The final bell on Friday, May 6th, 2016, rang dull when the markets closed. I walked off the trading floor in a bit of a hurry, handed my jacket to the coatroom kid, and shot out the doors of the Board of Trade.
My Suburban was parked on Van Buren under the CTA tracks. Little Georgie was bouncing around, pointing up at the L train overhead. My wife had packed the truck and pulled the kids out of school early. We were headed down to Indy… a week late. The previous weekend had been hijacked by a kitchen cabinet pickup. A trip my mom had been excited for. She was looking forward to a visit from her Chicago family.
I jumped in the driver’s seat and we launched onto the Dan Ryan. I’ve made that drive to Indianapolis more times than I can count.
One time, I left the Board at 2 PM and made a 5:30 wedding rehearsal in Indy (which was 4:30 my time). I put on my suit in the parking lot of a Presbyterian church while guests were pulling in. The bride’s mom wasn’t thrilled about the Chicago prick changing in his boxers. I didn’t care …I was just proud of the 150-minute run.
It was a warm, beautiful spring afternoon. We hit the Skyway, got on the Indiana Toll Road. The kids were squawking in the back. My wife sipped a well-deserved roadie to alleviate her stress. I drove.
Somewhere in that swirl of backseat noise, mom worries, and small talk, I missed the turn for I-65. A turn I’d made a hundred times. We had to double back, which cost us twenty minutes.
I wasn’t mad about missing twenty minutes with my mom. I was mad that I missed a turn I knew like the back of my hand.
We rolled past all the familiar markers—ghosts of trips with Mom. The Wabash Bridge, where we used to sing “Back Home Again.” The abandoned Stuckey’s where we always stopped for the bathroom and a hamburger. Then came mile marker 222…
…the one where Mom would blow me a kiss and say “I love you Pumpkinhead.”
A well deserved term of endearment since she gave birth to me.
That’s why 222 is her angel number.
Because of a mile post sign in Jasper County, Indiana.
She spent her final years at Little Sisters of the Poor. Fitting, for a woman who once gave six years to the convent. I knew the place well. The sisters were kind to her and to me during those last sixty days.
We pulled into the parking lot. Twenty minutes later than planned.
I got the kids out, guided them past the statue of Jesus and into the building. George pointed out the Blessed Mother and led his siblings in a quick “Hail Mary” for Gramma CC.
Standing in the foyer was a tall nun dressed in white. I knew her well. She gently took my hands and said the words straight:
“Your mother has joined the angels and saints.”
The front door hadn’t even shut.
I asked, “When?”
She looked down at her simple Timex.
“Twenty minutes ago, John.”
Twenty minutes.
TWENTY MINUTES
I don’t think I missed that turn by mistake. I think my mom made me miss it. She didn’t want me to see her die.
Typical Cecilia.
The week before, I missed her because of kitchen cabinets. This week, because of a twenty-minute detour.
I asked Sister if we could see my ma. The sister hesitated, unsure about bringing three little kids into that kind of moment. I insisted.
“Come on kids, let’s go see your gramma!”
I said it like we were walking toward the next ride at King’s Island.
She lay peacefully in her bed. Nuns around her, quietly praying. George confirmed she was dead. Fritz said she didn’t look dead. Hazel buried her face in my chest and wouldn’t look again.
I missed saying goodbye to my mom by twenty minutes.
Every year since, I honor my mommy with a Sixty Days of Cecilia memorial. I give up booze, cigars, desserts, meat, sex, pizza, and hotdogs for two months.
And let me tell you…
…sixty days without a gin martini or a Parky’s dog is an eternity.
On Tuesday, May 6th, I’ll break the fast with a gin martini, a Churchill cigar, and a Chicago hotdog. All in honor of my mom.
Today is Derby Day. Say a little prayer to Cecilia that you’re holding the winning ticket when the dust settles in Kentucky.
Twenty.
Fucking.
Minutes.
