Excerpt from "Ever-Loving Mind"
By Abigail Jones
I was christened Gail Joseph Lavender exactly 336 hours after I was born. Until then, I was nameless to everyone but Mama and the State of Texas. Mama said it seemed more like a miracle that way: Go to church with no name; walk out with three.
Sometimes I catch myself wonderin’ if Gail, which is Hebrew for rejoicin’, was a mistake. I know Joseph was. Mama told the hospital Josephine, but due to an emergency, the clerk stopped at Joseph and nobody ever bothered to add the missin’ letters. I guess in a way Lavender was a mistake, too, ‘cause Mama always said lovin’ my daddy was. Daddy, on the other hand, said lovin’ Mama was a trip, so I like to think of my last name as a souvenir he left me from his journey.
I was 7 when Daddy left and 14 when Mama was swallowed. She was sittin’ outside Al’s General Store in her ’75 Chevy when the earth decided to open its wide mouth and gulp them both down whole. I remember watchin’ the volunteer firemen and women workin’ day and night to pull somethin’ out of that hole. They never found a thing—not a hair from Mama’s head or a single screw from her Chevy. The longer they looked, the more surreal it all seemed. I always thought if they’d just poured cement into the hole and made it up like new the next day, we’d all have walked away better—less beaten, less raw.
Instead, that hole lay gappin’ in front of Al’s for almost a year. After a few weeks, the firemen and women, tired and confused, quit looking for signs Mama ever existed. The mayor said he wanted to leave it uncovered for a proper investigation, but that never happened. Maybe he meant some kind of personal investigation ‘cause hardly a night went by I didn't see him starin’ into that hole as the sun went down.
People were drawn to that hole. It became a sort of vacation destination. They’d come and stare into the abyss, mostly in silence. Some would get right up to the edge, block the sun with their hands and wrinkle their foreheads, I guess tryin’ to find somethin’ the firemen had missed. Others would pray and cry. Some folks stood at a distance, like they didn’t know why they were there, but somethin’ had compelled them to come. Teenagers would come just hang out and, lovebirds—perhaps the most curious visitors—seemed to consider it a romantic getaway second to the Grand Canyon.
After a few minutes, almost everyone, except the teens and lovers, would shake their heads in disbelief or maybe frustration…or sometimes, it even seemed like reverence. Then, they’d get back on their bikes or in their cars or motorhomes and drive away. I wondered if they felt changed, like they’d looked into the face of Mystery herself and She’d told them somethin’ they’d carry with them the rest of their lives.
If She had, I wish they’d told me ‘cause all I ever saw in that hole was dirt, beer cans, and a whole bunch of poorly thrown pennies, and the only satisfaction I ever got was knowin’ the idiots who threw the beer cans had a headache the next day and the ones who threw the pennies, like my mother’s grave was some sort of wishin’ well, most likely never got their wish.
The hole was finally filled in when a little boy almost slipped in by accident. My mama was swallowed alive, taken by complete surprise to God knows where without a trace of her left behind, and the thing that finally put her to rest was a near tragedy. It’s an odd kind of grace, but it’s one I welcomed.
The thing that got me through the days and nights after the Earth consumed the woman who named me after Joy itself, was knowin’ she’d always wanted to travel. I’d picture her sittin’ in that baby blue Chevy, prayin’ to God that one day she’d get to see all the places she’d spent her life readin’ about. Her prayer was so clear and so pure, God had no other choice but to answer her right then and there. Like Moses and the Red Sea, He parted the solid ground and gave her a one-way ticket to the other side of the world.
When my mind starts peerin’ over into the abyss, I’ve learned to just keep lookin’ until I see Mama drivin’ across Asia. I imagine her sippin’ a Coca Cola she just bought at Al’s and beltin’ a song over a talkshow cracklin’ out of the radio she’d installed herself the week before. And I knew exactly what song she was singin’.
Daddy left me his name and Mama a song. However many hours it had been since he wrote it, that’s how many times Mama had sung it…and how many times I’d heard it. For years, I blamed that song for bad fortune and illness. Then, it became a sort of lullaby. Now, I sing it like it’s my medicine. Maybe it is.
