An Atlas of Grief
“grief is a house where no one can protect you
where the younger sister
will grow older than the older one
where the doors
no longer let you in
or out”
– Jandy Nelson
Was this paralysis foreshadowing the future frenzy, the insane grief, the understanding that love was dangerous, heartbreaking, and doomed? So many stories told me the same truth over and over again: life was a series of disappointments, dashed hopes, letting go, and tear-stained memories of happiness lost. When I see Catherine, I see her joyous, dancing down Atlantic Avenue, pregnant, happy, and greedy for everything. I see her with Henry at my play, smiling, laughing, encouraging, wise, my sister, my friend, and my heart. She would save my life after her death, but her death sent me to the brink of madness and suicide. Schooled as I was in denying pain, nicknamed “the bison” for my endurance and constantly reminded that it was crucial to conceal weakness, my spiral downwards was halted periodically by guilt. But down I fell; deep, dark, and seamless was the descent, and once I reached the level of despair, it was beyond anything I could anticipate.
photo by Nils Soderman
Everything that came before Catherine was hit by that drunk driver at age thirty-two crossing the street after a dinner party, the cigarettes crucial as a companion to wine and conversation, seemed merely inconvenient, sad but not tragic. Even Cindy's death paled when compared to the loss of my oldest sister. The goddess Athena, she was beyond compare and my love for her had always been tinged with fear. She was reckless, ravenous, and immoderate. Her death rendered all of us, sisters, husband, parents, and friends, unable to move forward without stumbling on the fact that she was gone forever. I loved my mother, but Catherine comforted me, assured me, and promised me happiness was simple and possible.
Was I hurt the deepest? Of course not, but I was adrift, alone, scarcely sober, temporarily free of self-hatred, without a proper job or a suitable relationship, living in a barely heated backyard house with a statue of the Madonna at my front door; no one knew where I was most of the time, I had deliberately exiled myself, and in that exile, there was no barrier to the violence of grief. I had no roots or connections, no network other than two men who desired my company but had no idea who I was, another sister who never wanted me around, and parents who loved me, but when their eldest daughter was killed, they clung to one another while I wandered the streets of New York City or the sleeping New Jersey home of my lover searching for my sister.
I had deliberately stayed home that freezing February evening. Buck's old girlfriend had called me the previous night. While she shared her grievances, I listened, bored, and tempted to tell her she had nothing to worry about. I was not keeping her man, just borrowing him temporarily. As soon as I hung up, he called.
”She's crazy.”
”Tell her not to call me anymore.”
”I've told her that. She's crazy.”
”Well, tell her again.”
”She's still in love with me.”
”Uh-huh.”
”She's crazy.”
And so on. As he talked about this fascinating conundrum, I washed my dishes and contemplated giving him back.
”Are you coming to Bedminster tomorrow?”
”No," I said. “I have an audition in the morning.”
This was a lie. But I didn't feel like taking the train and spending the weekend snorting coke and not drinking, discussing cars and drugs with people who didn't like to read. Call me a snob, but I was bored.
So I was home when the phone rang the next evening around ten-thirty. I heard the controlled panic, the fear, the misery of her friend Margaret’s voice telling me Catherine had been hit by a car crossing Washington Street.
“Catherine's in Highland Park.” I put my hand out and touched the wall.
”No. She was at a dinner party at our house, and she’s been hit by a car. Molly, she might not survive.”
I hung up the phone, found my slippers, and ran. The hospital was located towards the beginning of Hoboken. I lived towards the end. I was wearing pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. It was mid-February and absolutely freezing. When I reached the hospital parking lot, I stopped and fell to my knees. Maybe my grandmother was wrong; God would save my sister if I begged hard enough. The door to the emergency room opened, and I saw my brother-in-law standing in the corner, not wearing shoes. Later, I would be told he'd been napping on the couch, exhausted from a long week at work. Catherine's friend Margaret came towards me sobbing. I was terrified of seeing my sister broken, bloody, and smashed. But she was in triage or an operating room or the morgue, or maybe she was outside laughing at us, smoking one of those cigarettes.
The door opened, and my father came in. We stood and stared at one another. It seemed impossible to speak to Margaret. She was the last person to be with my sister. Why was she unhurt? Why didn't she pull her to safety? I hated her.
“She almost made it to the pavement,” Margaret looked afraid." I thought she was next to me."
We stared at her.
I felt like slapping Margaret’s face. I thought it was my fault I hadn't been there even though I wasn't invited to the party. If I had been there, I would have saved my sister. I would have let the car hit me instead of her.
“It's awful,” Margaret said, looking at me, not my father. “He was speeding.”
My father nodded, and we sat down. Henry was at my parents’ house, where my mother was waiting to know whether her firstborn child would survive.
“You have to come home,” my father's voice came from far away. “Your mother,” he paused. “You have to tell your mother.”
He put his coat around me. I was shivering, but I didn't feel cold.
“She was so happy,” my father spoke as if she were dead already. “Her dissertation was going well.”
“I think,” but then I stopped. I was going to say I wish it had been me, but that was awful, stupid, and heartless, even if it was true. I had no children. I was a fuck-up and a receptionist with a BA. My sister was a genius getting her PhD and destined for greatness. Maybe he understood because my father, who hadn't touched me in years except to kiss me goodbye, held my hand. His hand, as cold as mine, felt real. Maybe it wouldn't turn out as badly as we feared. Maybe God didn't hate us.
Since Henry was at my parents’ house and my mother was there alone waiting, I agreed to go home with my father. Driving down the New Jersey Turnpike, we passed Newark Airport. Planes were taking off and landing. It was dawn. I’m going to leave, I thought. I will get on a plane and go back to Ireland or Greece or anywhere else but here. “Don't leave,” my father said as if I had spoken aloud. “Your mother needs you.”
We pulled into the driveway of our house, their house, brown shingles, glass, and windows. I wanted to stay in the car forever. My mother stood at the top of the stairs as if she was afraid to come down as if staying upstairs would keep Catherine alive. She used to stand at the top of those stairs to accuse me of being drunk or stoned, which I always was. The accusation was the point, not the reason, just the admittance of guilt. Now I could see she was terrified of the truth, a truth we didn't know.
“She's going to survive?” My mother slowly walked down the stairs.
”She’s very badly hurt.” I looked at my father. He was silent.
”But she won't die!”
My job was to comfort, to lie, to make everything better. I stayed silent.
I could feel my father standing behind me. The sun was rising over the apple orchard. One summer, I tried to climb every single tree on the property. One summer, I reached my hand up and held a cloud.
”I don't know.”
”You don't know?” She looked beyond me. “Julian?”
He was silent. Then he winced.
”They think she's brain dead,” I said. It hung there; the most brilliant mind in our family was no longer awake.
My mother screamed something at me. I had betrayed the code of denial. I said the worst thing in the world. I had broken my mother's heart. It felt as if by not pretending she would live, I had killed her. We would never survive, I thought; this object that appears whole is full of hairline cracks. Our family would shatter into a million pieces. The only person with the mind to put that puzzle back together was now missing. She had the formula, the combination, and the truth no one possessed. Catherine knew things. She had promised to help me understand why my parents were so difficult, but she would never speak again. I had experienced this finality before but this was impossible to accept. She would never laugh at something I said, call me “Mouse,” or stroke my hair. I would never see her conscious again. I would never be able to tell her how much I loved her. I would never have a baby and bring my baby to her house and tell that baby, “This is your Aunt Catherine. She's the smartest person in the world.” She would never tell me I was a good sister or mother or writer or actor or daughter.
Catastrophes have their own schedules: people coming and going, not eating, meals ignored, thrown away, driving with strangers, not sleeping, waiting, conversations that yield no hope. Waiting. There was no hope. My father drives my mother back to the hospital. I stand in the dining room. There are pictures from that Christmas, and I notice how much we resemble a normal family. Henry, your mother’s dead.
I fetch Henry from his crib when I hear him discussing things with his bear.
”Good morning,” I am fiercely cheerful.
He stares at me. Where is his mother? I carry him downstairs and find cereal, a bowl, milk, and sugar. Can he have sugar? My sister is strict about those things. My sister is brain-dead. He is silent. I make up a play with his bear, trying to eat his cereal. He is silent, staring at me from across his spoon. He knows this exhausted, poor understudy for his mother won't do. He asks me nothing, but he stares. I have to stay awake. I recall my training from the battered women's shelter. Unless they ask a question, don't tell them anything. They will ask when they are ready. He won't be ready for a long time. He thinks his mother is hiding, studying, on a trip, in the next room.
A few days later, I came to pick him up wearing one of her sweaters, and he thought I was her. He runs towards me, screaming until he sees he is wrong. Then, he veers off course and stops. We stare at each other. Henry, your mother’s dead.
It took a week. I was afraid of her, afraid of what was beneath the clean sheet. All I could see were her bruised hands. I stood on the threshold of her room, terrified she would suddenly stand, her body broken and smashed. I hate myself for not wanting her to live as my mother said, “no matter what.” I can't imagine Catherine paralyzed and drooling. I am a terrible person. I never saw her face again. During the week she is on life support, decisions about organ donations are made. I sleep in my old room, waking up to stare at the tilted ceilings, sitting at the window that frames the fields beyond. In the moments before dawn, I see a doe and her fawn walking slowly across the backyard, hoofs landing silently in the damp grass. They stare up at my window. I want to call out, “Have you seen my sister?” because she is everywhere now.
People don't know what to say, and I don't want them to say anything except when I call my friend Charles in Ireland. He had stayed with me in New Brunswick when I moved back into my house on the Rutgers campus. My sister had been packing her stuff and wrapped a present he had purchased for his mother in Ireland, placing the picture in one of her boxes.
“You’ve stolen my mother’s picture.”
”Well,” Catherine said, dimpling and laughing, “I want it.”
”You can’t have it. I don't have anything else to give her.”
”Give her this,” Catherine was holding an unimpressive oven mitt.
”No. Give me back my present.”
Catherine handed it over and looked at me. “Why isn’t he your boyfriend? He’s perfect.”
Charles answered the phone.
”Catherine’s dying. She was hit by a car.”
”And she was so lovely.” We stayed on the line for a breath, and then I hung up. That was perfect and enough.
I take care of Henry, but then my help seems like a bad idea, as I look like my oldest sister, and eventually, I will leave again. Brigid makes it clear she is devastated but wants nothing to do with me beyond telling me what to do. I don't follow her orders, but I try to be helpful. I call the racquet club and ask for time off. They are sorry and agree to two weeks. I call Buck.
“My sister died,” I tell him. “She was hit by a drunk driver.”
”Fuck,” Buck says. “I thought you were mad at me.”
I haven’t slept or eaten in a week. “No.”
”I'm really sorry.”
”Can I call you when it's over?”
”Sure.”
It will never be over. I babysit Henry, and we end up in the cellar playing hide-and-seek. We are not looking for one another but for her, Catherine, Mommy, and my sister. There is the day they remove the life support, and she dies. Somehow, I miss my family and find myself alone in the room with her, dead. All I can see are her bruised hands.
”Listen,” I tell her, “I'm sorry, and I love you, and I'll try hard to help with Henry. This isn’t fair. But I'm not going to drink. I’m going to miss you so much.”
I walked into the adjacent room where Beckman’s father reads the Wall Street Journal. He nods at me. I need someone to hold me tight, but he is a stranger reading a newspaper, so I leave and drive to my Hoboken house. The owners of the house, a sweet Italian family, have left a basket full of wonderful things to eat in front of the Madonna. With a note that tells me they are so sorry.
My answering machine is full. I push the button, and messages begin as I lie on my futon in the dark. I imagine my new message. “Hi, this is Molly Moynahan. My sister died today. Leave a message.”
It is February twenty-ninth. Four years will pass before this anniversary returns, her final ironic elbow in the ribs. The memorial service is blurry as I am on various drugs, none of them cocaine. I sit next to my mother, who makes choking noises.
”Cry, Mom,” I whisper. “Just cry.”
”No. I can’t do that.”
If not her, who? I look around the chapel at Rutgers. Someone at the front is talking about his relationship with my sister. I resent everyone who makes speeches about her brilliance, her wit, her crazy habits, and her mothering. I wanted to get up and tell them I was her little sister. She was six when I was born; my whole life happened while she was alive. Now, what do I do? She held secrets I needed to understand, and now I never would. My nephew Julian is wailing, and Brigid walks outside with him. I follow her to tell her to bring back the baby or let me hold him so she won't miss anything. She turns on me.
”This isn’t our tragedy. Catherine belonged to Beckman and Henry.” She is furious and shakes Julian at me.
“That’s ridiculous. We were her sisters. No one cares if the baby cries."
I think we are all that is left now. We need to love each other. I am sure she is sorry it wasn’t me that died. I am useless and drink too much. I want to tell her I’m sorry that I’m still alive and that I love her, but I don’t.
”Come back inside. We’re her sisters.”
”I don’t feel anything.” Brigid’s face is a mask of tragedy.
”We’re her family. No one cares if he cries.”
But she walks away. I go back inside. My mother is still making choking noises. “Mom,” I whisper, “cry.” But she won’t.
People return to our house and food is everywhere. Wendy arrives in her wheelchair. I am happy to see her and to know there is a better outcome sometimes. My friend Palmer is quietly kind and helpful. Palmer has helped me dress for the memorial, coming to my house and suggesting what to wear. We went to Catherine’s house, and I found my pink Norma Kamali dress in her closet. She told me over and over again she had returned that dress. I hold it in my arms and sob that she can have everything I own if she’ll stop being dead. Next to her telephone on the wall is a journal of her life written in pencil, appointments, phone numbers, to do things, buy things, places to go, and people to see. My sister was a thief and a liar. My sister was the funniest person I ever knew. My sister whispered “Lait” into my hair because she said I was like Truffaut’s Wild Child, raised by wolves. She found a place for me even though I was a forgotten child. I haven’t eaten in ten days. We are all thinner, on our way to losing an entire person.
My father sits alone in the living room. His heart is broken again. I stand near him, trying to think of something to say. “How are you doing, Swipsie?” He hasn’t called me that in years.
”Bad, I guess. I don’t know what to do.”
He nods. “You go on.”
”I told her I wouldn’t drink,” I tell him. “When I said goodbye.”
”That’s good. That's a good thing.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my father cry. His eyes are very red. Catherine was a literary genius.
At the memorial, Richard Poirier, chairman of the Rutgers English department, claimed he had never worked with a more brilliant student. “Catherine understood Emerson’s complexity with stunning accuracy.”
I want to say she was my oldest sister. I got her a pillow a thousand times when she had scoliosis. She called me “Mouse” and promised I would be happy someday. She believed I could stay sober and thought I was a good actress. Where has she gone, I wonder? If you don’t believe in God or heaven or anything like that, can you believe she’s that doe at sunrise or maybe a rabbit?
“Do you remember when you got chased by that woodchuck?” I ask my dad.
Sometimes it feels like I’ve dreamed my life.
He smiles. “That thing had terrible teeth. It ran like a person.”
—Molly Moynahan, author and writing coach