food.
As the years went by, my mother began to talk about Lillian. Wondering if she could find her.
"I don't even have a picture of her," she told me once on one of Europe trips. "My step-mother destroyed them all."
I made a vow then to try and find, not only for my mom, but for me as well, what slice was missing from our lives. With the advent of technology, the world opened up. My mother shared a letter she got from her mom in 1996 (!) it had no return address, but it was postmarked Woburn, MA, and signed Love, Mother.
"This is all I have left," she told me. "I'm pretty sure she had another baby and I think it was a boy. I don't know for sure."
This broke my heart, but for years, it was an impossible task to discover the truth. On my part, I put off joining Ancestry, and only renewed my search two years ago. It was then that my mother's health started to fail and I was like a madman sending emails to distant cousins with any hint of a connection.
I was able to tell my mother that Lillian lived to be 82 years old, passing away in 1997.
"We could have known each other," she said wistfully one time. "But it is what it was."
Somewhere along these years, my mother forgave her mother for whatever happened in the past, and her mother, I know, never stopped loving her. Did Lillian regret what she did? I'd like to think she did. Did she have another child? The answer is unequivocally, yes. From Ancestry, I discovered my mother's half brother was born in the 50s, and unfortunately died when he was in his mid - 70s. He was a musician, a product of my grandmother's third marriage to a Richard Martin. Unfortunately, my mother had passed away at the end of July and I got this information in November. I was overcome with emotion, but I looked at my mom's picture and I told her that she was right, and how I wished she would have been more sure of herself. She never gave herself credit.
The lesson in all this? I'm not sure, but it's the holiday, and perhaps it's that families are messy. They can be cruel, childhood can continue to invade your life forever, but if both parties want, forgiveness can be found. The past can never be changed, but from the point you come together, you can forge a new life and a new relationship. Over the years, I've learned the same lesson. It doesn't matter whose fault is the cause of a falling out or what communication got misconstrued, what matters is if you want it, if there was a strong bond to begin with, then finding a way to move on can open up a new path.
I feel I would have adored Lillian. And just recently, finding Lillian's great nephew on Ancestry, I was gifted three pictures of her. And to see her holding my mom as a baby was overwhelming and I had to hold myself up from falling. There she was - the elusive woman I heard about all these years. The mother of the "Dirty Lithuanian," who was an outcast and a mystery. The joy in her face holding my mom is unmistakable, and the smile on my grandmother is the same one my mother had when she looked at me. It's a picture I will treasure forever.
What would I have called Lillian? Would it be grandmother in Russian? In Lithuanian? What language did she speak? But whatever it would be, we obviously, from the pictures, have the same things in common: Fashion, Vodka, and most importantly from finding out she had five husbands - men. Could we have had fun? Maybe. It's impossible to try and reason with the past.
Yet at this holiday time, as I try to unsuccessfully navigate the sadness I know will come, I'm filled with the joy of family and dare I sing Deck the Halls with boughs of Holly and really feel the Fa La La? The answer is yes, because it's what my mother would have wanted. Don't let the past define the present, take the joy you feel in the moment and relish it, and if someone you truly love reaches out to you, take the branch and let it bloom.
So much love.
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