from
Family
in
Wake for the Angels
paintings and stories by Mary Woronov
Journey Editions

My mother wasn't really into looks. She stressed sensible ugly shoes and she let us wear blue jeans when we were traveling because her mother had always made her dress up for trains and strangers. Nevertheless she insisted on wearing her mink coat at the most incongruous times, even after moving to sunny Florida. Like a hard-earned scalp, she dragged that thing everywhere, and to our embarrassment she wore it the day Daddy died.

[Fur Coat in Florida Collage 36"x 36" 1980]

The hospital was a big concrete and glass affair. I flew in from California and the minute I saw Dad I was on the phone to Paris telling my brother to hurry. It was all happening so quickly the only thing Tommy and I could do was make sure he didn't die alone, and towards the end my brother and I refused to leave his room.

Death entered while we were watching Star Trek. We rang for the nurse who patiently told us that he would die in stages-first his brain would go, then his body and finally his heart. I told Tommy to get Mom. Bristling into the room, her fur electrified, she immediately started cleaning up, hurriedly packing his things as if they were late for a train. Tommy let out a strangled whine of embarrassment as she tried to stuff Dad's hair dryer into his shaving kit. Looking at Dad I hoped that he might thankfully already be dead, when Mom grabbed his hand and started to wrench his ring off his finger. She stopped when his eyes unexpectedly opened and we stood frozen before him. He seemed different, like an alien pretending to be our dad. The unfocused eyes searched the room, trying to see, then closed as he made a noise that came from somewhere outside, already in the ground, far away, a noise that said 'leave me alone,' and pulling his ring out of Mom's grasp he brought it to his chest. That was his final gesture to us. We stood for some moments waiting for more, but that was it, that was the last motion he ever made. Like I said to Tommy as we struggled to put Mom into a cab, it was kind of typical of his whole life, he never liked giving anything up. He had died without saying good-bye to either of us.

[Hospital Room I Acrylic 36"x 36" 1980]

©Copyright Mary Woronov, 1994. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system now or hereafter invented, without permission in writing from the Publisher.