The Disappearing Act

Wampanoag Harbor was a quiet town. Few people lived here year-round. The ones who could afford not to didn’t care to live by a grey, snow-dusted beach and the people who did stay through the winter tended to hibernate, only leaving their house for work and church. 

It was early February when my mom died. We had just been hit by a big nor’easter; the thick snow silencing any noises that could be heard throughout town. The streets were empty and the majority of shops were locked up and dark, unable to garner enough business to stay open through the winter season. Most of the evidence of Christmas 2016 had been taken down but there were still twinkling lights strung across the light poles and every once in a while you’d catch a glimpse of a lit-up Christmas tree through someone's window. 

I remember it all like it was yesterday. Everything that had happened constantly played on repeat in my head for months afterward. I had spent the night before with my best friend, Molly, at her house, and walked back the next morning, trudging through the snow and soaking the bottoms of my jeans in the process. My mom was home when I got back, sitting on the living room couch with a cup of coffee balanced on the arm, newspaper in hand. When she heard the front door squeak open and slam shut again behind me, she stood and met me at the entrance. While I peeled off my boots, she lectured me about not knocking them off before stepping inside; how it would damage the brand new hardwood. For years I wondered if she knew. If she had actually sat there lecturing me about how the water would rot the floors overtime knowing damn well she’d never live to see the day. Or rather if it was a spontaneous decision.

Lunch was leftover chicken noodle soup and fresh garlic bread. I remembered the kitchen smelling like it for days afterward; a constant reminder of our final meal. The dining room table was squeezed into the small conservatory off the kitchen and our family of seven was used to getting rather intimate with one another. Meals usually ended with at least 5 new bruises and scratches from fighting for legroom and hitting our elbows and knees as we tried to squeeze around the chairs to go to the bathroom. 

She had acted completely normal; or as normal as she ever acted. I could tell she had been spiking her coffee since she woke up and her eyes were flying around the room, unable to lock on any one of her five kids for more than a couple of seconds but none of this had been unique to my mother, at least not in her last few years. My parents' relationship had been on the rocks since before my baby brother was born and that along with the constant pressure of money and time and space ended with the two of them barely ever speaking to each other. I’m sure if we had enough room in the house they wouldn’t even sleep in the same bed. 

As the eldest of the five, it wasn’t difficult for me to see. Our parents were not in love with each other but they needed each other for financial stability. And anyways divorce went against their religion so even if they wanted to, they couldn’t separate. They would never live without each other, find happiness in others. Not unless one of them kicked it suddenly. 

Towards the end of lunch, my mom asked my little sister Maggie to clear the plates to which she replied with screaming and crying about how Austin, her twin, never had to do chores and always just sat in his room playing on his Nintendo DS. I cleaned the plates so she didn’t have to, which pissed my mom off. She had come in with the expression she always wore when I had done something to go against her way. Like every one of our fights, my mom came in swinging. 

“You’re undermining me again,” she had said. Her voice was low and steady as she reached for a washed plate and began to dry it with a rag.

“How so?” I asked, not interested enough to even look her in the eyes. 

She watched me for a second longer before responding, “When I tell one of my children to do something, I expect them to do it. What is Maggie gonna do when you’re not around to pick up her slack anymore?”

“Her slack?” I asked, placing the bowl I was washing back down. I gripped onto the edges of the farmhouse sink and turned to look at her. “She’s not wrong. You baby Austin and you make Maggie and I do the work. What is he gonna do when I’m not around anymore? When nobody’s around anymore? When you finally disappear for good?”

“Excuse me?” She scoffed. “Here’s what you don’t get Julia.” I flinched at her use of my real name. A name that once felt comforting, but now just reminded me of who I was born to be. And who birthed me. “I raise you and your sisters to work harder than your brothers because this is just what women do on this island. We work twice as hard to get half as far as any man. We cook their meals. We clean their dishes. We rear their children and that’s how it is. I raise you and your sisters the way I do because you’re going to have to fight to be comfortable here-”

“Do you not know me at all?” I shot back, not bothering to let her finish. “Do you really think I don’t know that as a woman I have to work harder to get half as far? And do you really think that I’m just gonna sit here and take it? That I’m gonna stay on this stupid island, in this stupid town and just… just what? Become you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” My mom asked, her voice stern.

“It means you come and go from our lives as you please. It means that you clearly don’t know your own kids if you think that you’re raising them right. It means that next time you disappear on us and go God knows where you might as well do us all a favor and just stay gone.”

I was fourteen then and pretty sure I could parent my younger siblings better than my own mother. They didn’t really see everything happening or at least they didn’t understand. They fell for the excuses of being tired when she was sprawled over the couch, slurring incoherent strings of words together. They didn’t notice how our parents would only talk to each other in jeers disguised as simple conversation by the fake smiles. Or her sins that warranted hour-long prayers every night. 

I still don’t quite understand what was wrong with my mother - which is an apathetic way of putting it, I know. I understand that addiction is a disease and that mental disorders exist. I get that. The countless therapy sessions and support groups and “educational, yet comforting” videos that I was forced to consume after her death drilled that into my brain. But there was always something off at my mom, all the way back to my first memories of her.

She never really seemed like she wanted to be my mom. She took more interest in going on long “God walks” with her friends where they’d discuss the bible for the millionth time, or locking herself in the small loft above the garage and painting for hours. When we’d go to the beach she’d wind up sitting off on some rocks by herself and staring at the water or reading. When I’d cry she’d leave and my dad would come back a minute later to tend to me. 

Austin and Maggie came when I was two. Annie didn’t come long after. At that point, I was five and while I wasn’t able to put the behavior into a coherent thought, I saw the way other people got treated by their parents. Even Molly-Jean’s mom made her lunch every day and came to the soccer games and Molly’s mom was referred to as The Dictator among our friends. My dad was a mailman at the time so he was gone before the sun had even risen. It was my mom’s job to get us ready and off to school. And then one day he got a call from my teacher saying that they either had to give me food or money. That we couldn’t just not eat during lunch. 

That was the first fight I remember between my parents. I had never seen my dad that angry. He’s not an angry guy. He’s composed and understanding and hardworking but that day everything he went out the window, his rage taking over completely. I was seven and I took my three baby siblings to the park down the street to get away from the screaming that ensued between them. It continually got worse from there. God knows why they had a fifth child but they did; Jonas. 

Once Jonas came my mom hit a new level of incompetence. I rarely saw her during the day and was constantly having to pack last-minute lunches or illegally drive Maggie and Austin to their karate classes or change Jojo’s diapers because my mom just wouldn’t show up for us when she was supposed to. We didn’t know where she’d go when she’d disappear. If it was always to the same place or if she’d wander. If she spent the hours alone or if she had some friend that we didn’t know about.

It wasn’t odd when I came down from my room later on that February day to find my siblings on the couch together watching TV and my mom completely gone. I checked all around the house although there weren’t many places she could be hiding, as it wasn’t a very large place. What I did think was odd was that her snow boots were still by the door along with her winter jacket. But my mom was off. She always had been. It had long ago been ingrained into my head to just let go of the abnormalities. 

The sunset around 5:30 like it did every night and my mom still wasn’t home. My dad had finished his office work for the day and immediately collapsed into his bed and fell asleep, completely unaware that anything might be amiss. I put Jonas to bed at 7:00 and Annie an hour later. By 10:00 I was carrying the twins' limp bodies into their beds although I was sure I saw Maggie open one of her eyes to peek at me. 

I had been ignoring my nagging concerns about where she was but now as the house was taken over by silence, with nothing but the grandfather clock to fill it, and the snow had started up again, I couldn’t ignore it any longer. She hadn’t been answering her phone all night and I had resorted to calling over and over, all of which went unanswered until eventually, it began going straight to her voicemail inbox, which was full and had been since she practically got the cell phone. 

I woke up my dad at a quarter past midnight and told him that something was wrong; that mom still wasn’t home and that she wasn’t answering and she wouldn’t do this. He wanted to tell me that it was fine, that she’d be back in the morning, and that I just needed to go to bed but the concern was written all over my face. So he slowly stepped out of his bed, shoved his feet into his beaten-up snow boots, and pulled his winter coat on over his pajamas. 

We took his old yellow truck and crept along the quiet streets of the Harbor with our brights on, squinting out into the flurries of snow and dark abyss. Our efforts were futile and by the time the sun was just cresting over the ocean, we were outside the local police station. We relayed what we knew to the police but they essentially brushed us off. My mom’s declining mental health and inclining alcohol use wasn’t a secret among the locals. Nothing was a secret among the locals. We were told to come back if she still hadn’t shown up by nightfall. I insisted to my dad that we keep searching, that we get out of the car now that it was light out and scan the area on foot but he just shook his head and dropped me off at home to be there when my siblings woke up. He took his truck to the post office and he went to work. 

When my siblings woke up they asked where mom was and I told them she was on a walk because I didn’t know what else to say. At that point, I knew. I think my dad might’ve too. Or maybe he just knew that if my mom wanted to come back she would come back. So I called Molly and I explained the situation and she offered to come babysit. The twins were old enough to stay home alone with Annie and Jojo but I didn’t want to let them. I didn’t want to leave them sitting in this quiet, empty house while I went out and found what I was pretty sure I was finding.

This time, instead of going down the streets or begging the cops to help me I just put on my boots and jacket and started trudging back behind our house into the forest. The snow stuck to my hair and my eyelashes, and my cheeks stung from the cold but I kept pushing forward. 

At the time I wasn’t looking for a body but I knew that if I found anything, that’s what it was going to be. And eventually, after what felt like an hour of wandering around in the trees, that’s exactly what I found. Her shoulder peeked out from behind a tree, the snow covering her like a blanket. 

There’s no handbook for what to do when you find your mother dead in a forest. I didn’t know if I should try and get back to town and get the police, or if I’d even be able to find my way back to her again. I didn’t know if I should walk up to her, see her face, see what she had done. If I should try and carry her back with me. My cheeks hurt and my limbs were numb, my breath visible. I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the shoulder; It felt like time was frozen. The trees were as still as she, the snow fell softly and slowly, acting as a mute button for the world.

“Ma,” I croaked out and waited for her arm to move, for her to turn around and tell me how glad she was that I found her. 

Time was frozen while I stood there, but as soon as I turned around, it’s like it all started up again, only in flashes. I remember running through the snow, as fast as one could run when it was up to their knees. I remember finding the sheriff leaning against his car drinking coffee. I remember him ushering me into the squad car, the hot air making my hands and face sting. He drove as close as he could get and parked along the tree's edge and then asked me to show him where she was. I remember hoping that when I came back she’d be gone. But she was still there, her arm limp, the snow growing higher and higher. He carried her and I walked behind, keeping my eyes trained on the bright white ground in front of me, ignoring the trail of red that we were leaving behind us. 

When I got home that night my family was sitting around the living room, their eyes were puffy, cheeks tear-stained. Half of me hated that I wasn’t the one who told my family what had happened and half of me was relieved that I didn’t have to. My dad pulled me into a hug so tight I couldn’t breathe which felt like almost a relief. 

That was the fucked up thing about all of this. As much as I missed her nimble hands brushing through my black hair and longed for the light in the small studio above the garage to flicker on, I couldn’t forget all the times she had disappeared on us when we needed her most. As much as it hurt, inside I was relieved because I was 14 then and pretty sure I could parent my siblings better than she could. And now I had the opportunity to give them all the things she took from me.