Everything about my mother exuded class, from her perfectly frosted hair and Calvin Klein clothes to her Ferragamo shoes. But it is her signature fragrance, a mixture of perfume and body lotion, which even now, nearly fourteen years after her death, I can smell faintly on some of her dresses that I have not yet been able to give away.
I have finally decided that I am ready to move on. I am now ready to take those dresses to a high-end thrift shop and as I sort through them, I find a small cloth bag attached to one of the hangers. Opening the drawstring, I discover a jumble of gloves. They are all made of soft, buttery leather. Some of them wrist length, others longer, black, brown, one pair lightly lined.
My mother was not a woman of warm fleece or woolen mittens; for her, fashion and appearance mattered much more than comfort. I try on several pairs of the gloves, sliding them over my mother’s wedding band, which I’ve worn since shortly after her death—a ring so elegant on my mother’s always manicured hand, not so much on my clipped, never polished nails—and wonder if I should donate the gloves along with the dresses.
I put my face to the bag and inhale my mother, bringing her into the room with me. Then, afraid that the fragrance might quickly fade, I close the bag, setting it on my desk, glancing at it over and over, as if it might fly away with the last bit of my mother.
Who in our family might like to share this discovery? My two oldest granddaughters are the ones who loved Grandma Ruby most completely. When they knew her, they were too young to have experienced or even cared about any of the history which caused me to keep my distance from her.
When my mother died, the girls, then five and seven, were living in Israel, and much too far to come to the funeral. When I relayed her death to them over the phone, one of them told me, “I have Grandma Ruby’s style.” The other: “And I have her nose.”
Before my granddaughters moved to Israel, they lived in New York City and used to visit my mother in Cleveland. Great Grandma Ruby would sit on her bright yellow living room carpet and sort through costume jewellery with them. The girls giggled as they tried on necklaces which hung to their knees, bracelets too heavy for their tiny wrists. The large, high-ceilinged room, with a wall of windows letting in the sun and framing the manicured backyard, felt like a magical queendom to the two girls. In front of the patterned, blue and yellow sectional couch was a marble coffee table, always with a vase of perfectly arranged fresh flowers on it. A blue-and-white chair with an ottoman sat in the corner by the windows, a stack of books on the small table next to it, my mother’s reading glasses perched on top. A baby grand piano, displaying family photos on its closed lid, stood majestically, dividing the living room from the dining room. On the fireplace mantel rested delicate china teacups and saucers. After one of these visits, the girls, adorned in colourful beads and jangly bracelets, asked, “Is Grandma Ruby a princess? Her house is just like a beautiful castle.”
This week, when my now grown granddaughters visit from Jerusalem, they will sit on the floor of the bedroom which serves as my office. On top of the yellow shag carpet sits the rug which lay in my mother’s foyer: thick, soft, decorated in dark blues and pale pink. We will empty several jewellery boxes filled with bracelets, earrings, necklaces accumulated over the years. The girls always choose something to take home. They have never asked me if I am a princess.
And the gloves? Now that they are no longer buried, their fragrance is quickly fading, and when I hold them to my face I have to breathe in deeply to find the sweet aroma. I take out one of the long black gloves and discover that it is too small for my hand. A short brown one fits, but I notice there is a tiny tear in one of the fingers. I decide to share the gloves around.
It’s now been a week since I found the gloves. The fragrance is still fading, and although traces remain, it’s getting more and more difficult to identify. When my oldest granddaughter arrives a few days ahead of the rest of her family, I hold up the bag to her face and ask her to smell “Grandma Ruby,” she squeals, immediately recognizing the fragrance.
When the rest of the family flies in, her sister has the same reaction. We spend several minutes inhaling the aroma, which is faint, but still there. Then the girls each choose a pair to take home to Israel. They urge me to pick out a pair for myself.
A black, lined pair with the “Saks” tag slides on easily. I hold my hands in front of my face and imagine my mother on a winter evening. Tonight, she will go to the symphony with my father. She wears a straight black skirt which stops just above her knees—she is rightly proud of her lovely legs and often says, “The legs are the last to go”— and a blue sweater which matches her eyes; her gold necklace with the small, perfect diamond fits snugly around her neck. On her left hand is a thick criss- cross gold wedding band with a round diamond. After dabbing a touch of perfume behind each ear and on the inside of her wrists, she rubs in a little more hand lotion, checks her makeup in the mirror and smiles, pleased with the image which looks back at her. From the hall closet she takes her dark blue, hooded fur jacket. Finally, she pulls on the black gloves; they are the final touch to her carefully planned outfit.
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My granddaughters have returned to Israel with their Grandma Ruby gloves. I am on my way to a thrift shop, with the dresses and a few pairs of shoes loaded into the trunk of my car. It will be hard to hand them over to a clerk, but the memories attached to them are mine. When I park in the thrift shop lot, I pause before I get out of the car. I imagine a scene with my granddaughters. We are all wearing Ruby’s gloves, and we model them, turning our arms this way and that, holding out a hand like a queen greeting a guest. I kiss the hand of each girl and then curtsy. With a wave of the other hand, they signal me to rise. In a fit of giggles, we embrace, dancing round and round, delighting in each other, loving each other, and keeping Ruby’s gloves very much alive.
