I had to dig this up as I keep losing it, but I remembered I had just sent this almost a year ago to my brother. Out of the three of us, he’s the oldest and in my heart I believe the one who had been most affected by our past. I’m putting this back on WordPress as it’s the last place I’ll move it to, forget the cloud. The reason I thought about this post today was because I took a drive through my past. Just an hour out, but noticed all the changes that had transpired in the few short years I moved away from my “hometown” and mentally was counting all the places I’ve lived and times I’ve moved. I think I lost count around 40 something.

But as I was saying I sent this to my brother for him to get closure. He thanked me for it, and I assumed he just let it go. A week after I received this email from him:

Ok… So I read this letter 5 times, and shared it with my therapist…
The first time it was sad. Sad sad.
Then sad sad
Then sad

Now I am laughing hysterically … I am sorry for her now .. Rather than blaming her

I think we have the same sense of humor.. FUNNY FUNNY FUNNY
Thanks for sharing

Love
D

So at the end of the day, he’s been able to move on, and I read it every once in a while to remind myself who I was, where I came from and that I have all the power that I need to get through this next phase of my life. Sometimes we’re tired of being strong, but that’s when our love ones need us most.

So its really 11 year that have passed, but I revisited this 5 years prior to this.

 

Six Years Later

One thing I like about writing, whatever format I choose, is reading the final document, and knowing you can easily go back and fix whatever errors you find. Cut, copy, paste, delete, doesn’t matter. A few keystrokes and your work can be perfect. If you expect me to boil this down to a life lesson here, I won’t. We already know to learn from our mistakes, it’s applying the lesson that is hard.

I was in my office today, looking for some earlier writing I had done, and hoping to find the diskette it was on. I had the hard copy in my hand, but because of the subject matter I wasn’t going to read it again, until I was in the comfort of my room, and mentally prepared to critique it. I had promised a new friend to share this with him, but I wanted to be certain that it was cohesive enough to post.

I’ll give it a B minus. I’ve reworked the following, as six years have passed and though the remaining story is true as it unfolds, I am only correcting it to make it a better read. Eventually I may write my life story, this is just a chapter torn from the past. The timeline is December 2001 as written.

I hate early morning phone calls. My friends know this and make it a point that if anything needs to be said, they have the decency to wait to give me until at least 11:00 a.m.

So when my phone rang on a cold Sunday morning, I turned my head to see the time, 8:15 a.m. Instinctively, I knew when I answered the phone it would be news that someone had died. I reached over to grasp the receiver and I felt my heart clench as I heard my sister’s voice. Please don’t let it be one of the kids.

“Pam? It’s Val”. She always let me know this as if I wouldn’t recognize my own sister’s voice. We didn’t speak that often, but I hadn’t been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s- yet.

I tried to respond with a casualness I was not feeling. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Ashley answered the phone last night and it was Dad. He left her with a message that a relative in Florida had died. She tried to tell him that he wasn’t speaking to me, but his hearing is so far gone, he couldn’t hear her, he said Lynn had died”.

“Lynn. Who the hell is that?” I asked.

She continued, “Well, I didn’t know what he was talking about either, so I went to bed. In the middle of the night it dawned on me, Not Lynn, Glynn. Glynn is dead”.

With those few words my world had changed.

“Hmm, I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how I feel.”

I really didn’t know. For too long this woman had wound her selfish, evil, life in ours and it was hard to believe it was over. So easily. So quietly. Without notice. This is how it ends? The world kept moving on, my thoughts were trapped in the past. I could hear my sister saying something to me, but I really wasn’t listening. I knew we had to find out what had happened. She had absolutely no details. We hung up the phone with the intent of speaking to each other later.

I decided to email my brother who was living in Australia. I saw him three years prior in New Orleans, before that at my father’s second marriage in 1983. Before that year I hadn’t seen him since my mother kicked him out at sixteen. I think it was over car keys. He moved in with his best friend’s family, finished high school, and joined the Navy. He was going to be a doctor until the modeling world discovered him escorting Miss America contestants in Hawaii. He became quite wealthy, lived all over the world, and had finally settled down and married another model and had a child. I wasn’t sure what his response would be either.

My phone was ringing again, and yes, it’s not eleven o’clock so what is going on? This time it was my girlfriend Janet. She needed to take her son to the ER and could I take care of her daughter Tori? I lived relatively close to the hospital, so I said ok, what time, and hey, Glynn’s dead. On a normal day this would have been akin to telling the start of the Methodist grape vine, but I wasn’t worried about that. I agreed to come to the ER and half an hour and pick Tori up.

I jumped in the shower and was just toweling off when I heard my doorbell ring. Now what?

I opened my door and my sister was standing there with tears in her eyes. Good god, did something else happen? I certainly wasn’t moved to cry over the news, but seeing my sister standing there, vulnerable, made my defense mechanism kick in to higher gear if possible.

In a split second I realized what had happened. Janet must have spoken to her father or someone else in the loop. It will never cease to amaze me how fast this church can get the word around the town. Western Union should work so fast. By the time my sister had arrived at church, the good members tried to console her in the choir room. Maybe console wasn’t the right word. It’s not that they were sorry. They just hugged her and told her they remembered.

I was caught up in the aspect that my sister was standing before me, relying on me, for help. But she is my sister, and I love her, so I opened the door and invited her in to sit down. Of course, all thoughts of going to the ER had flown right out of my head.

Valerie told me that she had called our father to try and get any information he had. He had already thrown out the name of the minister who had contacted him. All he could remember was that it was a church around the area where she lived. Thanks Allen.

Since it was Sunday morning, we knew it would be too difficult to interrupt a minister so our next course of action was to call hospitals in Florida. Someone had to have the information and the body somewhere. Right? The thought came to my mind as soon as it did my sisters. I looked online for Glynn’s phone number and called the house. We had to confirm our suspicion that it may be a ruse. Nothing, and I mean nothing, would be out of line for Glynn to get attention.

I put the speaker phone on and listened as her line rang over and over. Thankfully no one answered. We didn’t say anything, just hung up the phone, and I started a web search for listing of churches in Florida. We narrowed it down to Methodist and Presbyterian in a ten mile radius of Dunedin FL a Scottish town.

Glynn was obsessive that way. Our whole life was based on the heritage du jour. Looking back at her mental illness, and her own abandonment issues, she was trying to find who she was. That’s fine, but coming up with a family tartan, (which she made us wear in the form of a handmade kilt) and attend the DELCO Scottish Society on Friday nights was not any kids idea of fun. We did have fun at the Scottish games though, and I still enjoy a meat pie or shortbread to this day. However, when she wanted to sign us up for sword dancing she went to far and the mention of bagpipe lessons we also declined. She played her bagpipe albums over and over again. I cringed whenever we were at church and the hymn was Amazing Grace. Nothing can send a chill up my spine faster then recalling her bellowing out the tune, above the rest of the congregation, as if it was her theme song. It’s funny what you remember.

It’s funnier still what you can forget. My doorbell was ringing again. I opened the door and Tori was standing there, also in tears, with her dad. Oops, Aunt Pammy had failed in her crisis duties, but I quickly ushered her inside, and was given instructions to wash her face and take her to a birthday party at one o’clock. No problem.

My sister was back on the phone calling hospitals trying to find Mrs. Body. Seriously, how many old people could possibly live and die in Florida? I took over the phone calls and my sister called Ashley for a little babysitter backup relief.

Tori was still upset, so I abandoned the phone calls for a moment, and made her comfortable in my bedroom to catch some Sunday morning cartoons. I wasn’t ten feet down the hallway when I heard the unmistakable whir of the VCR. Not wanting to add being arrested for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, I broke Flo Jo’s record in racing to my bedroom to yank the porn tape from the tape player. I decided not to answer any questions, changed the channel back to Nickelodeon, and tell her mom later.

I was back on the phone, and had found a very nice hospital administrator who volunteered to make the phone calls for us as we were calling long distance. This was an unexpected kindness, and I gave her my information if she found out anything.

I listened as my sister had struck gold on her second phone call to one of the churches. She was asking for a woman’s name and fresh tears were in her eyes.

“Who was that?” I asked her. I wasn’t getting this show of emotion from my sister. Then again, I had my closure with Glynn years before.

“It was a Mrs. Patterson. She told me Glynn didn’t belong to the church, but she belonged to St. Andrews Presbyterian. But she was the one who called the landlord when Glynn didn’t show up for her doctor’s appointment, it was then that they found her dead in the bedroom.”

“Hmm.” Again, I treaded lightly around my sister. She always thought I felt sorry for the old bitch. I’m not about feeling sorry; I just try to understand human nature. I didn’t want my responses setting her off, accusing me again of having selective memory about our childhood. I’m almost a year and a half younger, and what she remembers is how it involved her. I didn’t pay that much attention to the undertones and nuances surrounding every day of our lives. I was a kid, and doing what a kid does. I hated the arguments my mother had with everyone, but we were sent to bed at 7:30 every night. Once we were of school age, our time was limited in dealing with her at the breakfast and dinner table. Weekends, we signed out in the book by the door, but we better have been where we said we would be if she summoned us. As I sat there holding the phone in my hand, I realized the irony as we couldn’t locate her.

“Well, I guess the next step is to call the minister to see what is planned. Do you want to go to her funeral?”

I always said I wanted to go to make sure she was dead. I didn’t say it with malice, just fact. I didn’t want my sister to go by herself, but we did need more information.

We took a break from old memories, and decided to think things through logistically. Timing, cost, and was it worth it? Apparently Allen made his decision when he threw out the information.

My brother, Duncan, had responded to my email, asking if we could get his property back that she had stolen.

In 1983 at our fathers’ wedding, we told him he had been away too long. He wasn’t even aware of what had happened to us. I told him not to trust her. But there is something about first born sons and mothers. They always seek acceptance and approval. He tried to help her out and bought a house in Clearwater. He paid half the mortgage and she was to pay the rest and the utilities. An emergency bank account was left for maintenance. She repaid this kindness by subletting the house, keeping the rent, closing the bank accounts and letting the bank foreclose on his house. She moved on without a second thought. It was her due, for having married a wealthy man who kept his wealth from her.

When my grandmother died in 1989, everything was left to Allen. I loved my grandmother, but she didn’t want my mother getting her hands on any money, so the grandchildren were cut from the will. I suppose it was never updated while we were still minors. Our great aunt however, made sure my sister and I received her rings. I got the wedding set, my sister the anniversary ring.

The closest we came to living what Glynn deemed worthy of her imaginary station in life, was in Rosemont, part of the Main Line in Pennsylvania. My father had been hired as the Director of the Children’s Village (a seventies term for orphanage) and we were firmly ensconced in our quarters in the mansion. We actually had a chef who prepared our meals, our music lessons played on the Grand Piano in our living room. If I needed a bike to ride, I went to the building by the pool to pick one out. However, the place where I spent most of my time was the massive library. Thousands of books lined the shelves, and I would dream of having a room to rival that one. I have the books, just not the room to display them. I’ve read them all.

But as things always worked out for our family, Glynn couldn’t keep her opinions or her orifice shut. She could run your business better then the owner, and had no problem mouthing off to my father’s boss. Good bye Main Line, hello West Chester, again.

I would especially remember that house years later when I was living in a trailer in North Carolina. I certainly have run the gamut of the housing industry.

I noticed it was now getting on to noon, and it would be a good time to call the church in Dunedin. I let my sister field this phone call, as she is much better dealing with the religious type. I am not too fond of Christians even the collared ones.

Again I was left with listening to half a conversation, so I took the time to check on the girls and get finally get dressed. I did have to get the little one to her party, and check with the rest of the family to see what was happening at the hospital.

Everything seemed fine, and I heard the conversation winding down in the other room. I still had the impression of viewing this as an outsider. I was detached, waiting to feel something, anything. But, those feelings would to come later, for now I wanted to know as Paul Harvey used to say, the rest of the story.

Valerie had a strange look on her face and I could tell it was something between anger and despair. I waited for her to start and I wasn’t surprised when she stated that the minister was shocked to hear from her, as Glynn never mentioned she had children. Ever.

Perfect.

This added a whole new dimension to our travel plans if we ever had any. Leave it to Glynn to wipe out our existence and her past. My sister went on to say that Glynn had left everything to the church and people were already asking for her belongings. I could understand if the homeless or needy wanted clothing, but personal effects should have been left to family. My sister was hoping for pictures or anything from our past.

Our parents divorced in 1972 when I was nine. We lived with Glynn for another five years or so. Duncan was gone, and in the true spirit of the Me Generation, Glynn sold off most of the household belongings and took off. Somehow, she secured a job as a nanny for three children for a Doctor and his wife. You can guess correctly, she was fired.

My sister and I were left with a suitcase full of clothing, some childhood toys, and memorabilia. I went and lived with friends until I finished high school, my sister boarded a room in a house in West Chester. She worked at Wendy’s and put herself through college. She married her high school sweetheart when she was twenty. Bouncers were required at her wedding. Glynn had her information network and was incensed she wasn’t invited to the wedding. She called the Pastor and told him he had no right to marry them since she wasn’t invited. Whenever a minister left the church, they relayed the information to the incoming pastor about our mother, in hopes of protecting us. The church became my sisters’ domain, and she found family with her in-laws.

I became the gypsy. Constantly moving, going where life needed me to be. Surviving. The one constant was whenever I settled somewhere Glynn would find me. I was unlisted but there were still people in her network who didn’t know the whole story, or thought they were doing the right thing. Again, Christians. Her calls would rattle me throughout my life. That is until 1997.

I was at a point in my life where I was bottom dwelling. I had just lost a great job, I was forced out by a boss who was embezzling company funds, and he needed me out of the way. I was angry as I pictured myself becoming my mother, going from job to job. I knew if I got to the point of selling “underground condominiums” as Glynn use to refer to burial plots I would be truly lost. It also happened to be my birthday and I didn’t recognize the number on Caller Id when I answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Pammy it’s me, I love you”

“Oh, Good God, What do you want?” I replied in a somewhat incredulous voice.

I couldn’t take back the question, and oddly this time I wasn’t going to let her prevail. When you feel as if you have nothing to lose, courage peeks around the corner then makes a bold entrance. I had already ceded the floor over with my comment, and I endured the litany of how life had done her wrong, how her marriage to our father didn’t work and everything was everybody else’s fault but her own. I let this go one for about five minutes before I quietly said, “Enough.”

If anyone remembers the commercial for Silkience, the model is full face to the camera stating, “if you want someone’s attention, whisper.”

It works, much better then yelling. It’s a whole new level of communication which quiets the other so they have to actually listen to what you are saying. It is so easy to block out the sound of shouting, but human nature wants to know secrets.

I took my advantage and like any great barrister, I presented her children’s side of the case.

I wouldn’t let her interrupt and I felt vindicated for all of us. I told her in no uncertain terms what her actions created. I wanted her to be responsible for the life she was living. I finished her off that we were who we were in spite of her, not because of her. I was empowered.

She was ballistic.

“I wanted to leave you my Lowery organ but now I am not leaving you ANYTHING!” she screamed into the phone. I laughed. Memories of her sitting me in front of the t.v. watching the Larry Ferrari hour attempting to force me into appreciating the venue made me loathe it even more.

“I don’t care Glynn, I don’t want it and surely I don’t need anything from you. Do you realize you have been out of our lives, longer than you were ever in it?”

To this day, I still can’t believe the next words that came out of her mouth.

“Well, I guess I won’t be asking you for any compensation then.” Click.

Whoa. I had to replay that in my mind again. Here was my point to her, let’s see; Abandon your children. Check. Collect support money. Check. Steal from your oldest, ignore the middle child and disown the youngest twice. Check, check, check. I knew I still had letters from her somewhere. I kept them because she had forgiven me. That was the other puzzle I was never able to figure out, but I reminded myself what a sick mind she had. But now, she felt I owed her money?

I knew this wasn’t over, a thousand miles away and I could hear the pen scribing a dirge onto paper. A week later, I received the twelve page letter, front and back. I remembered where I stuck it, and pulled it out to show my sister.

“Val, read this and then let’s decide what we want to do. You know as well as I that this isn’t over, that would be too easy.”

I knew Glynn would try to reach out from beyond the grave, and my sister agreed that I would be the target. She handed me back the letter, unread. I told her I thought we needed to speak to the church again, the minister had promised to call her back within the next day. She and Ashley left, and I took Tori to her party.

I realized as days passed and the word spread that no one knew what to say. So basically nothing was said, though I did get a card from my friends’ parents offering condolences. It is the proper thing to do and in a way I appreciated it. I took it more of an acknowledgement of what I was going through now of tying up loose ends and the past, then sorrows of her passing. I had the same feeling after you have a fender bender. It’s the inconvenience of dealing with your insurance agent, the auto body shop, the car rental, and getting to work, then the actual damage to the car.

Three more days had passed and still Minister Friendly was acting like a typical man. No phone call. We had learned that she actually died at the end of November but we weren’t notified until December 3^rd. My guess was that she was on a block of ice somewhere, and all the chemicals from the makeup she wore would preserve her.

True story, when we were young one of my friends’ oldest brother, asked her who did her makeup, the mortician? I think Tammy Fay took lessons from Glynn. I asked my sister if she had heard anything, but the good reverend wasn’t taking her call. I never like to hear that so now it was time I took matters into my own hands.

I waited until the next day at work to give a little jingle to St. Andrews and see what was what. Suffice it to say I was a little taken aback at the good reverend and his attitude was nothing if not defensive. He claimed he had received his copy of the will and in no uncertain term nothing was left to her children and they were in their right to do as they wished. I felt so blessed that this man of the cloth was taking this position. It fortified my beliefs in the hypocrisy of Christendom everywhere. He told me that she did have friends who wished for a viewing and it would cost us $275.00. Oh really? I’ll get back to you on that.

I decided to make a few more phone calls, and I located the Sheriffs office who handled the removal and they were helpful in letting me know where she was. They also told me a mistake had been made on the death certificate.

“What? I said quietly to the officer, “she isn’t dead?”

“Oh no dear, she is dead. It just appears that there was a mistake made in the Cause of Death and they used White-Out© on the certificate. You can’t do that, so it has to be reissued.”

I heard her typing on a keyboard as she continued to scroll up more information on Glynn’s final day.

“My, she certainly was as sick woman; she has a whole list of ailments here.”

“Does it say anything about her being mentally ill?” I had a hint of sarcasm in my voice but I would have bet dollars to donuts that the list she was looking at a mirrored copy of the one in my twelve page missive.

“No, we just have a list here.”

I asked for a copy for comparative purposes. I knew my sister was interested in a family history, but when you detail the minutiae as if it were a true diagnosis I don’t have time for it.

My next call was to the funeral home. They said they still had her, but couldn’t cremate her as they didn’t have the death certificate. I explained the delay and gave them the lawyer’s information. He was my next call.

It appeared Glynn was a pox on the community she lived in. She left her mark on everyone she came in contact with. She was an overbearing pain in the ass, even to her own congregation. She was able to force her clown ministry on them, something that had gone out in the Me generation just like she did. I found her obituary that someone wrote, and she went by the name of “Lovey” the clown. She even wrote her own memorial service complete with clowns. Unfortunately for her, she forgot to leave that $275.00 deposit.

I was able to get a hold of the lawyer quite easily and requested a copy of the will. I could tell by the tone of his voice that she was a pain in the ass to him too. I asked him if he had been paid for his services.

“No, he replied. Normally I would be paid from the estate.”

“You realize that isn’t going to happen don’t you?” I asked him and quickly followed with another.

“Are we responsible for her debts?” Paying bills was never her strong point and we always had a phone or electric shut off, growing up.

“You didn’t sign any papers did you?”

“No way.”

“Then you aren’t responsible. Good luck to you and I’ll mail the will as soon as possible.”

I was still in a quandary as I knew as a member of the church something should still be done. On the one hand, no one knew we existed so no one would miss us. On the other dramatic hand, she had lied to her friends for all those years, and what would our presence do?” The way I saw it, there was no point in continuing chatter about the past and our attendance would serve nothing.

I made my decision and called Valerie later that night to fill her in on my sleuthing. The church hadn’t made any decisions, and the only time they had available would have to be squeezed in between all the holiday programs, but maybe something four days before Christmas.

I did tell her about the cremation, and Val freaked out and wanted to know what they were doing with the ashes. I didn’t know or care. She was upset and thought they were going to show up UPS on her doorstep. Wow. I was beginning to think that maybe we did go and watch her be interred to give her some piece of mind. In the end we bagged the entire trip much to the chagrin of friends who thought we would regret it. I can honestly say I never have, especially after the next set of events.

The first finger from the afterlife poked through with a phone call from a dear woman I remembered calling Aunt Berry. She and her husband had two boys Winston & Russel. I knew they were wealthy, traveled extensively, and I never was quite sure how they knew our family. I was five or six years old the last time I saw her. She on the other hand had visited Glynn six months prior to her death. Since she knew we existed, Glynn couldn’t pretend we didn’t.

My mother always fancied herself a poet, and used to spend hours writing poetry and taking pictures of flowers, clouds, and trees and then making a slide show of it. She worked at a nearby nursing home and had a captive audience and shared her work with the old folks. I’m sure they appreciated it, as when they weren’t watching her slide show, they were tied with sheets to the handrails in the hallway. I used to go after school and play Bingo with them, so I witnessed first hand the horrors of aging.

Somewhere along the line she was able to get one of her poems published. My bet would be Readers Digest. Aunt Berry wanted to mail me a copy of the poem, and was directed to do this after Glynn died. I told her unless it was a poem, stating what a horrible mother she was I wasn’t interested. I felt bad, because here was a woman doing what she felt were last wishes, not realizing she had been manipulated by a so called friend, to play the pawn in this odd game of death chess.

I let that go, and round two came with the arrival of the will. I didn’t know what to expect but I didn’t expect to laugh with embarrassment at her feeble attempts to create controversy only made her look more pathetic in death then she was in life.

True enough, her first words in the will stated nothing was to be left to her children or her brothers and sisters for her own reasons. My guess is they hadn’t heard of her passing either. I went through the list and nothing was left that was my brothers, so I saw no sense in contesting a will.

Her next prize possession, her POEMS were left to an old associate pastor from our church from twenty years before. Glynn had fancied herself in love with him and he had left our church after one ambitious woman had claimed he raped her. The charges were dropped, the woman was admitted for psychiatric care. He still ministers in another church but I kind of felt bad he could never out himself to Glynn. Yeah, Methodist have gay ministers too, but when they say that they are, they get booted from the church.

I don’t know what was in all of her poems, but I’m sure some had to be love sonnets written to him. Unrequited love in everyway possible. I continued reading and sure enough there was that Lowery organ donated to the church. I snickered and saw an old computer was left to the boy scouts. They probably needed a door stop so that was nice. Then I saw it listed among her treasures. My sister was right, I did have selective memory. Her cross collection. Oh lord, what poor creature was burdened with that? With startling clarity I had a hat trick of flashbacks to her bedroom. My mother’s “hairy chest”, the closet door with two hundred and fifty crosses hanging from various hooks, and the female equivalent of leisure suits and bouclé knitwear.

Glynn wore a wig and a cross every day with a polyester outfit. She always had aspirations of being a minister or clergy, but settled on being a clown. Growing up, our houses always had bookcases full of books. We had bookcases just for encyclopedias, dictionaries, and reference books. Another one in the kitchen for recipe books that I wish she had opened. Spam in tomato sauce does not Hungarian goulash make. Children’s books, adult fiction, and last but not least, theology books. She made us have nightly devotions, followed closely by the church’s Upper Room. The only time I was allowed to forego my part was when my tonsils were removed and it hurt to speak. But the duplicity of Christians who purport the word of god but act like the devil thinking the great big I’m sorry and I accept your word gives them a clean slate mocks the very essence of faith.

Glynn was the epitome of Christianity. I remember being in eighth grade, shortly before she left and she threw out my clothing. She didn’t like what I was wearing and she wanted me to only wear her clothing to school. It didn’t matter that her clothes were too big for me, but I refused. I rescued one pair of jeans and a shirt. I wore the same pair of pants and shirt every day for a year to the mockery of my entire class. I didn’t let it show that I cared. I only knew she wasn’t going to win. I rather suffer the shame in my own clothing thank you. If it came down to a test of wills, I would win every time.

As I kept reading I wondered for a moment why I ever felt the need to go to Florida and strengthened my resolve to let her stay where she was, wherever that may be.

Another week passed and another phone call from another stranger. I have to give her credit, she did plan her attempts well. She was very busy for a dead woman indeed. This time it was a woman named Patty, who was confused about a package that arrived on her doorstep without explanation only my phone number.

Sighing, I told her about Glynn, and I was interested in how she knew my mother as this was a local number. She told me she had worked with her at Royer Greaves School for the Blind, and I though that was appropriate and those kids didn’t know how lucky they were. She said she somewhat kept in touch with her, whenever Glynn came to PA she stayed with her in Paoli. I spent a good hour on the phone with her and it appeared she was not as snookered into Glynn’s tales of woe as everyone else seemed to have been. She shared with me that she was a mother herself and she could understand if someone had a problem with one child, but not all three. She was also aware of Glynn having financial difficulties in Florida and Glynn told her of her plans to sell my brothers house and keep the money. She attempted to get Glynn to do the right thing, but Avarice was her middle name, and her words were to no avail. I filled her in on the rest of the story.

She then told me, that when my sister was boarding in town all those years ago, she had driven my mother to Marion’s house who was the live in landlord. Marion was a seventy year old woman and told my mother my sisters’ rent check had bounced. Glynn had no reply and Patty asked my mother what she was going to do. She said Glynn said it wasn’t her problem, and left. She asked me what to do with the crosses. I told her I didn’t care, melt them and if she ran across any other items to give my sister a call.

I felt better that another person outside the circle saw through her charade. Right or wrong I was still trying to validate my feelings.

I don’t want to sound cold and that I never shed a tear. I did, but not for the reasons of sorrow and loss of a mother. I cried because a mother would leave her children and years later blame them for it. I cried because I wanted a better relationship with my sister and I thought Glynn’s death would finally pave the way and wipe the hurt away. I cried because I was glad she was dead and I was finally free. I cried because someone else’s mom knew her for the liar she was and tried to help. Finally I just cried for all the times I never let myself before. I looked at my swollen face, and ran a cold cloth over my eyes and put the past behind. It would never go away but I had a better understanding after all.

My oldest and dearest friend Doug sent me an email a week after hearing the news. He summed it up perfectly.

Hey Pam,

Read your news at 0530 this morning. Sorry to hear that the house fell on your mother. I hope you are able to sift through the many emotions we have layered ourselves with, without too much pain. One consolation for you is I guess is that there won’t be someone following you around anymore, erasing your existence and re-writing history. I hope in her new life she gets the answers and understanding she couldn’t reach on earth, and there will be closure and peace for her. My thoughts are with you. Douglas.

I found myself smiling again and sent his words on to my brother and sister. I felt better and I knew that no matter what happened in the past it was just that. Our childhood was over, we were adults and we made the right decision to let everything go. Reading his words again, I realized that Glynn wasn’t able to fool everyone, just a handful of people in a state I’ve never been too and never intend to visit. I gathered up all the documents; the will, her letters, the medical list she made up, and her obituary and put it all in a box. It didn’t seem to matter at all anymore.

Maybe I will start taking phone calls in the morning again.