{"id":142290,"date":"2020-01-24T09:00:37","date_gmt":"2020-01-24T14:00:37","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=142290"},"modified":"2020-01-24T09:56:54","modified_gmt":"2020-01-24T14:56:54","slug":"pendulum","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/01\/24\/pendulum\/","title":{"rendered":"Pendulum"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jill Talbot\u2019s column,\u00a0The Last Year<\/a>,<\/em>\u00a0traces the moments before her daughter leaves for college. It ran every Friday in November and returns this winter month, then will return again in the spring and summer.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

I grew up inside the smoke of my grandmother\u2019s Pall Malls. The air between her and my mother was dangerous. On our visits to east Texas, the two women would sit in stiff silence for what seemed like hours to my six-year-old sense of time. My mother sat on the brocade couch, my grandmother in her gold velour chair. In every room, there was at least one painting of flowers\u2014roses or daises\u2014all of them done by my grandmother. I\u2019d sit on the floor, counting the chimes from the grandfather clocks in the hallway, not one of which kept the same time as any other. After my grandmother had wandered off to the back room to clink the crystal decanter against her highball glass too many times, we\u2019d go. My mother never left without leaning over that gold chair to kiss her mother goodbye. She never left without saying, \u201cI love you,\u201d like a sigh you let out when the night\u2019s too long. Then that high-chinned stride for the screen door. Every time, just before my mother pushed it open, my grandmother would surrender: \u201cLove you, Martha Jo.\u201d<\/p>\n

The day I found out I was having a girl, I sat in my car in the parking lot of the doctor\u2019s office and sobbed. Deep, ragged sobs.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

A few months after my mother died, I was in her kitchen with Mary and Jean, her two best friends, whom she had known since the first grade. While I pulled down pieces of china from the kitchen hutch and wrapped each one in newspaper, Mary and Jean helped my daughter, Indie, then sixteen, pack her own set of dishes, the ones my grandmother gave to my parents when they married in 1969. That china set was hand-painted with pink roses, had gilded handles and my grandmother\u2019s initials on the bottom of each delicate piece. Mary and Jean\u2019s mothers had taken the same painting classes as my grandmother. As Mary liked to say, \u201cWhat else was there to do in that small town in the fifties?\u201d Mary and Jean still live in that small town. I placed an empty box on the kitchen table and asked the question I had never been able to ask my own mother: \u201cHow bad was my grandmother\u2019s drinking?\u201d None of us stopped packing while they took turns telling stories\u2014my grandmother\u2019s long drives to the closest wet county, the afternoon she \u201ctook a nap\u201d during one of their Girl Scout meetings, an ad she put in the newspaper for her lost red purse with two possible locations where it might have been left.<\/p>\n

My mother-grief trembles. Regret, apology, a deep missing. When I sit inside it\u2014as when I pull on one of her sweaters or use her measuring spoons or listen to her Patsy Cline CD\u2014the ache feels like a cacophony of clock chimes. My mother and I never kept the same time.<\/p>\n

After all the boxes were taped, Mary and Jean grabbed their purses. I walked them out to the driveway and said I didn\u2019t feel like my mother ever really liked me. Mary hugged me close and whispered in my ear, \u201cJill, she loved you.\u201d Jean sighed, \u201cShe just never learned how.\u201d<\/p>\n

Eighteen years ago, with my daughter growing inside me, I knew I contained a difficult history\u2014my mother and her mother, my mother and me. I could feel it ticking, ticking, ticking.<\/p>\n

After I left home for college, I often went to east Texas alone to visit my grandmother. As a child, I\u2019d only known the lonely widow who kept cashews on the kitchen counter, the woman who pretended there wasn\u2019t bourbon in the back room. I wanted to know more. During those solo visits, she\u2019d tell me stories\u2014about my mother, the man she sent a Dear John letter to during the war, the time she caught my mother and Mary smoking (Mary denies this)\u2014but mostly she\u2019d gossip about the neighbor across the way. Sometimes we\u2019d laugh so hard she\u2019d fall into a fit of Pall Mall coughing.<\/p>\n

Indie has the same shoe size as my mother and kept some of her shoes. Her favorite is a pair of black suede bootees with a thick wedge heel. She wears them every time she has a band concert, an audition, something special. Last week, before leaving for a jazz festival, she came home from the store with superglue, said that one of Gramma\u2019s heels had come loose.<\/p>\n

Most nights, Indie and I like to sit on the couch and watch one of our shows. She puts her feet in my lap, and every few minutes, we hit pause to tell each other a story from our day or update an ongoing saga: \u201cOkay, do you remember when I told you?\u201d One-hour shows take us two hours to finish. We like to stretch the time.<\/p>\n

I never knew how much Indie and my mother talked and texted until Indie opened a present, one of the last ones, it turned out, that my mother gave her. It was a floral duvet cover, black with gray and rose-pink colors. \u201cWe picked it out together,\u201d Indie told me. Sometimes when I\u2019m in Indie\u2019s room, I smooth the flowers on the bed.<\/p>\n

In the hospital, when I knew it was time to say what I needed to say to my mother, I held her hand and began, \u201cThank you,\u201d and as I continued, the words that were pushing from the back of my throat\u2014the ones I really wanted to say\u2014wouldn\u2019t come out. I\u2019m sorry<\/em>.<\/p>\n

When Indie was an infant, I\u2019d sit on the couch with my feet on the coffee table, my knees bent. I\u2019d place Indie on my thighs and take her hands to sing \u201cDo-Re-Mi.\u201d I made up hand movements for each note\u2014so that she\u2019d trace sundrops as if they were falling rain for re, tap, tap, tap her own heart for mi, and pump her arms for the long run of fa, her favorite. She doesn\u2019t remember it. But I do. I remember it as the first time I knew we would reverse the pendulum\u2019s swing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read earlier installments of\u00a0<\/a><\/em>The Last Year<\/em>\u00a0<\/a>here.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

Jill Talbot<\/a>\u00a0is the author of<\/em>\u00a0The Way We Weren\u2019t: A Memoir\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Loaded: Women and Addiction. Her writing has been recognized by\u00a0the Best American Essays and appeared in journals such as\u00a0<\/em>AGNI,<\/em>\u00a0Brevity,<\/em>\u00a0Colorado Review,<\/em>\u00a0DIAGRAM,<\/em>\u00a0Ecotone,<\/em>\u00a0Longreads,<\/em>\u00a0The Normal School,<\/em>\u00a0The Rumpus,<\/em>\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Slice Magazine.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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