To Hear Mom Again

Losing your mom at a young age is hard for anyone. She kissed you and held you for several years, and you learned she was the one to go to when you got your knee scraped and your face wet with tears because it hurt so much. It took a little while for you to understand she was family and that she was supposed to be in your early life. Then you find out it’s a lie, and mothers can definitely leave you for whatever reason. 

When she’s dead, now there’s someone else you have to go to for your scraped knees and their words of encouragement, and how come they sound so awkward when treating you, like they didn’t know exactly what you needed as your mom did? Nobody thought to tell you, “Hey, prepare yourself if this happens. Make sure to have a backup comforter.” People expect you to mourn your young little heart out, but no one really knows how to make this transition easy when you’re all out of tears but you’re still hurt. You can’t go to your mother; she’s six feet underground. It’s also weird to go to her because you don’t know how to feel better after knowing that she’s no longer alive.

On the other hand, ghost-calling has become so mainstream over the years that in this day and age, you can just pick up the phone, call a number, and hear a raspy, withering voice. “Who are you summoning this evening?”

In a clear voice, I state, “Martha Young.”

“When has this ghost arrived in this dreary realm?” the voice asks. It’s difficult to be scared of ghosts when one of them sounds like a run-of-the-mill phone operator with a severe smoking problem.

How old was I when I got the news that devastated me to the bones? I was eight, wasn’t I? I remember my school celebrating Pi Day when we got to eat pie and memorize the long mathematical sequence. I was enjoying my slice of apple pie when my teacher sent me to the principal’s office with a somber face. The other kids were curious why I was in trouble, even though I didn’t do anything. “March 14th, 2009.”

A sequence of flittering bat wings fills the phone line as I’m put on hold. When all the bats fly away, the cackling of a witch follows the howl of a werewolf. There’s an ad for a new and improved Ouija board in between sounds. Instead of letters, people can place the planchette over an array of emojis. Man, we’ve gotten lazy with communicating. 

The phone gets picked up. A voice comes up. It’s warm like she was when she would tell me I could sleep in because it was a Saturday. This voice used to read me bedtime stories while I sat at the kitchen table, stuffing my mouth with those blueberry muffins she made and drinking her homemade apple cider. It never raised in anger when I got into trouble; a firm, gentle reminder was enough. It has faded over the years, slowly becoming a rasp like the phone operator I spoke to. I guesstimate her voice will be truly gone by the time I’m sixty. I’m twenty-two now. 

“Hello?” I ask.

“Hello…?”

While I remembered Mom, it stung that she sounded like she didn’t know me from the start. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Happy Birthday, Mom.”

Every time there’s a lull in the phone conversation, there’s this subtle whoosh playing in the background of the spirit realm. There’s a lull now while she’s, presumably, thinking so hard about what today is. Ghosts have a worse perception of time than anyone who’s ever had ADHD. Their minute is our day, and our week is their month. 

“Oh…” You know how ghosts when they’re not wailing, will make a low “oooh” sound that sends chills down your spine? It’s what I’m hearing now. “Oh… it is my birthday today... How did you know…?”

How did I know? My hand holding the phone tightens its grip as I choke back tears. My emotions are hard to control around certain holidays, and her birthday is no exception. “You used to say,” I start, my voice wavering and cracking. “That you loved Halloween so much you tried to enter the world on the 31st. And that you got so excited to celebrate your very first holiday that you actually ended up being born several days before.” It was such a ridiculous story Mom would tell me, but right now I’m trying so hard to hold myself together to appreciate how weird and funny it was. “You used to say you wanted to be a pumpkin instead of a baby.”

As I waved through all the grief and nostalgia telling her how I remembered her birthday, Mom stayed silent. For all I know, she’s just contently enjoying her phone call between our two worlds. Can ghosts have feelings after ten years of being dead? Or are they echoes now?

After I answer her question, I take a deep breath. And I exhale slowly. The tears are now coming out from behind my eyes, but they’re not flooding. I feel a new trickle down my cheek every thirty seconds. 

“Halloween is coming up in a few days,” I say. “It’s why I’m calling.”

Mom speaks again, finally. “Ah… yes… the veil between our worlds become its thinnest… ghosts can roam on your territory…”

“Well, yeah, that too, but… You can come visit me. I’m not eight years old anymore, remember? I’m grown now. I’m living on my own. I have a job and a place, and I still have those storybooks you like to collect–” The tears are coming down faster. I wipe them away and sniffle my now-stuffy nose. Why is it that the nose will fill up with snot when you’re crying? It shouldn’t be a thing. It’s too messy to clean up afterward. “We can light up candles, and bake your famous snickerdoodles, and play the game where we guess what the next trick-or-treater will be dressed as, and what kind of candy they want. It’s been so…” My chest is tight; my heart stings when it beats now. I sigh. “It’d be nice to see you again.”

“So nice…” Mom trails. “My little Claire-babs… I’ll find you in a few days…”

Nothing has sounded so threatening and soothing at the same time. “You promise?” I squeak.

There’s the soft whoosh again on the other line. Suddenly, the phone operator from earlier comes in. “Your call has ended. Do you want to call anyone else in the spirit realm?”

I can ask for Mom again. There’s one more thing I wanted to tell her, and I’ve been muddled with too many thoughts and emotions that I feel guilty for not saying it immediately. I can wait until Mom comes by and introduce her then. “No,” I whisper. 

“Spooky evening, then.” The phone goes dead.

I place the phone down and collapse in a chair nearby. The tears are fully running down, and I use the sleeve of my sweater to wipe them all off. My heart is still pounding with fresh grief, even though I can call Mom anytime if I want. No one really prepares for this.

Someone’s little foot makes the floorboard creak behind me. “Mama?” my daughter calls. I listen to her little pitter-patter as she trots up to me. Without a word, I pick her up and place her in my lap. At the sound of her voice, the tears cease. Parenting mode is back on, and the tears know it’s time to wrap it up. “Mama sad?”

“Mama sad,” I repeat. My thumb is over her tiny hand. Her little fingers wrap over it, and she moves my thumb back and forth as far as her chubby little arm can reach. Did I use to do this to Mom when I was three? It’s a little funny. I should ask her when she comes. I should ask her a lot of questions about what my daughter does now, and if Mom used to watch me do the same things I watch my daughter do. For a moment, my heart stops hurting. She’ll come, and I’ll ask her then.

“Actually, Mama okay,” I correct.