Leni Wiener

Today’s writing comes from Sharon Latimer-Mosley and was inspired by the quilt “Outstretched Hand.”

Ahhh..…Peter…hadn’t seen him in at least 12 years.  He needed a wife at a time when something rose up and shook me- I wanted a child.  We met at one of those Museum Garden parties. He was the Assistant Curator of some exhibit. I was a sustained member. We became fast friends, best friends.  At 35, I had spent most of my young adulthood searching East Africa for a new skin graft agent. When I finally got it to market, we discovered it removed wrinkles too…Cash Cow.  Peter and I agreed to separate lives upfront.  I would donate to the museum, insure his directorship, smile, shake hands, pretended to care and he would give me Dolly.

Lives were private then. If there were whispers, we never heard them, didn’t really care.

At some point it all changed.  The business needed me more. So, Peter assumed the role as, what do they call it these days? Oh, stay-at-home Dad before anybody knew what that was. He changed diapers, wiped chocolate éclair from Dolly’s chin. He even taught her a mean lay-up.  Yes Peter was a Great dad…. Great dad. At Dolly’s graduation, he pulled me aside, said he’d found the love of his life.
Wanted a divorce. Don’t know why, but just couldn’t let him go. Wouldn’t let him go.

“So Mother will you come?” Dolly asked again her voice flat, reminiscent of so many arguments. She had been the first to extend a hand by calling. I’d be a fool now not to take it.

“All right. Where is this place?”

“It’s called the Empty Hand Zen center a few blocks from where we used to live in New Rochelle”

“New Rochelle?!” My back Dolly. I’m due for a steroid shot soon, the nurse is not on today and Joe is off too, I have no one to drive me there.

“Please mother. Please.”

“That’s 25 minutes on the train. I don’t know if I can sit…. “

“Just this once…don’t be difficult. It starts at 3:00pm”

I arrived in New Rochelle on the 2:08 train, remarkably my back still intact. It was a balmy 38 degrees in Manhattan. I had forgotten how much cooler New Rochelle could be, my bones ached a little.  The city was not how I remembered it. High rises poking the skyline. The K building was still there. Found that a bit reassuring.

The Empty Hand center was a small unassuming brick building, tucked behind a small neighborhood restaurant. If memory serves me, it’s the old Trolley Turn-around-strange place for a house of worship. A young bearded man with black wire glasses and in a black bib greeted me with  a bow at the door, I reached out my hand….”I’m Dolly Livingston’s mother.”