How I wish my children could grow up knowing my grandma. When I think of her, I miss her with each one of my senses: If I smell a particular blend of cooking food mixed with a slight smell of mothballs and the old radiator smell from New York apartments, if I hear someone pronounce my name with a heavy New York accent (Lee-er), like she used to, I am filled with the desire to pick up the phone and call her.

In the photograph I have of her, she is about twenty and looking uncharacteristically shy and demure. She must have put her crutches aside because, in the photograph, she is standing solo; her hands seem to be creasing down her skirt, and she looks slightly off-balance, like one who has been propped upright or planted into the ground; her hair is done in tight waves, and she has bright red lipstick on which I‘ve never seen her wear. It is strange to see her with her mouth inked such bold red and without her crutches, since, as a child, they were like extra appendages I always pictured her having. When I was little, my brother and I loved propelling ourselves around her apartment on the crutches, sticking the hand rests underneath our armpits and using them to swing our legs wildly about.

My grandmother was sixteen-months-old when she contracted Polio. She had gone to sleep with a fever, sharing the same small bedroom with her brother and sister, and woke up in the morning unable to walk. When the ambulance arrived, she was forcibly taken from her mother’s arms. (In those days it was believed that people with polio were a menace to the community, and people were in a panic, not understanding the disease, harboring suspicions that it might be a form of German germ warfare). In the confusion, the attendant failed to inform my grandma’s mother where my grandma would be taken. Her mother was frantic and finally found her after a week’s search. I cannot fathom what it was like for a small child to be whisked away from her parents, nor can I imagine the panic of my great-grandmother as she tried to find her daughter, not knowing in what condition she would find her.

My grandmother went on to spend her life campaigning for the rights of the handicapped. It was after picketing the White House and getting arrested, that she met my grandfather, a young lawyer who offered his services for free and ended up falling in love with her. Since she spent most of her life indoors, being restricted when it came to physical activity, my grandmother’s skin remained porcelain white and unwrinkled, even as the rest of her body aged. Her knuckles, on the other hand, were arthritic and protruding, useful for rapping the table top to make a point, yet somehow gentle, like a gnarled tree.

As a child, we called my grandmother Grandma-I-Hear-Somebody, because whenever we would ring the door to her apartment, we would hear the sound of her crutches scraping the floor as she made her way to the door yelling out, “I wonder who that could be? I hear somebody!” Next my grandfather would give us a big hug while my grandmother yelled, “Not around the neck, Irv! Watch the neck!” since my grandfather hugged by way of crooking his arm around your neck, yanking you roughly to him, then planting a huge wet kiss on your cheek which you would wipe away as soon as he looked the other way.

When I was older, my grandmother told me the story about how her father-in-law had offered her money in exchange for not marrying my grandfather; he didn’t think it right that my grandfather marry someone who was crippled (the term used back then). Needless to say, my grandmother refused, and my grandfather was furious when he found out.

The biggest mystery to me was how my grandmother managed to raise two children for the most part by herself. My grandfather got stuck in Puerto Rico where he was on assignment at the start of the war, so my grandmother was stuck at home with two small children. Furthermore, there were many people who accused my grandmother of being selfish for wanting to raise two children as a handicapped woman. The idea of a handicapped woman becoming a mother galled people, and I realized that, just as they do now, people love to judge and blame mothers.

When I asked my grandmother how she ended up taking care of two children alone, she explained that she wasn‘t alone: “Family…those were the days when family helped out, when extended family was everything to you. I also had maids and nannies to help—don’t ever believe that women don’t need help, you‘ll be doing yourself a disservice.” She added, “But even so, it was hard.” She held up her pinky finger. “This is my guilt finger.” I had to use my crutches to walk, so I trained your father, Bruce, to walk with me, holding onto my pinky finger. Paula, was taught to hold onto my skirt; that was how we made it across the street. This same finger was how much guilt I allowed myself as well, just a pinky’s worth; otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to get up every morning. I remember your father looking up at me with those solemn eyes, as I explained to him that I couldn’t run after him like the other mothers, that he must always obey me. It is a hard thing to put upon a child, but the truth was, I really couldn’t run after him.”

As my grandmother was speaking to me about all of this, we were sitting in the kitchen, the heart of her apartment, where it was always warm and filled with good smells: lamb with garlic tucked under its skin, hidden away like a secret, chicken soup, and stewed prunes and apple slices.

My grandmother was, in many ways, a realist. Of marriage she said, “You will find 51 reasons to leave your husband and only 49 to stay, but you‘ll stay anyway because, ultimately, you love this person,” and of motherhood she said, “It is about doing what you have to do to get by. You do what you have to do to keep yourself sane and your children safe; then you have a laugh every once in a while.” My grandmother told me about how she and her friend Ida would take care of the kids together, laugh, and talk until the roasts burned in the oven. “Good friends,” my grandmother said, “are what keep you going.”

I never realized how dangerous my grandmother’s pregnancy was until years later, after her death, I went through some of the letters she had written. The following is a letter written to her sister-in-law in which she is clearly trying to underplay the risks of her having a second child:

Dearest Esther:

 

It’s a miserable rainy day, and I’m hoping Bruce will keep busy wrecking the house long enough for me to finish this letter.

 

So you have that old restless feeling—and so it means a change of furniture. Tell [your husband] it really would be easier in the long run to let you have a baby. Speaking of babies—I cannot tell a lie—I am pregnant. Now, please, you and my brother—be intelligent about this. I am under the care of the finest doctor in Washington. He’s very big with loads of experience behind him. Unfortunately—per usual—my beginning has been pretty miserable—my mother-in-law came to help. It has been far worse than with Bruce—and believe me I was ready to call the whole thing off. At least I’ve stopped throwing up—which is something.

 

Irv and I wanted this baby very badly. I was afraid to have only one child. You try not to, but the craziest thoughts enter your mind when they become ill. And then again, I did want someone to name after [my sister].

 

Please don’t tell Pop—I’ll tell him myself in due time.

 

Oh yes—my little one will be born the end of May. I’ll bet you’re jealous and will follow suit soon. Please do.

 

Ess, if you intend on selling your low chests [of drawers] please be honest and tell me what you want for them. I’ll be needing additional drawer space and may buy them from you.

 

Write soon and please don’t worry.

 

Love,

 

Sylvia

 

P.S. By the way, we’re getting a phone—as soon as we do I’ll let you know.

It is on the days when I feel overwrought with guilt, that I am not a good enough mother, that I lose my patience, that I am, as Ethan puts it, “a crabby cake,” that I remember my grandmother holding up her pinky finger. “This is how much guilt you are allowed,” she says to me, “just a pinky finger’s worth.” Every mother carries around guilt; it is part of motherhood, but, as my grandmother told me, there is no such thing as a perfect mother, and sometimes, you do what you have to do to get through the day and try to have a laugh about it later on.