I have fifteen minutes to ask a lifetime’s worth of questions. The person sitting across the table from me is my grandmother; at least I think she is. Her image is muted, as she leans forward. “What can I do for you? It’s been a hundred years, you know,” she looks around self-consciously. “Why is it that you called me here?”
"I was allowed one person, and I chose you. I could have talked to anyone from even a thousand years ago, but I most wanted to meet you.”
The woman relaxes. She seems to enjoy the attention. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Not me, but maybe my mother.
She considers what I have said. “Oh yes. You look like her.”
I’ve been told that before. “I asked to meet my grandmother. Are you Emma?”
Her face is easier to see now. “I don’t want to offend you, but we don’t have much time. Did you have a baby girl in the spring or summer of 1914? Did you surrender her to the New York Foundling Hospital on August 21?”
My questions pour out quickly. They scatter on the table between us.
She is cautious. “How did you find me? How did you know my name?”
I tell her about the years of searching, first by my mother then by my sisters and me. I tell her about the nun from the New York Foundling Hospital who copied documents that gave our search direction.
“So much misinformation was on those documents.”
“Yes, but one had your signature. It was the first time we had something concrete.” I push a copy of the signed form across the table.
Her expression is sad. “I gave my baby, Anna, to the nuns. I had to, and the sisters were the only ones who were trustworthy. It was a hard decision, but I had to make it.”
“Why?” I ask. “Were you sick?”
She hesitates. “Don’t worry. Your mother knows why. I’ve met her, my baby, Anna. I was there when she passed over. She understands now. That’s enough.”
“But I want to understand what happened, who you were. I want to know what your life was like, what could move you to such a decision.”
“You understand more than you realize. You have read about New York in the early part of the last century. You figured out we lived in the Bronx, that your grandfather Julius was an engraver. He worked in silver. That there was illness and poverty back then.”
“Were you ill? Were you poor?”
Her facial expression is inscrutable. “I understand this Internet has allowed you to reach back in time, to find me. I like that you put all these facts together, that you tried to solve the puzzle. I would have done that too. I admire people with good minds. I tried to learn something new until the day I died.”
“My mother was like that.”
She looks at the clock. “We don’t have much time. What else is it that you want me to tell you?”
“I’m still trying to figure out when you died. I saw your name on the 1910 census. You were 24. Evelyn your other daughter was 5. And Julius, my grandfather, was 33.
The next time I saw you is in 1920. My mother never appears on the census. Then in 1930, Evelyn is married and living in Glendale, California as is Julius, and you are gone.”
Now her face is clearly visible now. This is unmistakably my grandmother. Her eyes are familiar as are her hands.
“Put your hands out, my dear,” she says cradling them in hers. “Anna, or she calls herself Catherine now, told me that her girls had inherited the artistic, sensuous side of me. If I’d known you, I would have made sure that you chose well in life. The world is full of luxurious things – flowers, music. There is no shame in wanting nice things, in appreciating beauty. ”
“That’s what the graphoanalyst that my sister Bridget hired said about you.”
Her expression is one of intense interest. “I never knew that was possible. What else did the analysis say?”
“That you liked to learn. Details didn’t bore you. That work that required close attention didn’t bore or tire you. You had a good sense of timing. You wanted more education and status.”
“My, my. How could my mere signature tell all that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But she also said that after you gathered the facts, you had no trouble making a decision.”
She nods. “You are a bit like that, aren’t you? You, of all people should understand.”
“Me?” I say, looking at the clock. Our time is nearly up.
“Why did you give your baby up?” I say again. “What lead you to that decision?”
Her hand slips from mine, and her image fades.
Then she is gone, but in my mind’s ear I hear a challenge. I don’t know whose voice it is. Is it Mother or is it Grandmother?
“Gather more facts, Mary-Jo. You’ll figure it out.”
"I was allowed one person, and I chose you. I could have talked to anyone from even a thousand years ago, but I most wanted to meet you.”
The woman relaxes. She seems to enjoy the attention. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“Not me, but maybe my mother.
She considers what I have said. “Oh yes. You look like her.”
I’ve been told that before. “I asked to meet my grandmother. Are you Emma?”
Her face is easier to see now. “I don’t want to offend you, but we don’t have much time. Did you have a baby girl in the spring or summer of 1914? Did you surrender her to the New York Foundling Hospital on August 21?”
My questions pour out quickly. They scatter on the table between us.
She is cautious. “How did you find me? How did you know my name?”
I tell her about the years of searching, first by my mother then by my sisters and me. I tell her about the nun from the New York Foundling Hospital who copied documents that gave our search direction.
“So much misinformation was on those documents.”
“Yes, but one had your signature. It was the first time we had something concrete.” I push a copy of the signed form across the table.
Her expression is sad. “I gave my baby, Anna, to the nuns. I had to, and the sisters were the only ones who were trustworthy. It was a hard decision, but I had to make it.”
“Why?” I ask. “Were you sick?”
She hesitates. “Don’t worry. Your mother knows why. I’ve met her, my baby, Anna. I was there when she passed over. She understands now. That’s enough.”
“But I want to understand what happened, who you were. I want to know what your life was like, what could move you to such a decision.”
“You understand more than you realize. You have read about New York in the early part of the last century. You figured out we lived in the Bronx, that your grandfather Julius was an engraver. He worked in silver. That there was illness and poverty back then.”
“Were you ill? Were you poor?”
Her facial expression is inscrutable. “I understand this Internet has allowed you to reach back in time, to find me. I like that you put all these facts together, that you tried to solve the puzzle. I would have done that too. I admire people with good minds. I tried to learn something new until the day I died.”
“My mother was like that.”
She looks at the clock. “We don’t have much time. What else is it that you want me to tell you?”
“I’m still trying to figure out when you died. I saw your name on the 1910 census. You were 24. Evelyn your other daughter was 5. And Julius, my grandfather, was 33.
The next time I saw you is in 1920. My mother never appears on the census. Then in 1930, Evelyn is married and living in Glendale, California as is Julius, and you are gone.”
Now her face is clearly visible now. This is unmistakably my grandmother. Her eyes are familiar as are her hands.
“Put your hands out, my dear,” she says cradling them in hers. “Anna, or she calls herself Catherine now, told me that her girls had inherited the artistic, sensuous side of me. If I’d known you, I would have made sure that you chose well in life. The world is full of luxurious things – flowers, music. There is no shame in wanting nice things, in appreciating beauty. ”
“That’s what the graphoanalyst that my sister Bridget hired said about you.”
Her expression is one of intense interest. “I never knew that was possible. What else did the analysis say?”
“That you liked to learn. Details didn’t bore you. That work that required close attention didn’t bore or tire you. You had a good sense of timing. You wanted more education and status.”
“My, my. How could my mere signature tell all that?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But she also said that after you gathered the facts, you had no trouble making a decision.”
She nods. “You are a bit like that, aren’t you? You, of all people should understand.”
“Me?” I say, looking at the clock. Our time is nearly up.
“Why did you give your baby up?” I say again. “What lead you to that decision?”
Her hand slips from mine, and her image fades.
Then she is gone, but in my mind’s ear I hear a challenge. I don’t know whose voice it is. Is it Mother or is it Grandmother?
“Gather more facts, Mary-Jo. You’ll figure it out.”