The morning sun cut through the leafless trees of November. I stood at the sink in the kitchen, watching the rays sift and gleam on the crisp air. Looking at the walnut wood window sill, remembering so many other days, stood my wonderful blue glass mason jars with dried roses in them. Roses with such special meaning, given to me over time now dried and fragile as their memory looked a deeper red as the sunlight filtered them through the jar. Two red roses for my red lipped children, given to me by Chuck for the love of his sons, brought to me at the birth of John ten years ago. Our first son Bobby, Chuck’s bright and shining star was now fifteen and in the jar was a carnation, a boutonniere from Bobby’s first dance. Hanging on the side of the jars were wishbones; five in all, waiting for the time to be broken and wished on, only five remained from the nine Thanksgivings we have spent here in Memphis. That’s when I remember, yes today is Thanksgiving. I make my coffee fumbling for a filter, pulling the scoop from the glass canister for the Hills Brothers ground coffee that lies inside and think of the years that have passed, the moments in time that have left me alone in this kitchen trying to pull the clouded distraction of leaves on the ground and in the jars from my mind.
We had separated a year ago. What happened to destroy the family we were? The loneliness and heartache are almost more than can be felt and I go back to introspection. Why has it come to this I try to reason with myself? Chuck still loved me, in my heart I knew that, but this morning the questions were as many as the petals of the roses in the blue jars. We have been to counseling for over four months, in hopes that reconciliation is not that far away, but who must make the first move? I turn on the coffee maker and listen to the hiss of the heated water remembering our first Thanksgiving together in 1972. I was barely recovered from the gallbladder surgery and we decided it was not a good time for me to cook, and made the rounds instead, first my Mother’s on the south side, then his on the north side. Our garden apartment’s oven in downtown Chicago would never accommodate a turkey large enough for all the members of the family.
My reminiscence is broken as Bobby, in nothing more than boxers, rumbles into the kitchen and asks in his demanding voice: “When is Dad going to pick us up, we have to get Brooke and I don’t want to have to stay at her house long, you know her parents don’t like me.”
John follows close behind dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and goes to the pantry cabinet next to the refrigerator for his Honey Nut Cheerios on the bottom shelf for his easy retrieval, and on his way to the fridge for the milk he asks: “We are going to Mr. Mike’s, right?” “I don’t have to eat that lettuce stuff do I?”
“Mom are you making pumpkin pie today, you know the way you always do?” Bobby adds. Reminders of the aroma of all the pies I have made drift to the edge of my memory.
“Yes, I’m gonna start on it right after I get some coffee, OK?” I reply as I reach for the old gold recipe box to dig out the worn, stained recipe that my mother-in-law had written for me in her perfect cursive hand.
“Mom I don’t like the way they make their stuffing, but I’m glad I don’t have to tear up all that bread again.” John quips while looking for a spoon in the cabinet drawer next to the dishwasher.
“Bob, let the dogs out, OK? And watch Sandy that she doesn’t go through the fence again, I don’t want to spend all morning waiting on her to get back.”
“Never mind Mom, Dieter opened the door already and let everyone out.”
“Well Bob would you make sure he hasn’t opened the gate, there are already golfers out and I’m sure it won’t do Nikki any good to get in their way.”
“Why do I have to do it? Doesn’t John do anything? I’ve got to take a shower and call Brooke.”
“Bobby, I’m always taking care of stuff and you’re always on the phone anyway.”
“Boys, please, let’s not get into all this. Let’s just be ready, you know your Dad hates to wait, let’s try to have a good day, OK?”
The morning banter continued. I walked the hall back to the bedroom coffee in hand and lit a cigarette. Sighing with the escape of the smoke, I stared out onto the deck from the sliding glass doors. The yard is a mess, and the hot tub cover needs to be fixed again. Dam, Nikki is walking on it again. “John, get the dogs off the hot tub” I yell. We bought this home in Memphis after leaving Lynwood, the far south suburb of Chicago. Here I was, our last great adventure, and now it was so much more than the last one. Now it was me learning all over again what it was to be ME. I didn’t know who I was, not for many years. I was Chuck’s wife, Bobby and John’s mom, Aunt Randi, Cousin Randi, Sister, but never my own person. I was the abandoned Reha, the adopted Ranelle, and my favorite Uncle’s Ran-di-nell. I was my mother’s object of smother love, my brother’s only hope of freedom from codependency, my grandmother’s secretary and seller of her belongings before she died, and my grandfather’s “Frega Hexa”. I was many things, but rarely a person for myself.
The bedroom is warm beige with an alcove vanity separating the walk in closet and bath. Slipping into the shower, washing my hair, the warm water clears some of my misgivings of what the day will bring. I cross the vanity to the closet to look around for something that will be festive but comfortable. Yes, I bought that sweater with the gold on it and the vanilla colored stretch pants just last week. I slip into the clothes and check the full length mirror; boy I hope I don’t look fat in this. I’ve been trying to lose the weight for some time; I want to be the person that Chuck will love. My thoughts distract me to when he came home from work and told me I was no fun, I was sick, I had become his grandmother, I cried looking at the same mirror saying, “oh no, no, that can’t be true,” knowing part of it was true, but knowing that this body had betrayed me the ability to be twenty-three again. What had happened to change how or who I was? Was I really the “Queen of Sheba” as my mother had so often implied. Ambition to be more was never given me; I was to be no more than a mother and wife. College isn’t for everyone, take the easy courses and you will be fine, add in some of the business courses just in case. Throwing the covers up on the king size waterbed and plugging in the hot rollers at the vanity, I remember I am not the only one that needs to be dressed and I call to John: “John, please get cleaned up, you really need to take a shower.”
“Mom, I don’t have anything to wear, I don’t know where my clean underwear is?”
“Look in the basket John, if you can find the basket.”
“John here, wear these boxers”, Bobby laughs as he strips his boxers off.
“Bobby, please put some clothes on”
“Mom, Brooke’s sister is dropping her off; we don’t have to pick her up”.
Passing the boys throwing clothes at each other in the hall I go back to the kitchen and pour another cup of coffee and move toward the living room to check for stray clothing, and head back to the kitchen to get the pie started. I grab my grandmother’s apron from the hook on the pantry door and cover my sweater. I love this old thing; it makes me feel like I’m a great cook. She died before John was conceived, not long after my Aunt was consumed by diabetes. Now my mind drifts again lingering on so many deaths in my past, so much time and never a thought of how to heal the grief, only of how to survive the hole in my heart.
I get the Pyrex mixing bowl down and begin to mix the ingredients for the pie and realize I’m missing the coconut. “Bobby, will you run up to Kroger and get some coconut?” I ask.
“You gonna let me take your car?” Bobby responds in his manipulative sweet voice.
“No, you can walk, and take your brother with.” I know the pie won’t be finished quite as quick, but that’s OK, I convince myself it will be warm then. Back to the bedroom I go and set my “hair” and bring another cup of coffee to speed up my thoughts.
As I’m putting on makeup, my heart sinks. Memories of so many wonderful days where I wasn’t alone, except within myself, flood into memory. I want something from life, I want to be wanted for me, not the person I think people want me to be. Why can’t I find the path? What is my purpose? I have always been good at doing a job, learning quick and being more than just a valued employee. I learned to do many things, accounting, bookkeeping, computers, every office machine known to man, and always worked the extra time, got the job done.
My favorite job I never got paid for was teaching art. I built a whole curriculum, planned it for every age, and leveled the tasks to the age groups. It was a perfect one, but I never got further than writing it down for the school. I never published the whole format, never thought it was good enough after all I didn't have a degree.
The house is quiet while the boys are gone to the store. Dieter our large male brindle greyhound comes into the bedroom and whines a little. “What’s the matter huh? No this isn’t one of those “firecracker” holidays, you big coward.” Nikki the darker brindle female is close behind, she wants attention too, and Sandy the part schipperke with a tail, jumps up on the bed. Dieter ambles over to the couch that sits caddy-corner to the bed and finds his spot, Nikki looks for her space. “Move over Diet, give her some room.” She huddles on to her side, and Dieter gives a sigh like this is such a bother. ”You two, are such lazy lumps, who would have thought you were ever racing greyhounds”. Sandy perks, the boys are back, and everyone makes a run for the door.
“Mom, are we going to TaeKwonDo Monday, because I think I’ve got soccer practice that day?”
“I think your Dad is getting ready for his next belt Bob, would be good if we were all there.”
“You know Mom, Dad looks terrible, he’s gotten thin.”
“I know, I keep telling him he needs to eat, but, well, he’s a grown man, can’t tell him anything.”
I brush out my hair, and go back to the kitchen. The final ingredient added and poured into the shell the pie is baking, and it won’t be long now, the smell is so good. Smells remind me of childhood times, of the many Thanksgivings all rolled into one memory. Running up and down the stairs of Gramma Mikula’s, smelling the stuffed cabbage, listening to my cousins describe all that goes into giblet dressing to turn my stomach, dressing for church in new patent leather shoes.
Chuck arrives and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek; he’s so high spirited today, his smile is good to see. He’s wearing a black and gray sweater that looks particularly nice on him. The pie is ready, and before it’s cooled Chuck cuts a piece and takes a bite. As he swallows he holds his chest. I ask what’s wrong; he says “Oh it’s just hot, you know, burning right here, but it’s good.”
“Well don’t eat anymore, I promised to bring it along. What time are Kim and Mike expecting us?
“In about an hour, no rush” Chuck says with a small break in his voice.
Brooke arrives and we leave for Mikes. It’s a short drive around the back of the subdivision, over the expressway and into Davies Plantation. I hate this car, the Ford Taurus company car that Chuck let Bobby back out of the driveway, only to hit a fire hydrant. My seatbelt tight, I’m feeling small and lonely in the seat next to Chuck. Was it always this way, always so hard to be comfortable with him?
Everyone is having a great time laughing over past get-togethers where Mike’s older sons had cleaned every morsel, and looked for more. Kim’s formal table holds seating for twelve and she has coordinated every detail. John is eating nothing but rolls, and then asking for one more. I tell him no, no more bread until you eat your turkey. We are all talking, and don’t notice what John is doing and five minutes later John says, “Look, I’ve eaten all the turkey; can I have a roll now?” John is given the roll, and he quickly scarves it down, turns to Mike with those devilish eyes and a grin, lifts the mashed potatoes on his plate that is hiding that piece of turkey he had promised to eat. The laughter becomes a roar.
After dinner the kids turn on the big screen TV and start watching some movie on HBO. John is playing with Shawn in his pop up tent. Chuck, Kim, Mike and I sit down at the kitchen table to talk. The noise of the children is distant as I’m asked to tell fortunes with the playing cards. Sure, why not, but I really don’t want to do Chucks, it’s always bad. Chuck explains that his is always the Ace of Spades, death.
Mike asks if we will all go on a fishing trip in his plane. The cards say no, but I agree it would be fun, and Chuck looks at me in surprise. “Would you really?” I tell him sure even though I’m not big on planes, or speed boats, the trip would be so nice for all of us.
Kim pulls me aside and asks: “Are things going better with the two of you?”
I say, “Yea sure, he’s at least going to counseling now, not lying about it. The counselor doesn’t think he’s been very honest with himself for a long time. I know that the secretary at work is the one he’s been seeing.”
Kim informs me, no it’s her friend now, Jody.
“Still?” I say, making a mental note to talk to him about this. Kim adds that Chuck is trying to leave her though, she’s hanging on. I told Kim that day, “I know Chuck loves me, but I don’t know if I can make it through this again. The words of hate he’s spoken just have left me so hurt. I have been faithful all this time and what have I done to deserve this?”
The evening is over, dwindling down, time for us to leave; it’s about 11:00 pm. We get in the car and something I’ve said upsets Chuck, oh yes, that someone needs to take Brooke home. He is not happy; he has plans in the morning and wanted to get some sleep. But it wasn’t a big argument, just a little fine OK, but he felt put out. That was 11:30 pm.
About 1:00 am, I hear the phone, but it only rings once, then nothing. I thought maybe Bobby picked up, and didn’t think anymore about it. At 2:00 am the phone rings again, this time I go to the kitchen and answer. It’s Kim, she says: “Randi, Chuck is in the hospital, Mike’s coming to pick you up, and he has had a heart attack.” I immediately shift into gear to be ready, no questions come to mind, only to go upstairs, wake the boys and get ready to go to the hospital. Mike is there in minutes and we drive the 20 minutes in the starless dark to Baptist East. On the way Mike explains that Chuck’s secretary was the one that called him, I shake my head, knowing that this is not a pleasant thought for me. I walk into the emergency room, observing only a few people and ask to see my husband, Chuck Rauh. The nurses at the cluttered desk ask: “You are Mrs. Rauh?” I say, yes and they have me go through the large glass doors where I’m met by another lady in a white coat. My thinking is this is another nurse that will take me to his room. She walks up to me and says again, “Mrs. Rauh?” I say yes looking confused, she says “Did you know your husband had an ulcer?” I say, “Excuse me, no, uh.” She continues, “Oh, your husband is dead, he was dead on arrival”.
One Thanksgiving Day life was forever changed for me. I was no longer married, not divorced and very alone. A definition of who I was and who I thought I could be now echoed the words “your husband is dead, he was dead on arrival.” I passed through the door to the room where my husband lay, tubes coming from every imaginable orifice on his body and thought, he was not dead, could not be, it’s a mistake. My fingers hovered over his hand wanting to touch him and nudge him back to wakefulness when I realized no one was in the room but us, we were quite alone and forever parted. The wetness on my cheeks made me realize that the tears had been clouding my vision and the surreal surroundings were real and only my heart was still beating. There would be no divorce, there would be no reconciliation, there would be no tomorrow for Mr. and Mrs. Charles Rauh. I had been all the things I wasn’t sure of before, the wife, the mother, the aunt and the sister, but now I would be something totally changed, a new person that I had not chosen, someone that was yet to be invented.
This story is the beginning of my Angels. It is painfully true, one day life was forever changed for me. I began drawing my “Angels” because I finally had begun to heal from the devastation of loss. This healing came through the sharing of this story, many times. Learning that every death I had experienced brought me closer to another angel. Finding that the most simple of times are remembered in such detail when the times are quiet.
Hearing words to a song would bring to mind the life that was mine, and why a certain angel would mean so much to me, and maybe others. Through this sharing and drawing I began to find purpose, a path to follow, a way to bring about change for many people, and honor to those that had died. Remembering those we love and sharing those special memories kept the person alive in our hearts. Not that the person was a saint, or the path you shared with them was easy and full of love or perfect, but that it was real. It meant something to shape your life, and became a part of the life you now face without them.
This book is dedicated to all those that I have lost, in their honor and with Love.
The artist angel creates the butterfly, expressing the hope for renewal of the spirit. 
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