When my mother was five years old, her father dropped dead of a heart attack on the kitchen table. She witnessed this. It breaks my heart to think that such a young and sweet girl has to endure such a tragic sight. To make matters worse, her mother suffered a series of miscarriages and stillbirths throughout her marriage. The day Joseph Donahue’s heart skipped a beat, his wife, Mary, was three months pregnant. She carried the baby to term, only to give birth to another stillborn. Thus, the die was cast, and Joanne, an only child, began a life fixed on death and everything macabre.
As a child, this dark fixation was fueled by the pagan babies she adopted into church to save them from the flames of hell. As an adult, she found her energy in all of life’s tragedies. As a child, this was best exemplified in my mother’s signing off as she kissed us goodnight. The only family I knew that was tucked in as a kid was The Walton’s on TV. But when we went to kiss my mom goodnight, we all said something to the tune of “Goodnight, Mom. I love you. See you in the morning.” His response: “God willing.” God willing?? Not “I love you too” or “Sweet dreams.” God willing! I lay on my trundle bed and imagined the angel of death coming in her long chiffon dress and her silver-blue hair, to suck all the life out of my mother and take her soul to heaven. He hated that angel. And those words echoed in my ears as I tried to force myself to sleep. God willing. Why would God want to take away a woman with seven children? What would his will want with Joanne Trainer from Thunderhead Road? (Years later, my sister Kristen told me that she would sneak into my parents’ bedroom at night and put her little fingers under my mom’s nose to feel her breathing.) So, I found comfort in saying my prayers. I prayed that God’s will would see fit to keep my mother on Earth, because we needed her here: she had seven children to care for, for God’s sake (sorry, Jesus). And I ended my prayers with the most comforting songs for a good Catholic boy: Now I lay me down to sleep, I ask the Lord to keep my soul, If I die before I wake, I ask the Lord to take my soul. Ahhh, Death, the immortal comfort in our home.
One of the first times I realized the impact of my mother’s obsession with death was when she was giving me directions to a party in Philadelphia. It said something like, “Turn right where that kid was hit and killed by the drunk driver, then past the funeral home where his Uncle Billy was laid to rest. Turn onto the street where I had to walk home from work that night, his brother he forgot to pick me up and that strange man tried to mug me, and he’s still going straight…”
There I was, in the car, alone, with my mother’s instructions, wondering why I was getting more and more anxious as I got closer to my destination, and it hit me: she’s crazy. The woman is completely fixed with tragic endings. She should have married Edward Gorey, creator of the Gashleycrumb Tinies.
Not long after that, we were at my brother’s college graduation. Once again, I knew his death-obsessed claws had a hold on my thoughts. We were sitting around the hotel’s indoor pool when I realized I needed something from the room. Before I left, I immediately thought of the horrible story of a boy who was kidnapped from a hotel years before, snatched from the hallway as he made his way to his room, never to be seen again. As soon as I put this dark thought out of my mind and announce that I needed to go back to the room to buy something, when my mother chimes in, without missing a beat: “Be careful, honey, remember that little boy who was kidnapped and killed.” in that hotel.” I sadly remembered him, one of the many nameless ghosts that filled our days with imaginary anguish and dread. Yet I was past my kidnapping prime: I was twenty years old. Should this have comforted me?
Joanne never tired of regaling us with stories of (supposedly real) characters who met untimely and cowardly deaths: the little boy who fell from the tree, the girl whose hand was bitten off by a telephone pole because she stuck it too far out of the window, the boy who refused to wear a raincoat and later died of pneumonia. Each victim has a faceless “upper state” character, their euphemistic attempt to keep the danger a few counties away. When I was a child, whenever I thought of “higher status”, I thought of streets lined with body parts of all those children who lost limbs because they couldn’t hear, and I imagined the cemetery with all the victims whose tombstones conveyed their accidental death . Demises a la Haunted House Style: Here lies Sara, who died by setting herself on fire after stealing her mother’s cigarettes…
When I was in third grade, a real tragedy hit our town: a young woman in her twenties was killed in a car accident. “Grace” was a passenger in her boyfriend’s car. She was from a large and loving family, and to make matters worse, she was an identical twin. I can remember many Sundays watching her family in church, all nine of them, lined up in loving order, with Grace and her twin like two sculptural beauties standing side by side. It seemed as if the entire world mourned the loss of this bright star. My brother Joe, a year older than me, was at school with Grace’s brother. He wanted to go to the wake. Not wanting to be left out, I asked if I could go too. My mother obeyed. It was one of the saddest experiences of my life. The streets outside the funeral home were filled with mourners, many of them Grace’s companions, young people in the prime of life. Tears flowed profusely. I remember waiting in line, the wailing chorus of “No” and “why” echoing through my mind. By the time we approached the family and then the dreaded casket, my anxiety had reached a frenzy. This was a scene that no child should have to witness.
Realizing her mistake in bringing us to this tragic event, my mother convinced my father that it would be a good idea to take our minds off the night by taking us to a movie. Now, at home, a movie was a great pleasure. It was something we did a couple of times a year! (People before cable!) This was serious. My sad ears perked up. A movie was just what we needed to take our sadness away. My mom took us to see a movie called The Champ, a remake of the classic Mickey Rooney movie, starring Jon Voight, Faye Dunnaway, and a kid named Ricky Schroeder. It was the saddest movie of the decade! In the end, the failed boxer makes one last attempt to redeem himself by fighting in the ring to win back his reputation and the complete admiration of his son. He dies. HE DIES! My mom took us to see the only movie that had a sadder ending than any movie I’ve ever seen. My brother and I cried more with this than with the wake. At one point, Joe’s sobs became so loud that he had to leave the theater. In hindsight, it’s hard to believe that my mother could make a special outing like a movie sadder than the death of a young woman, but she did. I might be more understanding if she didn’t know what the movie was about, but it was a remake of a classic movie she had seen! It has one of the saddest endings of all time. Not to mention the fact that it was the late show.
In my mind, as I relive the events of that night, we go out for ice cream, a nice bowl of ice cream, and my mom quietly asserts our fears to death, telling us how proud she was that her brave big boys were so hard on the sad event. This is the childhood of my dreams. Instead, I’m sure she reminded us to offer it up for all the poor souls in purgatory, and she told us that we were lucky because we were all still alive. When we got home well after midnight, she just wanted to go to bed and forget this day had ever passed. I kissed my mother, then said my familiar nightly chorus, “Good night, Mom. I love you. See you in the morning…” As she walked up the stairs, I could hear her reassure me, “God willing.” God willing indeed.
