Who She Was
My Search for My Mother's Life
Prologue
On a windswept, darkening afternoon in December
2000, I brushed the snow away from the marker of
my mother's grave. With each sweep of my gloved
hand, the raised lettering of the simple plaque
gradually became visible, showing her name,
ELEANOR FREEDMAN, and the inscription our family
had chosen: A SPECIAL PERSON. It had taken me
some time to find the marker, even with a map
from the cemetery office and a computer printout
designating the exact location like the
block-and-lot number in a suburban subdivision.
I had not visited the grave in twenty-six years,
since another December afternoon, when my family
buried her.
I could still see, after so many years, the
tears sliding out of my father's unblinking
eyes. I could still hear my sister's howls of
grief. But my memories of my mother herself had
grown vaguer and less distinct over time. I
could not remember the timbre of her voice or
the pattern of her inflections. I could not
summon her face without a photograph. What I did
recall in all its shameful detail was the only
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