On the power of stories

I can't stop thinking about the mothers

Are we only moved by what we can relate to? By what reminds us of ourselves?

We’re on Cape Cod in the charming town of Wellfleet, sipping birthday cocktails out on the restaurant’s lawn under a string of lights. The evening is overcast, the setting sun covered by heavy clouds folded up in the sky like a white cotton blanket. We bought some blankets for both beds in our house so why are they stuffed in the closet on the shelf? I say this in my head this time, but I look at Janyce sitting across from me smiling and I smile back.

We’ve been staying in our vacation home for a few days now, moving things back the way we like them, and noticing all the wear and tear from the heavy summer rental season: a bleach spot on the rug, a loose chair leg, the outside deck cushions soaked with water and spotted with tree sap. We don’t remember how to work the flatscreen TV, either. Every time we switch to a new app, CNN starts talking in the background. I find myself lingering a bit before changing the channel. For days now it seems the only coverage on the news is about Gabby Petito, and I am mesmerized like the rest of the world. The boyfriend has since gone into hiding and the body that was found has been identified as hers, the young Instagram influencer who was traveling the American countryside in her van.

“Ahh uh, what are you thinking about? It’s my birthday, remember?” says Janyce. “We’re not talking about the house at all today.”

“You’re right,” I say, and quickly snap a picture for social media: Janyce holding an orange-hued cocktail in front of her snazzy new shirt, a present from me.

It’s true, I’m a bit distracted, but not only about our rental property. My mind is haunted by Gabby’s mother. I can’t stop myself from imagining her sitting on her couch at home calmly waiting for a text but feeling more and more frantic every day that goes by without one, chiding herself for not giving her adult daughter more credit. She doesn’t have to text me every second of every day, does she?

Janyce pushes her empty dinner plate aside and takes another sip from her glass of seltzer.

“Where are we going tonight?”

“You’ll see,” I say. “Think of the theme.”

It only takes us two minutes to drive to the next destination and park on the street. We both walk up the sidewalk in the humid night air carrying the folding chairs, the can of bug-spray, and a couple of camping blankets. Janyce doesn’t see the flyer pinned on the town hall marquee when we walk by.

“Any guesses yet?” I say.

“Well, I think it must have something to do with stories,” she says.

She walks past me and up to the line forming at a table piled high with paper bags filled with cheese popcorn. Over on the far side of the lawn there is a cash bar.

“The Manhattan Short Film Festival!” she says, suddenly seeing the flyer peeking out from the opening as the volunteer hands her a goodie bag. “This is great.”

We sit side-by-side on folding beach chairs, holding hands and staring at the projected films as they flicker onto the side of the building. Headlights from a few passing cars shine directly in my eyes.

I read a post in my Facebook feed the other day, many posts actually, protesting the incessant news coverage of yet another affluent white woman when all the stories about women of color are left untold. I understand the outrage. Our country favors whiteness and wealth and we never hear about all the other young girls who also go missing. Aren’t those mothers every bit as heartsick about their daughters as Gabby’s mother is about hers? Are we only moved by what we can relate to? By what reminds us of ourselves? I can easily imagine the anguish of both of the mothers in the media frenzy that is the last few days — the mother who tried to keep a texting lifeline to her daughter but lost her anyway, and the mother who is awake at night wondering if she could have seen this coming somehow, realizing that she has already lost her son, whether or not he turns up again somewhere and is still alive.

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It’s Saturday morning and we’re drinking coffee while sitting on the couch and talking about the ten short films from all over the world we watched the other night. Janyce voted for the documentary about the Afghan woman, now a widow, her husband killed in the ever-enduring wars that cripple her country, her neighborhood all parched and barren. In the film, she spends the whole day trying to buy some eyeglasses so she can thread the needle on her sewing machine and finish the wedding dress she is altering. And like all mothers everywhere, she is just trying to provide for her children. Trying to keep them safe.

I voted for the film from Italy that was most artistic.

“Yeah, that one was inventive for sure, but it wasn’t as timely,” says Janyce.

“But I like how one central image—the way light hit everything in that scene as a single moment in time — how that one facet alone is used to tell the story,” I say.

I’m picturing how the camera panned the mother, crouched down on the ground and holding her grown son in her arms.

We both agree that the films we liked the most were about the mothers.