My Mother's Mother

If anything could be learned from the tragedy that day, it was that Fate spares no opportunity to deliver life’s greatest twists.

“Silver Bullet” is what we named our 8-month-old SUV, folded like a tin can crushed around a pine tree where Sherwood Road meets Bangle Street two blocks from home. Blinding sheets of rain did little to chase away the smoke or noxious fumes. The acrid smell of burnt tread carried through the breeze. Standing tall against the night sky, the unaffected pine swayed in a wave-like pattern, bowing to the silent commands of the wind.

Silver Bullet was nothing beyond crumpled metal. From where I stood at the side of the road, I could see the blood-soaked entrails of a shattered windshield reflecting the moon’s timid light like pulsing diamonds scattered in a wet carpet of grass. Pacing frantically and wringing my hands, I screamed with primal instinct over the monotonous trumpeting sound of the horn. An unwavering conductor of madness, it blared on.

Pillaged by shock, my voice faltered to squeaks and strains, but not before the timely arrival of a familiar young boy, a beacon of hope, responded to my pleas for help. While most 12-year-old boys would have watched the perilous scene unfold from the safety of their bedroom windows, Eric Taylor sprinted through the downpour towards the seething mass of metal with the lifeline of a cell phone clutched to his ear. I didn’t know much about the boy except he was Julie’s age and would occasionally visit to shoot hoops with her in the backyard. He was a horrible shot, but always kept a smile on Julie’s face.

Time itself had been altered as each fleeting moment became an eternity spent in panic. Amidst the random booms of thunder, and competing with Silver Bullet’s mournful cries, the sirens wailing with urgency down Sherwood Road were the sweetest sounds I had ever heard. They were the songs of heroes.

Flashing reds and blues pierced the shadows of the night as they sped toward the remains of the Silver Bullet. I found the strength to stand on the mirrored surface of the puddled road and wave my arms, heavy as lead, to draw their attention. The Titans of rescue were barely stopped when a host of firefighters and police scurried to the scene, fighting through the jarred doors and mangled frames in their desperate quest to reach the fading life inside. After a quick pat on the back, little Eric was ushered away from the scene and stood by me with incapacitating silence. I tried to speak, to say anything, but my voice was smothered by staggering horror. Words like “jaws of life” and “she has no pulse” broke through the white noise of the rain and forced me to my knees. The strobing colors faded around me. With sickening disorientation, the earth tilted and spun beneath me. My fingers crimped tightly through my hair as I bowed like a wilting flower. Collaborating a synchronous duet with the Silver Bullet, the haunting melodies of our screams coalesced in an endless echo that would forever stain the corners of Sherwood and Bangle with tragedy.

* * *

Quiet refuge. The stereotypical presence of a stiff tweed couch. A sense of calm was carefully cultivated by the muted colors of the walls and gentle lighting that cast a warm glow on the hardwood floor. Bookshelves, like thrones of knowledge, lined the furthest wall. Volumes of books, each with varied colors and untitled spines, invited curiosity. Nick, driven by his passion for teaching Literature, would have loved this study, even down to the potted plants bursting with blooms splashed with breathtaking shades of blue.

Silence tends to antagonize the demons parading in the chaos of a fractured mind. Always reminding you of what you had, what you lost, and the could’ve-been, should’ve-been’s that will never be.

I stared down at the floor. It’s so clean, I thought. Not a single scuff in the wood. Mentally thumbing through a rolodex of cleaning products, I found the top contenders to be Pine-Sol and Murphy’s Oil. My mother had sworn by them both. Julie wanted wood flooring in her bedroom once. She’d say every princess needed a stage to dance on. She would have loved this one.

“What’s on your mind, Ellen?”

I straightened in my seat and folded my hands in my lap. Slipping on my “game face” was futile these days and too much of a chore. The residue of exhaustion clung to me like a charcoal mask.

“The floor,” I answered honestly.

Dr. Seton raised her brows knowingly. With her spellbound beauty, it was hard to remember that she was a seasoned veteran in the art of deflection. Resting her delicate arms on the desk, she leaned in thoughtfully. A rebellious torrent of black curls defied the constraints of a butterfly barrette, some coils slipping free like springy spirals of ink tapping the slopes of her shoulders.

“It’s a beautiful floor,” I added. “It would be a perfect grand ballroom for Julie’s castle in the sky.” I tried to smile, but the weight of heartache pulled my lips into solemn submission.

“Tell me about Julie.”

I shook my head in fond memory. “She was twelve, going on thirty. Such a sweet girl and wise beyond her years. Compassionate. She was a Pisces, always ready to surrender her tender heart to the world, especially to animals that needed saving. Her father said she could be anything when she grew up. You know what she said?”

Dr. Seton answered with a smile.

“An angel for the animals.” Finding the strength to smile through the tears, I recalled a time my daughter came into the house cradling two emaciated kittens. She named them Ariel and Jasmine. We never had the heart to tell her Jasmine was a boy. I talked about the day she stumbled upon a possum on the back porch, mistaking it for a cat. After scaring the hell out of the poor thing, she tried making amends with a bowl of kitten chow.

“We bought her a pair of angel wings last year. She wore them everywhere. She was wearing them the day…” The words, too raw to voice, tapered off. I knew the word. I could see it clearly written on the blank slate of my mind. But to speak it aloud, I could not. In the silence that followed, an unspoken understanding hung between us. Dr. Seton’s patience was a comforting harbor in the midst of emotional waves.

“The… the day… the accident.” Each syllable was an eviscerating shard of glass in my throat. Even more than speaking them aloud, hearing those words in my own voice made them surreal.

Accident.

The word itself felt demeaning, like a pitiful one-word attempt to describe something so vast and unfathomable. Spilling grape juice on a white blouse is an accident. Stumbling over a display in Best Buy while ogling the Geek Squad boys is an accident. But this? This was something else.

Nodding with a satisfying acknowledgment of my groundbreaking progress, Dr. Seton crossed one knee over the other. After a meditative pause, she continued to navigate the rocky terrain of my thoughts and emotions. “And your husband?”

Tears streamed down my face as I glanced into my hands and traced the traffic of lines in my palms.

“Back then, to be Homecoming Queen would’ve been the validation I needed that I was more than just a broke farmer’s daughter. What gave me the inkling that I even stood a chance?” I confessed. Dabbing my hand against my tear-streaked face felt like a feeble attempt to erase the pain that came with reminiscing.

“After Christy Kelvin was crowned, I left with so much disappointment,” I sighed, continuing with a chuckle tinged with the wisdom of hindsight. “All seems so silly now.”

The doctor offered a small smile of encouragement, coaxing me along with a resonating aura of empathy.

“There was a knock at the door later that night. It was Nick.” I could hardly say his name without trembling. “My father glared at me over his newspaper. You know the look dads give when it's too late for company?”

A subdued giggle escaped Dr. Seton.

“I opened the door. Nick was standing in the rain holding a bouquet of roses and a crown. Without a word, he put the crown on my head and the roses in my arms. Imagine me standing there in flannel pajamas with a bouquet of flowers and a crown on my head.” I blushed as the story unfolded.

“Then, he dropped to one knee, pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, and said,” I reenacted 18-year-old macho Nick fumbling with the little box in his hand. “Ellen, you were not crowned Homecoming Queen because you are not the queen of Carver High. You are the queen of my heart, to follow, love, and protect if you will have me. Will you be my Queen?”

Dr. Seton clasped her hands excitedly. “And what did you say?”

Tears dried into a sticky film on my cheeks as I giggled. “I told him to ask again after college with a better ring.”

Light-hearted laughter filled the space between us as I continued to weave the tapestry of my life with Nick, starting with his noble attempt at a romantic steak dinner, which ended with a small kitchen fire and a late night at Waffle House. There was the time our flirtatious pillow fight turned into a crime scene of feathers after he made fun of my big nose. Justice was served when Nick was tackled to the floor and pinned in place by the drooling mouth and wagging tail of our German Shepherd, Diesel. And how could I forget to add the unforgettable chapter of failed DIY projects when Julie was born? Our house was a construction zone! Our carpet was a mosaic of tools, debris, and sawdust giving way to a gallery of unfinished projects.

“I miss them so much! My soul is broken!” I fought back the threat of tears again. It’s true what they say, it comes in waves. Each wave carries its own weight. The ebb and flow collide with unpredictable strength before receding into calm sands until the next tide.

“No,” she shook her finger in my direction. “A soul may waver, lose its way, or bear the burden of wounds and scars, but it is never broken.”

My face crashed into my hands as I sobbed. “I just want to see them one last time. Everything happened so fast. I didn’t get to say goodbye!”

“You will see them again, Ellen, when the time is right.”

“How could anyone possibly know that?” I retorted with frustration lacing my words.

“You will always miss them, Ellen, and they will miss you,” she said, a comforting fount of wisdom. “For now, you must carry on your life here, and let them carry on with theirs, wherever that might be.”

“Everyone says that.” I shook my head with subtle skepticism.

“Life is a transition, Ellen. It does not begin at the cradle and end at the grave. Life is like water. It can transform from liquid to solid and to gas, but the molecules remain intact.” She leaned forward with a compassionate attentiveness. With unwavering eyes and undeniable certainty, she repeated, “You will see them again.”

Riding the turbulent crest of my proverbial tsunami, her words were temporary buoys keeping me afloat in the surging currents. Her unbreaking gaze cocooned me in a sanctuary of love and understanding, where tears could fall without judgment. A haven where the cathartic release of emotion was met with patience and care.

“I would do anything to see them again, Dr. Seton,” I whispered breathlessly. “Anything!”

She caught her chin in her hand, lost in contemplation. Her eyebrows knitted together, wrestling with silent deliberation. It was the same look Nick had when he studied the mystery of the pyramids.

“What if I told you, Ellen…” she started slowly, crafting each word carefully. “…that you could?”

My eyes locked onto hers with a desperate need to understand her intentions. “H-how?”

“It won’t be easy.” Standing from the desk, she pivoted toward the bookshelf behind her. Her fingers crept across the rainbow of every unmarked spine until they stopped, poised over one in particular.  

“Here.” She pulled a marbled turquoise book from the shelf, keeping its cover hidden from me. Flipping to the back of the book, she withdrew something small and peculiar. She seemed to glide effortlessly as she kneeled beside me, a curious story of introspection written on her face.

“W- what is that, Dr. Seton?”

“Anne,” she smiled with lips like glistening cherries. “Call me Anne. And this,” she unveiled a white candle, “…is a vehicle.”

Staring at the candle, I felt the brief glimpse of hope start to fade. A psychological sleight of hand, an attempt to broaden my perspective on life. Nothing but trickery of the mind.

“You cannot return to the life you knew. The past cannot change. But, if it’s truly what you wish, you can see them again.”

I was hesitant to entertain this charade, but my last fighting strand of hope clamored for a chance, no matter how absurd it seemed. “Yes.” The word rolled off my tongue.

“Very well.” Anne cupped the candle’s wick. “But be warned, Ellen, they won’t be the same as you remember, and neither will you. Are you ready?”

I wasn’t sure that I was. Anne raised her hand, revealing a delicately flickering flame. Mentally reciting the laws of nature and science, I tiptoed between disbelief and revelation. How did she--?

“Ignore the candle in my hand and peer into the candles in my eyes.”

Like fairies swaying on a waxen stage, the exotic dance of the flames reflected in her deep ocean blues, growing exponentially into cosmic campfires holding secrets and stories untold. As the flames in her eyes grew stronger, my eyes fell like two leaden curtains descending over the windows of my soul. Somewhere between the waking world and dreamscape, I fell.

Weightless as a leaf tumbling at the mercy of the wind, my body glided through an infinite void of darkness. Fears and sorrows were erased. Heartache and worries dissolved into nothingness. Peaceful emptiness where hope and anticipation washed over me. Drifting… drifting… until a beacon of light emerged on a blank canvas of the horizon. The warmth of the light was inviting, and its kaleidoscope of colors was mesmerizing. Closer into the light…

* * *

I gasp at the sudden cold. Tremors ripple through my body. My lungs burn with every breath. My sensitive skin tickles. What is that awful, ear-piercing scream? Where am I? What’s happening?

I open my eyes, greeted by the blinding lights. A comforting warmth embraces me as a soft blanket is tucked around my body. “Mr. and Mrs. Taylor,” a lady speaks as I’m lowered into the waiting arms of a beautiful young woman. “Meet your little girl.” A sense of overwhelming joy fills the air.

I look up to see smiling faces peering down at me with tears like twinkling stars in their eyes. The woman, my mother, her long brunette hair framing deep green eyes, brushes her fingers lightly across my cheek. I try to speak, to say her touch feels good to my skin, but babbling takes the place of words.

She exchanges a glance with the young man standing next to her. “Eric,” she grins happily at him. He bends down and playfully pokes his finger into my tiny hand. “Hi baby, I’m your daddy!” he exclaims, his voice brimming with adoration. “She’s perfect!” His gaze shifts to an older man standing on the other side. The old man’s lips press tightly together as his stubbly face reddens with emotion. “She looks just like you, Julie, and she’s got your mother’s big nose.”

Startled by the deep voice, I stare with alarm at the much older man. His face is weathered with the passage of time. Black hair streaked with silver strands. He has a goofy grin as he leans towards me. “Welcome to the world, Kiddo! I’m your grandpa!” Stretching my arms out towards him, I grab his nose between my fingers and squeeze. As a roar of laughter sounds out, I notice something. It’s a face. With smooth unblemished skin, large inquisitive eyes, and pouty lips like rose buds, a baby stares at me in the reflection of my grandpa’s eyes.

“We’re glad you’re here, Dad,” my mother whispers as she strokes the top of my head. “I just wish Mom was here to see.”

“I know, sweetie,” Grandpa answers. “Mary Ellen will hear all the stories about her grandmother, the way she laughed, her obsession with coloring books, and that damned ugly Silver Bullet she fell in love with.” Like a starstruck fan, he smiles widely at me. The mention of my grandmother was just the push he needed to succumb to the tears he’s been desperately holding back.

“Your mother is looking down on us, Julie,” Daddy says tenderly. “And she is so proud of you.”

My mother’s mother!  Like a fragile wisp of smoke, the fleeting thought dissipates as quickly as it comes as I am lifted further up. Resting my head against the swells of her breasts, my mother folds her arms around me. Here, nestled in the soft of her skin, drunk on the beat of her heart, is my home. My eyes flutter to a close. The rhythmic serenade of her breath is a soothing reminder that she is with me. Her soft voice, a lullaby, whispers those cherished words, “I love you”, into my ear for the very first time. In the safety and eternal love of her embrace, I am whole again. My soul has found peace.