There, Now

Proust, my mother, and me

Last week, my husband and I were having breakfast on our last day in Paris at a cafe in the 8th arrondissement on a square across from a large marble building. I hadn’t noticed the name of the cafe, nor did I recognize the building, until our coffees were delivered with small bright yellow and orange paper packets, each of which contained a tiny madeleine.

The building was, of course, the Church of Sainte-Marie-Madeleine, otherwise known as La Madeleine. Dedicated in 1764 by Louis XV, it was not completed until 1842, due to interruptions caused by the French Revolution and two redesigns (the first under Napoleon Bonaparte, turning it from a church into a monument to his armies; the second after Napoleon’s downfall in 1814, back to a church). For a more detailed history, see La Madeleine. The interior is breathtaking.

As I stood there, taking it in, I thought of my mother. In fact, from the moment I opened the little paper packet to find the madeleine, throughout the rest of that day, and ever since, my thoughts have returned again and again to a short piece I wrote about ten years ago called “There, Now,” about the Proust phenomenon, the power of scent to return us to a memory—and my mother. I was initially tempted to edit it, but have decided to share it as is. I hope it resonates. I’d love to hear about your Proust phenomenon experiences—please share them in the comments!

There, Now

I recently learned there’s a name for that experience when a smell evokes vivid memories and emotions—“The Proust Phenomenon,” for Marcel Proust. His epic novel, In Search of Lost Time, features a scene known as “the episode of the madeleine.” The narrator is sipping from a cup of tea into which a madeleine has been dipped when he is overwhelmed by long-forgotten memories that speak to the very essence of his being—of love, loss, and mortality.

All from a madeleine dipped in tea.

My olfactory triggers are not so refined.

* * *

Freshly poured asphalt—and suddenly I’m four years old, walking up a long hill with my brothers and sisters on a hot summer afternoon: the surface of the road is shiny black and sticky underfoot; the air crackles with the sound of insects in tall grass and Queen-Ann’s lace in fields that stretch out on either side. Accompanied by our dark-haired mother, we are a sun-kissed, towheaded tribe of five. We trudge towards the local general store, clutching quarters our grandfather gave us to buy sweet treasures: rock candy on a stick, little wax Coke bottles filled with syrup, striped paper straws of colored sugar.

My legs are short and they are growing tired; the pavement sparkles and undulates in the heat, and the distance to the top of the hill seems to increase with each step. I call out to my mother, and she turns, smiling, her arm outstretched.

“You’re almost there now, sweetheart,” she says.

Though far too young to express it, I am acutely aware of belonging to something bigger than myself. Somehow, in that moment, I know that if I call upon my tribe, they will cover me. And my mother—she will always be there, watching over us.

* * *

V-8 juice in a can—and I’m six, lying beside my little brother on a musty sleeping bag that smells of campfire and damp earth. It’s the days before mandatory seat belts, so a few hours ago, in a Howard Johnson’s parking lot, my parents flipped down the two rear seats in our forest green station wagon. Sleeping bags were unzipped and stretched across the flattened space.

Now, as we drive through the dark Georgia night, my four siblings and my mom are fast asleep. My mother’s head rests upon the top of the front seat. I sit up and slide forward, close enough to lightly touch her hair. I look out the windshield at the cone of light leading us into the darkness. In the dim glow of the dashboard, I can see my father’s profile. A Twizzle of red licorice hangs from his lips.

“Hey, sweetie, can you get me a V-8?” he asks.

This is how my father stays awake all night, consuming a vile tag team of licorice and V-8. I reach into the cooler by the door, remove a little can, shake it, and peel back the silver petal-shaped tab. I breathe in metallic-tinged tomatoes and vegetables. As I hand it to my dad, my mom wakes up, lifting her head.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks in a hushed voice.

I nod. She reaches for my hand, making small circles on the back of my knuckles with her fingertips, instantly comforting.

“There now,” she says.

V-8 juice and I’m hurtling along at 75 miles an hour, unbuckled, yet wholly and utterly safe, simply holding my mother’s hand.

* * *

Coconut oil—and I’m fourteen. My sister and I are lying in the backyard, as far from the shade of the willow tree as we can go. We lather our bodies with Hawaiian Tropics oil, SPF zero, and spray our hair with lemon juice, longing to recapture the effortless sun-kissed, towheaded look of childhood. We hold tinfoil-covered cardboard reflectors under our chins to magnify the rays of an early-May sun.

One hour in, Mom calls to us from the back door, “Careful, it’s easy to burn on a day like today.”

We hear her, but we do not listen. Mom is wrong. We will not burn. We will look like Cheryl Tiegs by the end of the weekend.

* * *

Brownie batter and I’m fourteen again—later the same day. Skin singing from my Hawaiian Tropics sunburn, I lie on the prickly tweed couch in our family room. Whimpering.

There is no reproach in my mom’s voice when she asks, “What would make you feel better?”

My answer is nearly immediate. “Brownie batter?”

So while I lie on a bench next to the kitchen table, Mom melts chocolate and butter, adds sugar, salt, and flour, and brings it to me. She sits next to me while I spoon warm grainy chocolate straight from the pot into my mouth. She tells me about a day at the beach when she was young, a day without sunscreen, a day she burned to a crisp. After a few moments, she reaches for my hand, her fingers—and empathy—cool my skin and my soul.

“Better now?” she asks, and I put down the spoon.

* * *

Aquanet and L’Air du Temps—and I’m seventeen, getting ready for prom in my mother’s bathroom. She sits on an antique embroidered bench watching me curl my hair into wings framing my face, just like Farrah Fawcett, only shorter. I cannot recall what we talk about—but we talk, and talk. She stands up to curl the back for me, and I see her smiling in the mirror behind me, holding the curling iron away from my bare shoulders.

I close my eyes and cover my face as she lifts the blue can of Aquanet. I’m engulfed in an aerosol cloud.

“Do you think it will hold?” I ask, reaching up.

She nods. My hair is a lacquered helmet.

Mom helps me slither into my Grecian pale pink polyester dress, says “Wait”, and darts into her bedroom. She returns holding a curved bottle of liquid sun with doves on top. Her L’Air du Temps. I spin as she sprays.

“Now,” she says, “now you’re ready.”

* * *

Desitin diaper cream—and I am twenty-seven. The bottom of my first-born child is redder than I’ve ever seen skin, redder even than a Hawaiian-Tropics sunburn. My baby is crying. I feel the hot prick of my own tears.

“I’m a terrible mother,” I say with desperate conviction.

My mom is unperturbed by the rash, the crying, my hyperbole. With matter-of-fact efficiency, she lifts my baby’s legs at the ankle in one hand while deftly squeezing Desitin with the other, smooths the cream, and covers it with powder. Wiping her hand clean with a baby wipe, she pronounces, “It’ll be better in no time.” She places my diapered baby in my arms before taking me in hers, “and you’re an amazing mother.”

“I’ll never be like you,” I say.

And she replies, “Oh, honey, you already are.”

* * *

Ammonia, urine, stale air, and decay—a combination of smells I cannot quite describe but recognize in an instant—and I am forty-four, sitting next to my mother’s bed in her room in the Alzheimer’s wing on a cold, still, late-winter afternoon.

My father and older brother were here all day, but now I am alone. Alone—with my mother—because though she’s lying here, she isn’t here anymore. She’s been disappearing for years: memory lapses increasing exponentially until they cannot be denied, stuttering, difficulty finding words, her vocabulary smaller and smaller until it is restricted to occasional yeses and forceful nos. And then, total aphasia. For a while, there was still recognition in her eyes—losing this was a monstrous defeat.

Here, now, in this sad, small room, her eyes are closed. She’s had no fluid for days. She lies on one side, curled in on herself. I don’t know if she can hear me or feel my touch, but I cling to the hope that love transcends the limits of our physical bodies. Time loses relevance—fifteen minutes stretches interminably, and then an hour drifts by in what seems to be an instant.

I talk and talk. I stroke her cheeks. I hold her hand. There are times when she lightly squeezes mine in return, but I am fairly certain this is a neurological reflex, not a sign of affection. I wish I knew less, so that these unconscious changes in pressure meant more.

* * *

Vanilla and musty leather. Later, again, that same day. Darkness blankets the underwhelming gray February sky as dusk falls. My sister Tricia has arrived. She and I sit on either side of the bed, recalling stories in which Mom looms large and glorious. When Tricia suggests we read passages from the bible, we are surprised to find that there isn’t one in my mother’s room. Tricia ventures out to the nurses’ station to inquire whether there is one we can borrow, and a nurse brings us an enormous leather-bound King James version, replete with thees and thous. We take turns turning the parchment-like pages, reading aloud from Psalms, Proverbs, Corinthians, John, and James—passages to which I used to turn for solace and reassurance before my faith waned.

We sing the prayer Mom sang when she tucked us in each night, the one I sing with my own children. And I think about the countless ways I truly have become my mother.

We’ve been told there’ll be noticeable changes when her quietus is imminent. Indeed, this is true. The pauses between exhalation and inhalation gradually increase in length. The skin on her face is tinged with death, tight over her bones.

I smooth the hair back from her forehead. Leaning our bodies towards hers, Tricia and I take hold of her hands. I gently trace small circles on the back of her knuckles, longing to bring her the comfort she gave me so easily; I want her to feel wholly and utterly safe.

“I love you, Mom,” I say, my voice catching as silent tears fall.

Tricia and I recite the Lord’s Prayer, over and over. The words flow from a lost place inside as I watch my mother take her final labored breath.

Complete stillness. In a second, everything changes. One moment she is alive, the next she is gone. I am struck by the simplicity of this incredibly powerful and inscrutable last act of living—passing from this world into the unknown.

* * *

Time goes on. Days. Months. Years.

I continue to search for the meaning of it all, to understand the essence of being—of love, loss, mortality.

My mother’s faith was strong; she was certain of a heaven.

I am full of doubts.

Yet, if there is a place filled with angels, my mother most certainly belongs there. And a part of me longs to conjure up freshly poured asphalt, V-8, brownie batter, and L’Air du Temps. I want to find myself back in a world in which she is watching over me. I desperately want to believe that one day I will see her, hear her voice again, saying, “There now, sweetheart.”

I want to feel her hand holding mine. I do not want to let her go.