AUNT MELLY

Aunt Melly

The first divorced woman that I knew was my Aunt Melly. I was sheltered and living in a bubble with married parents and siblings who were a product of both my Mom and Dad. Aunt Melly was married to Victor with three girls. The two youngest were born of her marriage to Victor. Darcy was the eldest and she came from Aunt Melly’s shadowy ex-husband, Sal.

Aunt Melly was my Mom’s youngest sister and she was funky in my young mind. Her clothes flowed in the wind and her wedge sandals gave way to unshaven legs. She soaked everything up and spoke thoughtfully – some would say slowly. Her blue eyes would often close and she would look skyward for an answer from God or someone/something else. Open is another word I’d use to describe Aunt Melly. She surrounded herself with people of all colors and her house was decorated with relics from obscure corners of the world. Aunt Melly didn’t fit in a mold that I thought women were required to jam themselves into. It was the 1970’s and she was on the cutting-edge.

From as far back as I recall, when my age was still in the single digits, I listened to the adults when they spoke and they were unaware that I was lurking around the corner. They had interesting stories and there were always surprises, that revealed things I otherwise wouldn’t have known. Aunt Melly didn’t love Victor in a romantic way. Their marriage was an arrangement between friends who needed a new start in life. Victor lost his 1st wife to cancer and Melly was in a jam after her divorce. Rumor was that Sal was in the Mob, ran drugs or something equally nefarious. Melly and Victor were happy with their marriage and the two youngest daughters, Juliet and Evelyn, were part of what they both wanted and needed. The way they acted around each other started making sense. They didn’t kiss or hold hands but still, there was fondness and respect. Their bedroom held two double beds instead of one big one, which didn’t seem odd because my parents slept separately too.

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South Carolina was a pit stop for me when I lived with my Mom. Post-college was a confusing time for me. Aunt Melly was moving down from Upstate New York with Victor. He was older by about 20 years and would likely die first. Someday the sisters would grow old together in a cottage by the sea. My perfect bubble had long since burst when my parents divorced. The walk to the pool was a ¼ mile and I heard that Aunt Melly was there with Victor. Fondness and respect had been joined by love and playfulness. Floating in the pool in each other’s arms he kissed her neck as they whispered into each other’s ears. The scene was too perfect to invade … I slipped away.

In my mid-20’s it was better than ever to have Aunt Melly around. She was interesting and even trailblazing in the way she lived her life. Her moving truck had yet to come so she popped in daily to borrow a kitchen tool or a blanket. Aunt Melly was more comfortable in her own skin than anyone I knew. Her hair was thin and short but otherwise, she hadn't changed much. Still dressing as she chose in flowing skirts and gauze tops. Wedge sandals had given way to strappy flat ones but most often she was barefoot.

Aunt Melly was starting a new life in the South. It was a relief after two struggles and seeming success at battling cancer. Her spirituality had gotten her through adversity with the help of Victor and the girls. Cancer wasn’t just something that happened to her, it was a part of her. Nothing should be forgotten because it all matters.

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Alone in the kitchen, I was pleasantly surprised by Aunt Melly. She wore a turquoise top and a gauzy yellow skirt. Her clear blue eyes and frosty pink lipstick created an ethereal look. She came to borrow pasta because she was making “sauce”. Aunt Melly was Irish and Polish yet she cooked like an Italian. She had married two of them, which likely had something to do with it. She had a slight cough and she would address that at her doctor’s appointment the following day.

We sat at the table before she returned home with the pasta. The way Aunt Melly looked at me was intimate – to this day, I’ve never felt anything like it. I instinctively took her hands. Her fingers were long and elegant but Aunt Melly’s palms were red and scarred. Her chemotherapy drugs had side-effects and that was one of them. Melly walked down the stairs to leave and turned to wave goodbye. After she blew me a kiss, Aunt Melly asked about my failed experiment growing bougainvillea. Gesturing towards the brown stalk in the clay pot with the pasta in her hand she asked.

“What is that poor plant?”

“It was supposed to be a bougainvillea. I keep meaning to get rid of it,” I answered.

“It will bloom. Love it. It will bloom.”

Aunt Melly continued home and I went back inside, forgetting about the woody brown plant in the clay pot.

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Aunt Melly collapsed in her doctor’s office. She never regained consciousness and my Mother and I rushed to the hospital. Tubes were attached to lines invading her veins on both arms. A tube hung out of her mouth, which enabled her lungs to rise and fall in a weird cadence. Victor was a mess and my Mother was worse. The girls were on their way from Manhattan to say goodbye to their Mother. I lost track of time but I know they didn’t make it to say farewell.

The car turned towards our house. Orange blooms on the bougainvillea were the first thing I noticed. Aunt Melly had arrived at her destination and I felt as if she was saying that with patience, I would bloom too someday.

I’d like to think I have.