Ah. I didn’t have to wonder who the dear woman was, though I hadn’t been listening prior. My mother and her two closest friends had achieved such a prominent, noted level of success that my mother had become accustomed to updating other people of each of their statuses before she was even asked. She did this when she spoke to me not because she even assumed I cared, but out of pure habit.
Though, incidentally, I did care.
The purpose of the automatic, obligatory update was for two reasons, as I saw it. One: To remind one and all about her important ties. Two: To assure everyone that the three influential women were as close as ever.
The dear woman could only be Diana, the VP. If she had said sweet, I’d have known she was referring to the senator’s wife, Vera.
It went without saying that these two forces of nature could in no way be described as either dear or sweet, but you couldn’t have paid me to tell that to my mother.
And of course, she knew they weren’t either of these things, but calling them that was yet another reminder about how special their relationship was, pointing out to whoever was listening that she knew a side of them both that no one else had seen or would ever be privileged to.
“. . . First her daughter and son-in-law die in a tragic accident, leaving her to raise all three of her grandchildren herself. And soon after, her oldest grandson cuts all ties from her, turns criminal, and has to be hidden from the public,” she continued. “And all before he was even eighteen. She could do nothing but suffer in silence and let him go. And then her granddaughters, those two beautiful, darling girls, both pass away, tragically, at such tender ages. And all of this she bears in silence, the epitome of a strong woman, and perseveres in her political career, holding the second highest office in the nation, a great example to all women . . . ”
She always spoke in what I liked to think of as her projecting/lecturing voice, every phrase thought out and rehearsed just so. She didn’t need to use it with me, but it was old hat for her at this point.
“. . . And now this, this outrage, these accusations of corruption, and ties to the mob, and even talk of a criminal investigation! All with some mysterious person, this witness that’s gathered this so called proof against her, yet remains anonymous!”
“You were saying, the last time we spoke, that there was finally some speculation that the deaths of her two granddaughters might be related,” I interrupted her, because that was literally the only way I’d ever be getting a word in.
“I said that? No, no, that can’t be right. They died a year apart. No connection, and that is all, sadly, water under the bridge. The press will forever have a field day with those two untimely tragedies, but it’s no use now. Now there is something new and dire to deal with. Just as she’s finishing up another successful term, she’s become embroiled in a scandal. They are trying to put her behind bars, Alasdair. Can you believe that?”
“Well, it won’t come to that, if she’s innocent, right?”
I had my doubts about the innocent part. I knew Diana well enough to at least entertain the idea that she could be guilty. She was a formidable, terrifying woman, capable of eating her own young, as far as I could tell, but you could add that opinion to the list of things I’d never be telling my mother.
“Yes, yes, of course she’s innocent, but think of the damage this is doing to her impeccable reputation. It is tarnishing her good name. She’ll never be able to run for president, if this continues to escalate.”
I made a note to tell Iris about this latest scandal whenever she showed up again. She abhorred politicians on principal, and I knew I’d get a kick out of her reaction to a VP with direct ties to the mob.
“Now I know you don’t like to get sentimental . . . “
Me? She thought I was the one that didn’t like to get sentimental? This was news to me. Well, not news so much as the pot calling the kettle black.
“ . . . But, I don’t know, I think it’s all this thinking about what poor, dear Diana has been through with her grandchildren, and I just wanted to tell you that I love you. And, well, you must know this, but I’m extremely proud of you.”
I felt instant remorse for my usual snarky thoughts about her. I’d just heard her mission statement so many damn times that it was easy to apply it in a way that dehumanized her, when I should have felt a touch more sympathy for the single hardest working person I’d ever met. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a vacation.
“Love you too, Mom,” I said gruffly, the words feeling hopelessly unnatural, even if they were the truth.
When we finally hung up, I found myself searching online for news reports about Diana’s granddaughter, Francis. She was the older of the two girls, the second to die in a tragic accident, and the one I’d actually known, however briefly.
She’d had an impact on me, though I’d only spent a small amount of time with her. She’d been in her early teens, but already brilliant, a prodigy, and she’d been absolutely thrilled to meet me on one of the rare vacations where our families had all gotten together. I recalled spending one memorable afternoon with her, where she’d interviewed me for some school project.
When I’d heard of her death, I’d been stunned. And crushed. I couldn’t get over how tragic it was for such a bright young person to lose their life so early.