Gotcha!

*TW: Cancer/death*

With a sudden gasp, no louder than a whisper, my mother took her final breath. My hand trembled as I felt her fingers loosen around mine. I knew I shouldn’t feel despair at this moment, as her long battle had finally come to an end and she was at peace. But losing her on Christmas Eve seemed unfair. Her favorite time of the year would now be spoiled for me. Our little house suddenly grew dim, and the only light twinkled on our small tree in the corner.

I gently kissed her forehead, unable to hold back my tears any longer. As I sat there on the floor next to the couch, clinging to what remained of my mom, my entire body went numb. I was alone at 19. Life sometimes has the worst sense of karmic cycles, doesn’t it?

“Mom,” I sobbed, “what am I supposed to do now?”

It had only been nine months since we learned of her diagnosis. The doctors explained how they could have possibly missed the clearly growing tumor for years, now unable to offer anything more than a few months of prolonged life if she decided on chemotherapy. My mother, once a vibrant optimist who dreamed on a scale no one could fully understand, was suddenly faced with a grim decision: either endure painful treatments for the chance at a few extra moments of life, or face death quickly on her own terms. Against my pleading, she chose the latter.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Mom was always the kind of gal who marched to the beat of her own drums. In our small Nebraska town, people knew to keep their opinions on Sheryl Carter to themselves. That is, of course, unless they wanted an earful from the red-headed spitfire herself. When I was a little girl, she would tell me the story of how, in her 20’s, she even took on the mayor in an election simply because he commented how a woman her age “should be married and raising babies instead of flitting through life with her head in the clouds”. She won…by a lot. And then subsequently resigned at her first press conference with the immortal words, “Suck it, Barry.” 

When I came along, mom said her entire world felt like it started spinning for the first time. She didn’t know who my father was, but to be honest, I never cared. Her and I had the most magical life I think two adventurous girls in a rural town could. Spring meant dancing in the rain of the rolling storms that passed through the plains. Summers were spent in the sunflower patch my mother planted in our backyard on the second-hand swing set she found by the road. Falls were for witches, and, much to the horror of the Baptist congregation across the street from our house, we would roll in the leaf piles in our front yard dressed in our finest Wiccan wear, chanting made up spells and giggling for hours. 

But nothing compared to Christmas at the Carters. Mom always said her love for the holiday came from sharing the same initials at the big man himself. Our living room became the epicenter of Santa’s workshop, with every inch dripping in some sort of red, green, or gold decoration. The kitchen didn’t stop pumping out gingerbread and sugar cookies for nearly a month. And, at the center of it all, the biggest, fullest tree that could possibly fit - or be shoved - into the corner near our tiny fireplace. Mom’s eyes sparkled as we decorated the tree with our homemade ornaments and popcorn and berry garland. But my favorite tradition? The unboxing and placing of our very old but very beautiful angel on the tip of the tree. Mom would hoist me on her shoulders and let me position her to look out over our celebrations. 

She always said that angel reminded her of me. Now, as my head lay on her chest, I realized I was staring up at the face of my new angel. I wiped away the tears that had accumulated on my cheeks when something bright red caught my attention. Underneath her pillow lay an envelope addressed to me. How had I missed this? Did she put this here? Slowly, I peeled the gingerbread man sticker off the back and opened the mysterious letter. Another smaller envelope fell to the floor from the plain white card. As I picked it up, confusion set in. What had Sheryl planned now?

Hi Baby Girl,

Well, you’re reading this. And that means I am gone. Not actually gone-gone, but just this baggy sack of bones. You know I’ll always be here, rooting for my fiery little doppelganger. 

When I first got the news, I think I was at peace with it. But I knew you weren’t going to be. I don’t blame you. After all, your mom has cancer. That’s tough for someone so young. But please, please don’t give up this life for me. I lived a strong, happy life. You were the biggest part of that, Holly. 

I know we may not have had much growing up, but I hope I still gave you a great childhood. I know you never knew your father (to be fair, neither did I!), but I hope I was enough for you. I know you feel lost now, but I hope you forge your own path. And most of all, GET THE HELL OUTTA NEBRASKA. Seriously - you are so much bigger than this place can handle. I need you to promise me you’ll spread those big butterfly wings and take off, baby. 

In the envelope is everything you need to get started. I had always hoped to take you around the world with me, traveling to all the places we read about in your storybooks. While I may not be there physically, I’ll be there with you. Trust me. Open the envelope and get going, Hol. It’s Christmas, after all! 

I love you. I have always loved you. I will always love you.

Merry Christmas, Holly.

-Mom

P.S. Can you call the coroner before you leave, though? It may be suspicious to leave your dead mom rotting in the house while you flee the state. 

Through the sniffles and tears, I let out a loud laugh. Of course my mother would find the humor in death. She was always a jokester, even now as she was no longer here. I squeezed her hand, even if in vain, to let her know I loved her. As I opened the smaller envelope, my eyes widened. What on earth was this?

Inside was a plane ticket, dated for 12/26 with “Paris” as the destination. A check for $20,000 made out to me with “Merry Christmas!” on the memo line. And in the bottom corner, a small silver heart locket with the initials “SC” engraved on the front. My confusion melted into a strange mix of joy and grief as I sat, mouth agape, staring at this final gift from my mother. How had she known she wouldn’t make it to Christmas? Was this her plan all along? Where did she get twenty-thousand dollars? As I sat questioning her intentions, a sudden warmth settled into my body. I knew it was her. She wanted me to have this and leave this town. Who was I to question the wild Sheryl Carter?

“Ok,” I said out loud to my newest angel, “I’m going.”

—

As I found my seat at gate B7, I still couldn’t believe my mother’s final generosity had brought me here. I had never left Wolbach in my 19 years of life. While my classmates made plans to head to college during our last year of school, I just knew that wasn’t the journey I was supposed to take. I instead took a job at the post office after graduation. I was happy. At least, I thought I was. 

My mom always pushed me to explore the world. She squealed with glee when I opened my graduation gift - a passport. The same squeal escaped her when, for my birthday that summer, I opened a new luggage set. Subtle hints to get me to leave were not Mom’s strong suit. It’s worth mentioning this is the same woman who taught me to swim by throwing me off the dock at the lake and shouting, “KICK, BABY!”

“Mom,” the exasperation thick in my voice, “I appreciate all this, but I’m good. I’ve got a good job here. You’re here, and I get free rent. Why would I leave?” As desperately as I dreamed of leaving, I couldn’t leave my mom. My best friend. As I watched a flight to Toledo boarding across from me, I finally understood the final part of my mom’s plan had come to fruition. She had certainly planned to go with me eventually, but this would have made her just as happy. 

I gripped tightly onto the heart locket around my neck and closed my eyes. “We made it, Mom. Thanks for another big push.” 

“Now boarding, Flight 497 to Paris. We will begin with Priority and Premium members at this time.”

I opened my eyes and checked my ticket. Sheryl splurged for Premium for me. I stood up, grabbed my backpack, and walked over to the gate. For a split second, I wasn’t sure if my ticket would actually scan or if this was her final prank on me. But the smile on the gate attendant’s face assured me it was real. Taking a deep breath, I stepped onto the bridge to weave my way to the plane. The first time my feet would leave my native ground.

As I found my seat on the aisle, I stuffed my backpack underneath the chair in front of me. A kind, older woman was seated next to me at the window. Her smile was warm, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my mom had specifically picked this seat somehow knowing this kind stranger would be here. 

“Hi, sweetie. Name’s Martha. What’s yours?” Her voice was soft with a heavy southern drawl. Bright red lipstick offset the soft pink eye shadow beneath a curly pixie cut of white. She smelled of vanilla, and her marbled cardigan framed her obnoxiously large turquoise pendant.

“Oh, hi, Martha. I’m Holly.” I shook her hand, large rings of every gem and stone seemed to be adorning each finger. She reminded me of the stories my mom told of her mother, Ginny. Maybe this was a sign. 

“Such a pleasure to meet you. Holly, huh? What a fitting name for this time of year!” She chuckled to herself as her shoulders bounced with each little laugh. “Where are you headed to?”

“Well,” I scrunched my face in confusion, “Paris. The city of lights!” I smiled picturing enjoying a gently falling snow as I walked underneath the Eiffel Tower, likely with the best cup of coffee one can imagine. It felt so real I could reach out and scoop up the snow if I wanted.

“Oh, how wonderful! I’m sure you will have a fantastic trip. Is this your first time flying?”

“Yes, it sure is.” As I laid back into my seat to adjust my headrest, something seemed off about her response. I sat forward again and asked, “Wait, aren’t you also going to Paris?”

She cocked her head to the side and squinted. “Well, of course. But not the same one as you, dear. I’m just headed home after the holiday with my son’s family.”

I started to grasp that maybe Mom hadn’t completely left out all pranks from her final show of love to me. “And…where would home be?”

“Why,” her smile widened and, somehow, her accent thickened, “Paris, Texas, of course! God bless Texas!” She chuckled again as she noticed my expression shift from inquisition to shock.

Paris.

Paris, Texas.

I thought there was a few too many cowboy hats and Wrangler jeans for what should have been an overnight flight to Europe. I let out a heavy sigh as a smile stretched from ear to ear. In that moment, I swore I saw Sheryl’s face in the window as she mouthed the word GOTCHA!

“Nice one, Mom.” I whispered to myself. Gripping the locket again, I took a deep breath and said, “Let’s go.”