March 30, 1998

English 2I l, Citical Analysis

Double Dare Journey

We journey through time like a vapor. How long our memories linger or vanish depends

on whom we are traveling with, and what kind of baggage they are bringing with them. Alice

Elliot Dark's story, *In the Gloaming," is about a family's journey with a terminal illness. Each

member of the fanily carries a different kind of baggage, firll of their own memories and points

of view of life together. The journey requires risks as the sonos illness progresses tlgough the

seasons- I found that I empathized with Janet when she lamented to her daughter that she wished

she'd done a better job (mothering) and pleaded, "Could you possibly accept my apologr?'(Ihe

Gloaming)- Parents will always wonder if they could have done better by their children. But can

you do better than the best you can do?

on my wall hangs a bright marigold yellow piece of paper with this anonymous sentence

written upon it: 'oAs a person, I must try to be the best I can be everyday, but above all, I must

dare to fail.' It draws my attention like a caution sign aloag life's journey, reminding me there

are worse things I could do than try, and worse things I could do than fail. Journeys require time

and commifrnent- We can choose to do nothing, make no changes, and stay just where we are in

life. But if we commit to putting one foot in ftont of the other, we may change our point of view

and see life from another angle. Laird's father and sister chose to stay at a standstill in their

relationship with Laird, stopping right at the edge, with Laird and his illness. Maybe the edge

looked too close. Maybe they felt uosure, a little afraid Laird might pull them over the edge with

him. It wasi a risk they weren't ready to take. Janet, Laird's motler, notices things about her son

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that others miss. She notices that he became like his old self " He became sweeter, the way he'd

been as a child, before he began to cloak himself with layers of irony and clever remarks . . . Not

only did he want to talk again; he wanted to talk to heru (481, 482). Janet and Laird's steps lead

into a dance of life" If we try we may fail, if we try we may succeed.

Alice Elliot Dark relates the inevitable thought every parent has at some time, when she

illustrates the scene with Janet and her son sharing a late afternoon in the living room. Laird

attempts to straighten his shawl but his hands are shaking. He points to the fireplace and quickly

his mother lays a fire and wonders.what is wrong.

. . . but €ven as she grasped for information, facts, her instincts kept intemrpting her with

a deeper more dreadful thought that vibrated through her, rattling her and making her

gasp as she often did when remembering her mistakes, things she wished she hadn't said

or done, wished she had the chance to do over (492).

This inevitable parental thought is different for Janet. Her son like the fire, is dying. But the

glowing embers come to life as Janet catches sight of the delicious banquet of time sheos been

served. A meal of opportunities. Is it a chance to do it over? She savors the thought like an extra

serving as she realizes that:

She had as much of him nolv ns she had had when he was an infant; more. in a way,

because she had the memory of the intervening yearsi as wello to round out her thoughts

about him . . . She felt as close to him as she ever had. It was still him in there. inside the

failing shell (482).

Janet is shocked when she allows herself to risk even thinking the word [dyrngl. *She wished she

hadn't even thougtrt it. She tried tc stick to good thoughts in his presence- When she couldn'g

and he had a bad night afterward, she blamed herself'(485). Janet wanted to be the perfect

mother.

It was a straight forward, simple life she'd chosen. She had never tried to ask for too

much, and to be of use. Simplicity had been her hedge against bad luck. It had worked

for so long . . . [SJhe could pretend her luck was still holding . . . Perhaps she had asked

for too much, after all (491).

Even though my rational mind tells me there is no perfect upbringing, that life is a matter of

choices, trial, and error, I believe each parent strives for a messiah-like-child--one who is kind

and loving, forgiving, unselfish, and who eats peas and brussel sprouts without complaint. We

nurture our yotmg and pray that we are doing our best. Hopefully our best begets independence,

and each baby step takes our children further out into the world. We pray our children won't

grow up to hate us. We pray that our children will grow up and outlive us- If we are successful

we will work ourselves out of ajob.

Janet finds that she lives for the twilight moment when Laird's eyes would take on a

luminescent quahty, a signal that he was stirring into consciousness. "Then her real day would

begin" (485). He reminisces with memories of the gloaming: that illuminated time "When all the

world is purple" (492). Janet listens to her son's memoqy as he expresses sorrow at never

taveling to Scotland. His memory is like looking in a mirror, a backwards view of time. She'd

offered to take Laird to Scotland but he'd had other interests: "he was . .. . already sure of his

destinalion" (483). Daring, ri.ky, independent baby steps pick up speed as they carry each child

down the road to adulthood. Then the test comes. Do they need us for anything? Hopefully they

don't need us, but rather want us for a friend. Laird longed to know his mother as a friend.

o'You'fe where I come from" I need to know about lou, *'Laird tells Janet. Quietb she tells him

o' . . . thete's nothing to know. . . The only extraordinary thing about me is my children" (484).

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But Laird realizes there are worse things he could do than try to know his mother.

"Her son wanted to talk" (4Sl) arrd Janet was astonished at his openness; she struggled to

keep up with him. The few beautifirl moments at the end of the day when the purple light made

the whole world look like the Scottish Highlands on a surnmer night" (483) become like a safe

harbor where mother and son spend the best time of the day. The air crackles with their efforts

o' . . . to know and be known." It is there in the soft purple light of the gloaming that Laird and

his mother share memories and misbegotten dreams. The future is only spoken of briefly, for the

future will be but a brief moment--almost too brief to mention.

As any mother woul4 Janet lies awake at night trying to imagine some way she can be a

better mother. Only the passage of time allows us to grow better, and so the mother gives time to

her son and grows better as they learn about each other. "Laird was a captive audience." Janet

noted,oo...parentsandchildrenwereallcaptiveaudiencestoeachother,'oandthat*... itwas

amazinghow little comprehension there was of one another's storieso' (483).

In *The Gloaming," mother and son grasp for the remnants of memories known and

unknown to them. They savor the scent of friendship like spring flowers after a long winter.

These tender insights are pressed into the pages of time like dried flowers in a memory book.

Also within that memory book are prickly-stemmed weeds. Dry and stiff, they emboss the pages

like skeletons in the closet, memories that want to be forgotten, but are part of the bare-bones

structure of their very being. Those skeletons perhaps support and contrast the soft gloaming

memories we cherish, as we breathe in each new day and dare to do the best we can.

Joumeys, like relationships, require time. Sometimes our journeys are quick, sometimes

they seem to take an eternity. We put ourselves at risk. Each step we take along the joumey is

different. lVe can take safe familiar steps and stay where we are, or risk the unknown and go

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somewhere we never dared to go before. We could make a mistake, be rejected. We could get

hurt. We could be embraced, we could be happy. We could grow. Laird's sister and father chose

to take safe famitiar steps; but after l"aird was gone, and his body had been taken away . . . the

last moment of the gloaming, the last moment of the day [Janet's] son died" (493,494), you can

hear the bagpipes play as Laird's father feels the absence of his son and the absence of

. In the gloaming he speaks to Janet: "Please tell me-what else did my by like?"

(494).I can imagine Janet thinking thouglrts similar to this poem I wrote for my son as she

realizes that o' , . . all the frustratiohs and boredom and mistakes and rushes of feeling in her days

as a mother did indeed add up to something of importance" (494).It causes me to reflect that as a

mother, I must try to be the best I can be everyday, but above all I must dare to fail. For when I

dare to fail I also dare to succeed.

The boy in my womb came swimming out one fine day in May;

only to fall asleep in my anns.

Now many years later he sleeps miles away, eats meals I don't prepare,

and gatlrers his life around him;

making his own nest and dreaming his own dreams

that change wilhthe tides.

He wanders alone yet within me, no longer in my womb,

but permanently etched in mY heart,

my son, my friend.

Itro{*$ Cied

Dffik" AIiEe Eiliqt. '*kr ?he Glmming.'koxed Short Story from English 211,

In*Fuctor, Don Cecil.

IS The $Ipqmi4g. 1IBO Vid€o, New York, 1997. Pir€ctsd by Christopher R*ves.

Starriag Glsu Close, Bridget Fmdq lFhoopi Coldbsrg" Rskrt Sean Leonard

and kvid $mitlrairn.