valentina

At the end of a dead-end street so broken I’m not even sure it is a street, I find the modest, aging two-story white house. In the yard stands a pedestal birdbath on top of which perches the Virgin Mary, after whom my mother—María Inmaculada—was named. 

Valentina emerges, locks the door, and laboriously makes her way down the steps to the car. She is 67, a recently retired nurse, originally from the Dominican Republic, and relieved she can speak to me in Spanish. Gracias a Dios.

“¿Como va su dia, Valentina?”

Not good. She didn’t sleep last night. Her mom appeared in a dream, and Valentina couldn’t get back to sleep. Her mom died of Alzheimer’s eight years ago, back in the Dominican Republic. Valentina tried to get her to move here so she could take care of her, but her mom wouldn’t leave home. Valentina lives with her adult son, who has autism. Between that and her job, she couldn’t get back to help as often as she or her mom wanted.

“I talked to her every day, usually twice a day, but it wasn’t enough. Finally, I was able to go for the last few weeks before she died, but she didn’t know who I was. Then, when she died, I felt relieved; may God forgive me. I’m so ashamed. And now, since I retired, I just miss her so much, and it hurts that she died thinking I never came to see her and that I didn’t care about her. That’s why I think she comes to my dreams.”

“Why?”

“To scold me.” 

“Hmm. I’m sorry you feel that way. That sounds very hard.” I pause before adding, “May I share a story?”

Valentina looks at me in the mirror and nods. 

“My mom also died from Alzheimer’s, also eight years ago. A month before she died, years after she stopped recognizing me, I traveled to visit her. I knelt next to her wheelchair as she looked at a miniature photo album of pictures of us together from when I was a baby and young boy. I was fifty years old, but I just wanted my mom so badly, like a little boy. Looking up at her, soundless tears filled my eyes. Without looking up from her little book, she lifted her hand and laid it on my head.”

“She knew you were her son.”

“I can’t say for sure. But I felt some part of her—her heart maybe, her soul, I don’t know: some part beyond words—knew I was her son. I felt peace. I think your mom knew, too. Maybe she’s been coming to you lately because you retired, and she knows you have time now. Maybe she’s come back to tell you it’s okay.” 

“You think?” 

“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s truly a deep mystery, but I feel she knew you were there, you loved her, you did your best. She was your mother. You’re a mother yourself: don’t you believe she knew?” 

“I believe,” Valentina said, “God arranged this ride, this encounter. You were sent as the driver so that I could hear these words. May God bless you.” 

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