Mourning Mother

*** 

01/30/20 

 The room is stuffy. My black dress, all thick cotton and dark fabric, is suffocating. I try to breathe. In and out. In and out. Somebody murmurs something from the rows of pews that are stretched before me. I take a breath and begin my prepared monologue. 

 “Caroline Andrews will always be remembered for the time she spent on this earth. She was a mother, a wife, and a friend.” I let the pain of remembrance echo throughout the church. I glance down at the slip of paper, trying to read the tiny words despite my shaking hands. They are too small, the little black script dancing in my trembling fingers. Somebody coughs, maybe faking a sob. The thought makes my head hurt.   

 My words, and the lie by omission, tug at me. All the questions I have been asking myself, and all the self-doubt that has been swirling inside my head, are dangerously close to the surface. I am already a step away from the edge. 

 Words start tumbling out of my mouth, like I owe these people some truth, “I thought it was me, you know?” my voice breaks, and I try to steady myself. “But she loved me. I used to think that it was my fault she abandoned me, like I was too unlovable. Like after Amelia... like after what happened, I just wasn’t worth it. But I was wrong. She never gave up. I gave up on her. It’s all my fault.” A sob rips from my throat, ugly tears streaking down my face. “Because I never told her I loved her back.”  

 “It’s my fault. I told her that she was broken. I blamed her for leaving.” My world seems to slowly shatter, like everything I have done has twisted my features so I am ugly and unrecognizable.  

 The last part comes out barely a whisper, “It’s my fault she’s dead.”  

I look up then, through the tears that have lingered in my eyes, and see rows of people I haven’t glimpsed in a decade. Old neighbors, friends, and teachers.  

 The pain makes the world shift and writhe, the rainbow fragments of light streaming in from the stained-glass window contrast oddly with the black of the funeral, making my head spin. I can hear the drum of my heart throbbing in my ears, and my lungs constrict as I gasp for oxygen. I have to get out of here, out of the room filled with fake mourners. Out of the tiny, perfect church with its perfect pews and leering windows. Out of the room where she waits, lying in her dark box with the lid that is closed because of what she has done to herself.  

I run all the way to the cemetery, crouching with my head in my hands before the memories hit and I become a slave to their pain.  

*** 

11 days before 

 The graveyard is sunny, despite the lasting chill of winter, and I pace amongst the worn headstones and aged granite angels until I find it.  

 Amelia Andrews, 1991 – 2005  

 The polished pink stone is newer, a darker version of the pale bouquet I lay beneath her name. I feel the sadness seep slowly in, and I allow myself a taste of mourning before I shut out the hurt and turn back to stone.  

 “June?” a voice calls my name from behind me, the sound pulling at memories I had locked away. The woman before me is small, not in height, but in posture. She stands like any moment something will push her over the edge and she’ll fold into herself. Her brown eyes hold mine, filled with sadness and regret. The latter she deserves, the former makes me angry.  

 “You.” My voice sounds cold to my own ears, and I see her flinch.  

 “I’m sorry, June. I really am. I just wanted to... I just wanted to see you. To explain what happened. And to apologize, what I did was wrong and I know that now,” she takes a deep breath before adding, “I’m still your mother.” 

It is my turn to shudder away. Her words cut me deeper than I had expected, having removed every piece of her from my life.  

“I haven’t had a mother for fifteen years.” I turn to leave, wanting nothing more to do with the woman that abandoned me.  

“I always remembered you. I missed you so much, but after her de—after what happened, I couldn’t be a mom. I didn’t want to hurt you. I just wanted you to be somewhere safe, and I think we both know that place wasn’t with me,” her voice brakes when she talks about her oldest daughter’s death. Even after all these years, she is still choosing favorites.  

 “I loved her too, you know. I was who she told everything to, not you. I was the one who was left behind when everything I knew and loved left me. I was your daughter too,” my voice is strong, despite the tears streaming down my face. The bitter memories of my life after her run through my mind in an unending reel. I want to scream, force her to realize what she has done to me that was so wrong, but instead I ask the question that has haunted me since she drove her red Volvo down the road and out of my life. 

 “Why didn’t you stop him?” 

She freezes. I can see force of reality hidden behind her dark eyes. It pains her; I can see that her memories of that day never fully left her, no matter how hard she tried to push them away. Neither have mine.  

 “I’m so sorry,” she whispers again, her voice portraying her pain. I take deep gulps of the icy air, focusing on the sting in my lungs instead of the sharp jabs the memories bring. 

*** 

 “Amelia, don’t. What if you get caught?” my voice was barely a whisper, but carried the note of panic I had been trying to hide.  

 “Oh Ju. Don’t be such a baby. They will never even know I was gone.” My sister, backpack slung over her shoulder, leg already out the window, smiled at me. 

 “Go to sleep, and when you wake up, I’ll be home,” she soothed, smiling again, “I love you, Ju,” she teased, and I echoed her sentiment as she climbed out into the darkness.  

 I woke to screaming.  

I could pick out the voices, Amelia’s high one, my father’s drunken slur, and my mother’s pleas.  

“What were you doing?” he yelled, and I could hear the anger and the alcohol, his words strung together too sloppily to be sober.  

 “There was a get-together, and I just thought if--,” she spoke fast, but her words were cut off abruptly.  

 “What? You thought you would sneak out? That you could disobey my rules in my house and get away with it? You ungrateful little--,” he didn’t finish, but the sound of a hard slap got his point across. I heard my mother sobbing.  

 “Stop! No, please, don’t hurt her, she didn’t understand, she doesn’t know,” her voice trailed off into simpers. I could barely hear her over Amelia’s cries. It escalated into a scream before a sharp crack. Then there was silence. It was only broken by the roar of an engine starting following a slamming door.  

 “My baby, not my baby, please don’t leave me, please,” the soft sobs drifted up the stairs, and with them, the slow burn of loss.  

*** 

 I turn to face her again and speak, “I lost my entire family that day. I never really had a father, and Ames would have stayed with me if she could have. But not you. You had a choice, and you chose to leave me. You lost a daughter, but you didn’t stop being a mother.” 

The cemetery blurs, the tears in my eyes causing the world to falter. I hear her voice, the same pleading tone I had tried to steel myself against all those years ago. I turn away, my back to her.  

“Please. You are the only thing I have left.” Her words catch on me like fishhooks, digging into my flesh.  

I had imagined meeting her again a hundred times over, all the things I would tell her, blame her for, really. How I would force her to realize what she had done to me that was so wrong, and how it was her fault I’d lost a mother. The pain and anger are not the kind I was expecting, though. It is a hatred towards my father, how he had torn us apart. It is a deep resentment towards all the time I’d wasted wallowing in self-pity, when I could have been living. All of the emotions almost make me turn. I think of how I will run back to her, telling her I am simply a selfish child cowering in an adult’s body, and that I miss her, too. I will beg her to forgive me for thinking less of her, not knowing nor understanding that in the end, she was just trying to help me survive.   

 I want that. I want so badly to have a mom again, but it is the pride, the knowledge that only a small shred of dignity remains, that fuels my forward motions. My dignity is the only thing I have left. I try to argue, telling myself that if I accept her, maybe I will end up with something better. All of those wonderful chances at life, yet I continue on, walking past the iron gates and away from my mother. 

 The second I close the front door to my apartment, I regret it. I mull over our conversation in my head, lingering on her apologies, letting the guilt tear into me. Fifteen years of waiting for this moment, and I have left. I didn’t even tell her everything I had planned, not that the desire for revenge remains, but the need for some proof that it had happened. That she had really come looking for me, and cared enough to tell me so. Now it is too late, and I have no real way of finding her.  

 I tell myself these lies until I fall asleep, the soft, dreamless darkness coaxing me into unconsciousness.  

 The doorbell rings, a shrill sound. I wake with a start, only noticing the light streaming in the window when I remove myself from the entrapment of the couch. Sleep does little for my thoughts, and the events of the previous day play in a continuous loop, leaving no space in my anxious mind. Not bothering with anything, or even worrying what they might think, I open the door.  

 A female officer, dressed in the traditional blue police uniform, stands in my doorway. In her arms, she holds a cardboard box.  

“You June Andrews?” her question sounds more like a statement.  

“um...yes, that’s me...” the confusion rings clear in my voice.  

“This is yours,” she offers the box. Her face softens as she speaks again. “It’s from your mother. She said she wanted you to have it.” My face must have been questioning, because she adds, “Just look inside.” Then her friendly demeanor drops slightly, revealing a mask of pity. I feel my eyes widen as I take in her expression. No. 

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She pushes the box towards me and turns to leave. Then she tacks on a, “Just look inside.” In a moment, she is gone.  

 I feel numb, and part of my brain knows I must be in shock, but a bigger part tells me I am dreaming. I had just seen her. Spoke to her, even. I sit carefully on the sofa, arranging my limbs so the box balances precariously on my knees. Inside are letters. Hundreds of them. They are addressed to me, pages of drafts she almost sent. I wish she had, that she had sent me every single one. The pages are crumpled and the writing shaky, like she had sobbed but wanted me to know her so much she kept writing anyway. They are all different, a retelling of what she had done that day, or the memories she just couldn’t forget. She had dated all of them, and I sit there, sobbing on my floor, as I finally get to know my mom.  

January 21, 2020 

 My Dear June,  

 I can’t write long. I want to, I really do, but I think you will be proud of me when I tell you what I am doing today. Or, at least, my version of you will. (I think you probably hate me. It’s ok, I don’t like me that much, either.) I am going to find you, baby. I know you must not want me, but I need to see you one last time. I found your address online, and I will even stop and visit Amelia on the way. But just know that I love you, no matter what. Life is getting harder for me. Jerry isn’t very nice anymore, but don’t you worry, I’m ok. I just hope you will forgive me. Margaret says everybody needs some angels in their life, and you are my angel. It’s been hard keeping away from you all these years, but it’s not your fault. It was never about you.  

 I just need to find a way to say goodbye.  

                                                                         All my Love,  

                                                                              Mom