Read On... Carefully

Today I picked up the ashes. Guylaine accompanied me. It was emotional, but in a matter-of-fact, administrative environment. It seems unfair to all finish this way.

So it was.

I finally gathered a bit of courage to start going through things. Not a big apartment, but a comfortable and well organized place; one that holds many things, yet offers minimalistic lines. There's also that warehouse; I know I'm going to find old schoolbooks, clothes, souvenirs... I apprehend how much work there will be. I just know it is going to be a very long process. I knew the day would come, but I dreaded it and kept putting it off.

Go. Start with the obvious, what is immediately available. The living quarters. Hit the warehouse later.

I thought to myself: 'Why not start with things that are fresh in your mind'? My mother had a habit of keeping old catalogues. Once, maybe a year or a year and a half ago, while opening the panels of the furniture that house the speakers, I found an exemplary archive of IKEA catalogues. Every edition since 1988 was there. I had suggested that we put that stuff in the recycling bin.

"Don't you dare touch that!" she interrupted.

Why?
Because.

OK, but it serves no purpose.
It does to me.

What for? To compare the prices of what you bought ten years ago? I just don't understand?
Just mind your own business...

OK, OK...

I had no reason to tire her more than she already was. Besides, this was typical communication for her: a mirror to leave you with your own thoughts which blocks the real scenery behind. Inside I was re-stating a critique I had first formulated some twenty years ago: 'My mother is no bamboo, she's oak. She stands there or gets uprooted... but she won't bend!'.

What is this behind the catalogues? A book. "The Illustrated Encyclopedia of Sex", published in 1950. I thought: 'How did they deal with the topic back then?' As the first object to pop up, one could do worse!

Next, there is a transparent pouch with red stiches staring at me. It contains some old passports.

jcpass1 jcpass2

An American passport which reminds me of the first one I had - same cover but this seems older. Issued June 27, 1963. Clearly I could not remember this one, I was barely two. Nevertheless, it confirms what my mother had told me, that I traveled extensively with her through Europe at that age.

Another American passport. But these graphics are new to me. Whose is this? Let's see... Hmmm... Catherine Elizabeth Camus. Cute: height 3'7". Blond hair, blue eyes. Born in Niagara Falls, NY... On November 11, 1952.

ccpass
I turn the page. Shock. Catherine's Photograph of Bearer; a black and white with the subject in a circle that fades to white. Just like those found on funeral monuments in Italy. A chill ran down my spine. Maybe it is a cousin of some sorts, part of the family with which she burned the bridges. Oh well...

An anonymous document is in the lot. The smell, the feel and color, all show a certain age.

Opening the cover reveals a livret de famille. A book that recaps all the basic data of a family unit, as is practiced in France and Italy. The calligraphy is impeccable. Ah... the wedding! Spouse - Bernadette Pierrette Henriette Marchand, profession: draughtsman. Born October 28, 1929 at Antony. This confirms what she revealed to me twelve years ago: she was effectively born in 1929, not 1939 as she had led me to believe up to that point. When she admitted this, she justified herself with the fear of me being ill at ease at having a mother much older than those of my schoolmates... If not a mirror, a smoke screen would do just fine, thank you. You see shapes, something is there, but there is more doubt than substance; besides, there could be a pile of other things lingering there. I just accepted this explanation at par. Even when I saw documents that had 1929 written on them; she would claim an administrative mistake and I bought it wholesale... Smoke and mirrors...

Spouse: Armand Lucien Camus. Electrician. Born September 3, 1926 at Montrouge. Marriage contract: none. The wedding was held on July six Nineteen fifty...

* * * * * * * * *

Half an hour later, I am on the phone with a friend discussing the discovery. My mother was married to someone else before having met my father: 'Can you imagine that? I never knew about it'.

This explains my family name. My mother had always told me I could not carry my father's name because of my Grandfather's past in Czechoslovakia before 1948. Without a neutral name, at the time, it was impossible to travel there... My usual reply would be:

"But, is Camus your maiden name?" Invariably, the answer was:

No, that is from my side of the family.

A cousin, an aunt, I imagined... but never a first husband!

Then, over the phone comes a really pertinent, but unanswerable, question: 'How could your father allow you to bear her first husband's name?'

As I leaf through this booklet, I note how many interesting things were printed, such as the care children require. The most hilarious section relates to breast feeding: 'Chapter V - Age when breast feeding can stop. As of the ninth month, mothers can begin cutting down on breast feeding...'

I am rolling off my chair considering Arianna fed late: until the seventh month, at which point your milk was getting rare. Besides, she was eating, with great appetite I might add, many other foods.

* * * * * * * * *

A post card lodged in the livret de famille is dated March 6, 1961 from Valberg. Signed Magda. Instantly, it comes back to me: my mom talking about a sister, one that was twenty years older and who brought her up. 'Could this be her? It sounds like it. Then again, mom never talked much about her family.'

Amusing tidbits always stimulate curiosity. I come upon the chapter 'Children'. Something I have seen earlier, but had not latched on to. Some brain cells were dozing off, I guess...

'Children. 1. Camus. Names: Catherine Elizabeth. Born November 11, 1952 in Niagara Falls, New York (USA).'

The whole world instantly shrinks to a chair, two hands, the documents in my lap and a fuzzy looking carpet surrounding us. In my other hand, I pull out that other passport. All the data matches...

The phone stays quiet, for I have escaped from the grasp of clocks. My mind is juggling. Or could it be that I am blabbering unintelligible stuff. I clearly am beside myself.

My mother had another child. I have (had) a half-sister from her. The passport photograph left a bad taste in my mouth; I feel something bad happened, but what? I come to, my hands are shaking, and although I have lived through many real winters, I just cannot control them.

Is this a gift or have I been robbed? The debate could go on for a long time.

I have little to say. This is how it happened. I am powerless to deal with it.