Generations

Amy watched, spellbound, as the gnarled knuckles unfolded, the
fingers uncurling stiffly to reveal the shining silver bracelet.

"It's for you. She wanted you to have it," her aunt softly
whispered.

Silently, Amy gazed at it in wonder, and it was a few minutes before
she realised that it was resting peacefully in the palm of her hand and
she was alone. She felt as if she had never seen anything so perfect
before; so self-contained. She crumpled the piece of jewellery into a
small mass and then gently fingered it back into its natural shape. It
was simple- a sparkling link of flowers held neatly together. Close
observation drew her eyes to the lines, which were imprinted, on her
palm, seeming to weave in and out on the skin. Amy felt old. Shaking
herself and remembering where she was, she knew she had to go
home.
* * * *

It had been exactly two weeks since her mother had died; and Amy hadn't
yet shed a tear. She hadn't experienced the need; instead simply and
calmly she accepted what had happened. Now, she sat, after returning
from her aunt's and, as she had done for days, felt helpless. There was
nothing to be done. Nothing left, no one to feed, clothe or mind. Only
Prince, her black Labrador; and even he laid his head mournfully on her
lap, sensing her mood.

Amy patted him and smiled. She hadn't wanted to name him Prince; it
wasn't her sort of name. Actually, dogs weren't her ideal kind of pet
either but now, of course, she wouldn't trade him for anything. No,
they'd got him for Mark when he was ten. He'd begged and begged and,
finally, she and Grant had relented. They'd bought their son a tiny
black puppy for his birthday, and if she was being honest with herself,
their lives had never been the same since that day. Perhaps Prince had
brought the bounce and zest otherwise missing from the family.

Thinking of Mark reminded her of her mother. How would she tell
everyone who didn't already know? Most of her close family and friends
had come to the funeral, but there were so many others. Those whom she
met in the street who knew, or had known Margaret Jackson, would
inquire after her. They would ask, and Amy hated questions. For most of
her life she had attempted to avoid the probing inquisition that
poisoned conversation with anyone distant. Her daughter, Hannah,
laughed at her on this issue. It was partly a generation thing, Amy
supposed. She was constantly amazed at the number of people with whom
Hannah seemed comfortable to make intimate conversation. Sometimes it
worried her until she reassured herself, safe in the knowledge that
she, Amy Thompson, could never do that and didn't have to.

It was strange, Amy reflected, that even at forty five, with two
children in their twenties, she never really saw them as completely
adult. Not that they were immature in any way, but she was their mother
wasn't she? She had knowledge of everything that Mark's middle-class
colleagues at his law firm could never. They didn't remember him as a
toddler, running around naked, his screaming tantrums or splashing his
sister in the bath. No-one would have guessed that Mark, in a suit and
tie, ready to close a business deal, had, at the age of four
practically thrown fits because he didn't want to have his hair washed,
having spent a happy afternoon rolling in the mud. It was, indeed,
difficult to believe that everyone was young once, and had mothers
capable of destroying dignity in one single swoop; yet never did.

Of course Mark had been upset when he learned of his grandmother's
death, in keeping with the sensitive boy his mother knew him to be.
However, he was strong, never moping for long. He was worried about
her, she knew. She'd spoken to him last night, and Amy had visualised
her son's concerned expression and had listened to his anxious
tone:

" Are you all right Mum? Don't stay on your own- go to Aunt Judy's for
a day or two."

Just hearing his voice had made her want to cry, because she was so
proud of him. He survived so well on his own, and was never too
sentimental, a trait which Amy feared in her own nature. Mark didn't
know it yet, but sensitivity could ruin lives: people seeing what
wasn't there; often creating personal misery. No, already, Amy sensed
that Mark was making his life far more successful than she had ever
done with hers. Quickly, he was overtaking her and, being unable to
relate frightened Amy. One day-soon she dreaded-he would ask and she
wouldn't know. No longer would she be capable of protecting her son
from her mosaic of experiences. Confronting this thought, Amy lay down
and wept for the first time since her mother's death.
* * * *

Gazing into the mirror, several hours later, Amy saw a middle-aged
woman, her face stained with tears and skin slightly wrinkled. "You're
not much use as a mother now," she accused, only half-joking. She
wandered into the kitchen and found herself shaking Cornflakes into a
bowl.

It was really her daughter about whom she was worried Amy realised, a
moment later, as she munched at the table. Hannah had always been more
insecure than her brother had. Something to do with being the second
child, she suspected. Amy sensed that her daughter perceived mark as an
ideal role model: perfection for which to strive for. Of course mark
wasn't flawless; in addition to which Hannah's character was, maybe
surprisingly, very different to his. She was quieter, calmer;
admittedly less assertive and didn't attract people in the same way
Mark did. Hannah was creative and, as a child especially, had brought a
spark to Amy's life. However, when Hannah reached the teenage years,
her talent-and nature- became an imperfection, a flaw as she struggled
to be the same as her friends. Amy remembered the tears and furious
longing just to belong. In actual fact, that point had been a
breakthrough after self-denial, followed by the rekindling of a fragile
mother-daughter relationship.

When Amy had told Hannah of her grandmother's death, she became very
quiet; even cold.

" It's not my fault," Amy had wanted to scream. " For once in your life
don't blame me." But Hannah had rung off shortly after, leaving the
line drumming its monotonous tone. Hannah had been quite close to her
gran prior to leaving for university, after which much of her contact
with the family seemed to have been severed. Ironic and sad; Hannah was
sixty miles away hurting, and she, Amy, was her in her kitchen, unable
to reach her even if she drove the distance.

That night, Amy talked to Margaret; not in ghost form, but Amy felt a
very real presence somewhere in her bedroom- and an overwhelming sense
of peace. She could smell the sweet scented flowers associated with her
mother and felt that she could almost touch her. She lay on her bed and
closed her eyes, imagining herself to be in the middle of a strong, yet
still, ocean.

" Oh Mum, why didn't you tell me?" she whispered into the darkness. The
secrets of life never quite told, never quite known, because they're
too painful or valuable to be taught: only effective in experience. It
was ironic in that Amy had always believed herself to have a healthy
communicative and close rapport with her mother. Only now did she see
the cracks; they didn't seal but merely ripped open wider. They'd never
talked, not really. Amy had always had the security of a happy
relationship with her mother- that much was true. But maybe she'd
mistaken contentment for completeness. The hushed stories at night, the
bond at which both worked, the telling of life; Amy had missed that and
more. Invariably her mother spoke with words- Amy desired the silences
to speak and their souls to talk. They never did. But they had loved
each other so much: that much was substantial. Amy's own relationship
with her own daughter Hannah had been far from close let alone
intimate. It was comforting to think that perhaps it wasn't possible
for anyone to have everything.

Amy awoke early the next morning to a shrill disturbing sound. The
telephone. She escaped form the tangle of covers on her bed and lifted
the receiver, at first wary.

A few minutes later, Amy replaced the handset and drew the curtains in
her bedroom, allowing the sun to penetrate. The tree branches outside
bowed in the light wind as its leaves rustled. She smiled; it had been
Hannah who had phoned: she was four months pregnant with a baby
girl.