The working brain

Margie’s son left yesterday, and today she greeted me with an announcement: “My brain doesn’t work any more. I’m done here, but I can’t get out.”

I reminded her that she has been disrupted for the past two weeks by Andy’s visit. 

“He was here,” she nodded, “but I couldn’t tell you how long. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.”

I explained, “He wasn’t here to visit you. He was sleeping here, but he came here for his daughter. He was up and down, in and out at all hours. And because of that, your sleeping, your eating, your showering, and your walking schedule were all disrupted. So that’s very confusing.”

She laughed. “I’m confused. You said it. My brain is done. It’s just done.” 

I suggested we wait and see. I said her memory of the first ten years of her life is still sharp and clear. With sarcasm she countered,

“That’s useful.”

We made our way to Café Umbria, where, as is often the case, her thoughts drifted to her mother. “She was a nasty person, my mother.” 

This time I asked why. “Why was your mother nasty, Margie? What made her so bitter and mean?”

Suddenly Margie was back, fully present, with all her compassion and good sense intact and a brain that worked. “She was the eldest of six children, two girls and four boys.” Slowly Margie counted them out on her fingers and named them, and during that count, I made the photograph. 

“Her father had a dry cleaning and tailoring business, and she started working there when she was ten years old. When she wasn’t working, she was babysitting her younger siblings because her mother worked at the counter all day long. 

"My mother didn’t have a childhood; she didn’t have an education. Education was reserved for her brothers. By the time she was twelve, she was an expert tailor, and she was altering clothing for rich people. She held those tweeds and silks in her hands, and she wanted to wear that kind of clothing, not just sew the seams on it. So she wanted to marry a man who would buy her clothes at Bergdorf-Goodman’s.

"She must have fallen in love with my father because he was attractive, funny, kind. But he never made any money. The closest she ever came to fine clothes was wrapping packages in the basement of Bergdorf-Goodman’s.” Margie’s voice drifted off as she stared into a distant past. 

Do you think she was disappointed in her life?

“Oh yeah! That’s putting it mildly. The only thing she ever got, that she wanted, was a son. And then he was killed so young. Who wouldn’t be bitter with a life like that?”

“Margie,” I said softly, leaning close to her ear, “your brain is working. Do you see?”

She laughed and patted my hand. “Give it five minutes. It’ll quit. But thank you for that perspective.”