May 14, 2017

I opened Betty’s ashes on Mother’s Day. I’d never seen human ashes before and was surprised by their appearance. Mostly sooty grey sand as you’d expect, but occasional dark rocky bits and little irregular cream-colored clumps made clinking sounds as I rotated the jar slowly in my hands.

For whatever reason, feeling the weight of her remains in my palms warmed and soothed me, felt somehow right. Resting. She is resting.

Her son Travis and her partner Richard asked if I’d like to have some of her ashes to sprinkle in the Pacific Ocean. They sent them to me inside a box with the cards I’d sent her while she was sick. There was also a smaller box, carefully taped shut and wrapped with white paper addressed from her to me in bold black type. I couldn’t open it yet. I set her jar of ashes on the end table I’d inherited from my Mom and Dad. Irrationally, I wanted her to have a view.

Of course I readily accepted their offer, but when I considered the details of the endeavor, its practicality was called into question. How do I make sure her ashes scatter in the ocean and don’t blow back onto shore or all over me instead? Should I rent a boat? Walk to the end of a long pier and wait for the wind to change? Regardless, I planned to save a portion of the ashes for any future ceremony her family might plan. And I wanted to keep some here with me.

Meanwhile, Betty’s daughter Torah has been in touch with me, extending gracious access to her feelings and sharing details about her family. She is a writer! She looks a lot like Betty and seems to have many of her qualities and she too is a force of nature. She has three children, all amazing and unique and unfolding into the future.

Travis’s voice sounded so serious and grown up when he left a message letting me know the package was en route. But I knew his heart was breaking; he’d always been very close to his Mom, ever since he was a little boy.

Betty and I played across generations together as kids. She was always considerate and attentive, even protective of me. I was in awe of my older, beautiful, mannered cousin. We were both coming of age in a turbulent world, both only daughters; my Mom was her Dad’s sister. I never knew until after her death the extent to which she had been tortured as a child. But it makes sense of course.

Somewhat later in our lives, we reconnected. She’d had two children by then and they were both quiet and smart. Travis and I enjoyed some of the same activities since I was somewhere between his and his Mom’s age and a bit of a tomboy.

Betty went through a bitter divorce and her personality reflected some of her inner struggle. She combined Southern gentility with formidable feminism. During a certain middle part of her life, she seemed to react forcefully to the poor treatment she’d received from the important men in her life. I think she was grappling with ways to survive in tact. There were also unnamed health issues. She never elaborated.

Mom and Betty had a special bond. After a reconstructive surgery, Betty proudly slid up her blouse to reveal her new cleavage. I remember Mom blushing and smiling at the same time.

For many years after our Dads died, we would make semi-unkind but forgivable jokes during our annual Christmas dinners with The Sisters as they attempted to yell loud enough to hear each other.

When Mom was dying, Betty was right by my side sitting the long hours together in her hospital room hoping she’d rally and thrive but knowing better. When Mom’s sister Armand died, she sat right next to me at the funeral, filling me with strength and support. Afterwards, we drove up to Arrowhead to locate the Hurtt homestead. When the new owner tried to turn us away, Betty persuaded her to let us tour the grounds since this would be our only chance.

Betty explained what the stone-walled canning kitchen was used for, where the fruit trees were planted and the importance of a certain large rock in the front yard. We then drove to the nearby church where she found ancient cemetery markers from her Mom’s family. I cherish the photos, videos and memories of that day. It was one of the best days of my life, thanks to Betty.

A year later, we met for coffee during my annual pilgrimage back to Charlottesville. I snapped a photo of her that she liked. She was wearing a plastic tab on her ring finger and jokingly explained her new fellow had proposed to her but that was all he could afford. But she kept the ring on… She’d just met Richard and she was smitten. Things were tumultuous between them at first. She attempted to confide in me, but I probably was less accessible than I should have been. Through no fault of hers, I often felt less than worthy of her confidence. I always expected we’d have years to get to know each other better.

The next time I heard from her, she had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. For a brief, Betty-esque moment, she beat it-the only known survivor. We made plans to see each other. She tried to drive up to Charlottesville last summer to see me but was too weak to complete the trip. I offered to visit her, but it didn’t happen. I never saw her again.

The cancer returned with a vengeance. She fought until it made sense to stop. With Richard’s help, she arranged our final phone conversation. I was nervous and self-conscious and didn’t really say what I wanted to say. On top of everything, I actually asked a favor of a dying woman. Gracious to the very end, Betty said of course. I asked her to send me a sign if there is something on the other side. She said she’d do her best.

Two stars- Castor and Pollex lined up side by side low in the sky the night I buried my Mom. I saw them again the night Betty died.

Her two children are in touch with me and we are reconnecting after her death, sharing our grief. Maybe Betty has sent me a sign after all!