Bracelet

In the Jewish religion when someone is dying, you apologize for your wrong doings. Perched over the handrail of my mother’s hospital bed, I apologized for the anguish I caused her by divorcing and ending my fifteen years of marriage. Imagining her shame facing their Orthodox Jewish Moroccan community. There was very little talking during the final months of my mother’s life- only questions. Would her cirrhosis-laden body miraculously recover like my father’s orthodox rabbi promised? What happens in the late stages of her disease? When would hospice come in? How much morphine could we sneak in without our father thinking we were trying to kill her? Would she be around for Thanksgiving? Hannukah? Then the questions turned inwards. Where would I be when the news of her death arrived? In my home in Nor Cal or their home in So Cal?  Who would deliver the news? Would I take care of others before taking care of myself? What about her gold bracelet?

During the last few weeks of her life the ugliness of death moved into my parents’ home. The hospital bed, the blaring noise from the oxygen tank, the stoic hospice nurses, the virtuous rabbi, and her sister’s daily doses of Vanilla Ensure and fresh cut mint. There were lots of instructions about medication, phone calls, and hospice visits. The type of anticipation that braces for goodbye.

“Mom, can I have your gold bracelet?” There wasn’t much unfinished business between my mother and me other than one final request- or rather a final plea. Months before her death, I started campaigning about her bracelet. Nudging her at the oddest times, wheeling her down the street, I asked: “Mom, you know your Florence bracelet? Can I have it?”  Watching television, “Mom, I will take good care of your bracelet and lend it to my sisters if you give it to me.” No answer. While feeding her ice chips, “Mom, don’t you think as your favorite daughter, you should give me your gold bracelet?” Her usual response was always a blank stare. Ignoring my bracelet request the same way she ignored questions about her advanced directives. She never talked about dying because she never thought she would die at 83 years old.

“Look at her, doesn’t she look better today?” Propped up on her hospital bed with her oversized dentures slipping from mouth, she looked like a cadaver. My father promised she would make a full recovery and she wanted to believe him. A few weeks before her death, she looked at me with her gaunt cheekbones holding her pale blue eyes up and asked, “Is what I have really serious?” She could see from the lump in my throat how defeated I felt that there wasn’t any homespun cure for her debilitating HepC disease. How could she know her bracelet’s fate if she didn’t even know her own?

My stubborn bracelet request was longing for a time when my mother’s body was full, strong and packed with comfort. Before her disease ransacked her body. Grieving the sight of her shriveled frail body with a protruded stomach covered with liver spots, I wanted to imagine her as a glamorous queen with opulent jewels. Remembering a time when I used to lay on her bed and watch her get dressed for special occasions. Mostly because I was curious at what treasures she’d unpack from her closets. Her dresses hung in clear plastic garment bags and shoes were stacked in plastic boxes with pink lids in her small walk-in closet. She folded her hand-washed 36DD bras and plus-sized white sheer valisere (polyester) underwear in between white tissue paper and lined them up in her wooden dresser. They always smelled fragrant with magazine sample perfume. She was very practical about dressing up, she rarely wanted to spend money on clothing and if she wore something, she often returned it (“keep the tags”) but more because she didn’t feel like she deserved it.

My mother never wore a lot of jewelry and other than her white gold engagement ring and wedding band and a few 24 carat gold Moroccan bangles. She wasn’t into diamonds nor pearls nor precious stones. Often wearing earrings with fake stones held together by uncomfortable clasps. She stored her jewelry in her bathroom’s linen closet, across from her bidet, and kept the original boxes, often forgetting what was inside. Her white leather jewelry box lined with red satin was my favorite fascination. A type of mini treasure chest filled with a mixture of cheap costume and nicer pieces. For very special glamorous occasions, my mother pulled out a narrow soft pink velvet box and inside was the most spectacular engraved hand-made gold bracelet. The only time she let me handle it was when she asked me to close it’s fancy clasp. I loved how the heavy meshed bracelet draped over her wrist.

The bracelet had it’s own story of love and tragedy. Back in 1966, when we lived in Italy, we drove to Florence for a day for shopping and strolling. One November afternoon, while strolling along the Ponte Vecchio, my parents spotted this unique bracelet. Hand crafted by a local Florentine artist, it had all the regal opulence of Renaissance glamour and unique charm. On a whim, they decided to buy it. The next day, barely twenty-four hours later, the catastrophic Arno flood devastated the entire city. All the jewelry stores and historical treasures were buried under 600,000 tons of mud, rubble and sewage. The little jewelry store was one of its casualties with all its jewelry destroyed. Coincidently, this tragic flood was the catharsis that convinced my parents it was time to immigrate to America. Six months later, we were living in Southern California.

Forty years since the Florence flood and one year after my mother’s death, my father insisted my two sisters and I remove all her belongings from their home. Holding a large green plastic trash liner, he dumped all her shoes since it is a Jewish custom to discard the shoes of the deceased.  We meticulously sorted through her clothes, coats, purses, accessories, scarves, and lingerie. When it came time to sort through her jewelry, he led us into one of our childhood bedrooms where all the jewelry boxes from her bathroom cupboards were spread out over the bedspread. He insisted we lock ourselves in this room until we decided on all her jewelry.

My sisters and I spent a few hours sorting through everything and it felt like our mother was sitting on the bed beside us. Laughing at all the cheap jewelry she would always buy along Venice beach. They still had the original tags and receipts. We unraveled velvet pouches and found 24-carat gold earrings. We unfolded and read through tiny yellow pieces of paper with her marketing lists. Each of us fit into her jewelry differently. The rings looked beautiful on Colette’s long fingers while the emerald pendent looked radiant on Sandi’s neck. While I was busy looking through one of her black leather purses, I looked up at my sisters who were both handed me the long pink velvet box.

“Here you go sister, mom wanted you to have this bracelet.”

Staring at the box in disbelief, I opened it and inside was the masterpiece. Holding it while my eyes welled up, I hugged my sisters and thanked them. Wondering if my mother instructed them to give it to me of if they overheard my stubbornness. It didn’t matter anymore. My mother gave us something more precious and cherished, our sisterhood. Over the years, I’ve only worn her bracelet a handful of times and quickly return it back to it’s box like I’m worried my mother will find out.

Last July, on my daughter’s wedding day, she wanted to wear “grandma’s bracelet.” Holding out her left hand, I closed the clasp and finally understood why my mother wanted me to have this bracelet.