Inciting Events and Meaningless Names

Why does it sound so strange to hear your name? I mean, it’s the name we have always had.  Our first exposure to identity.  But it always sounds so wrong. Babe. Hunny. Mommy. These all feel right. But R-e-b-e-c-c-a? No, it’s off. I get that this is me, but only the me on the top of a research paper.  Not the core principle of--

  “Rebecca!” a voice sonorously pierces through my musing.  Red goo drips through my fingers and trails down my freckled forearm.  Taking a second to reacquaint my mind to my surroundings, I reach for the open pack of wipes that lies just beyond my husband’s foot. Can he not sense that I want him to kick it over? As the lid is never closed, I must pull at least three wipes out to get one wet enough to remove the staining residue of my son’s half eaten, but fully melted, Popsicle from skin.  “Babe, are you ok? Did you hear what I said?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I admit without removing my focus from the liquid that somehow continues to spread onto every surface that it can. “What were you saying?”

He paused for a minute to confirm I was ok, despite neglecting to respond to that portion of his inquiry. Upon concluding that either I was fine or that he didn’t care to hear the waterfall of issues that could proceed out of my mouth, he continued, “You’re mom called again.  She wants to know when you will be heading there to pick up your boxes.”

“God, why can’t she just let it go?  I told her I’d be by this week.  I can’t just drop everything and be there on her schedule. She’s not the one with two little ones and--”

“Hunny, you know this is how she processes.”

“Well it’s not how I do.  I don’t just throw everything away because I refuse to have an emotional reaction. And- Shit! I can’t get this damn Popsicle off of me.”  Tossing the wipe aside, I stormed into the playroom to disperse my agitation. “Noah! Listen, I know that I told you that you could have a treat, but you know better than to leave it on the ground to make a mess.  Look at mommy’s arm. It’s all over. No, don’t interrupt.  I love you buddy, but this is really bothering mommy.  Do you understand?”

Tears welling up in his coffee-colored eyes, he nodded his assent.  With a sigh, I gently kissed his cheek and turned to leave. 

“Mommy?”

Upon hearing the name that sounds best to me, I soften.  I turn slightly with a smile that confirms that all is well between us. “Yes buddy?” 

“I’m hungry.”

Throwing my hands in the air I gestured to my husband to attend to our son as I grabbed my keys and fled out the door. My anger grew with each deep injustice done to me by the inevitable red lights and slow drivers.  I wish I knew each idiot’s name out on the road today, so that I could find them later and give them a piece of my mind. I guess that’s another time a name sounds right.  Somehow anger gives a name the right tone.  

Reaching to skip to the next song, I notice that the crease of my arm still holds the residue of my son’s messy snack.  My spit and my shirt’s edge are not even remotely helpful in removing this stain.  Of course it’s not.  Resigning myself to ignoring this blight, I pull up to my mom’s house. 

The Snyder’s Home.

The name looks right, but not the plurality of it.  I guess it’s not plural. Just possessive. But still. It’s just one Snyder here. This sign feels plural. Should it have always been Snyders’? Or is it just one unit? And if half is gone, is it still a unit? That sounds too close to math- let’s stick to grammar. 

A flash from the corner of the house catches my eye, as the screen door creaks open catching the setting sun at just the right angle to blind me. 

“I didn’t know you were coming? Josh never called me back.  And he said your phone isn’t working correctly?”  That was kind of him, I think, as I slip my fully-functional phone in my pocket to support my husband’s protective lie.  

“Oh yeah. I just have been having some issues getting messages,” I concede as I reach the top step to give her a hug.  We step into a room scented like Clorox and showing all the signs of a deep clean. 

Moving some books off the couch, she gestured for me to sit.  “I’m sorry it’s not clean.  I didn’t know you were coming or-”

“Mom,” I interrupt, “It looks great.  You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

“Not at all. I have nothing going on this week. Danielle was going to come but Jesse had to roof. And I keep saying that they need to get the basement done for Lilly, but he is always working.  Steve said he would help with the shower, but you know how that can be.  And I think Jeff is coming over to help on Sunday…” 

Names can also just sound annoying.  Too many names in such a short time only serve to irritate.  To confuse.  To obscure the point. 

“...So do you want the phone?” Her final words directed towards me draw me back in. 

“What phone?”

Exasperated, she repeated, “Dad’s phone. Because yours is broken?  It is a little cracked from, well you know.  But it worked fine. I got most of the files off but I don’t know how to work google photos and combine them.  Dad was going to do it but he had too many other tasks.  Anyway, you can have it.”

I gaped at her.  How can she say his name without skipping a beat. I guess Dad is not really his name.  Like me, the parental form is the name we were all most comfortable with.  Dad. Not G-l-e-n-n. This name doesn’t feel wrong, but it feels heavy. I want to say this, but she’s already moved on to carrying the laundry up the stairs.  

“Can you help me put this away?” 

“Sure.” I resign myself to tasks as I know that it is all I will have here.  At the end of the pile, I come across my dad’s shirt.  As I go to put it in the drawer, a hand stops me.  This is it.  We will finally talk about it. I won’t grieve alone.  I go to sit but her words intercept me. 

“You can put those downstairs.  There is a box to go to Beth.  The kids could use more shirts to work in and these would be perfect.  It won’t matter if they-”

Head swirling, I clutch the shirts against my stomach.  “You’re throwing them away? Why would you do that?”

“It’s not like we need--” 

“Why would you give away dad’s phone?”

“Well you need-”

Voice rising and heart pounding, I yell, “Stop! Just stop cleaning.  Stop asking me to get a box of useless shit that you know I don’t want. Just sit down and cry like a normal person!” Sinking to the ground, I cradle my eyes with my palms.  White spots flash across my throbbing eyelids.  I clutch one of the white t-shirts against me and weep uncontrollably, chest heaving from lack of oxygen.  

“Is that blood?” Ignoring her, I continued to cry and use the shirt to wipe the tears that refuse to stop flowing. Then I notice it.  A red streak runs across the sleeve of the shirt in my hand.  Panic seized me.  Is that dad’s? Was it my eyes? Can your eyes bleed from crying too much? No. That does happen, does it? Then laughter, raw and throaty, catches me off guard.  A wild kind of laughter that cannot be tamed.  

Concern overwhelmed my mother’s expression; she came to my side ready for this new task. This new problem to solve. “Why are you laughing? Are you ok? I’m going to call a doctor.”

But my laughter won’t relent.  I shook my hand expressing my desire that she did not call the doctor, but I could not form words through the fits. Finally I was able to choke out one word: “Popsicle.” And with this word and her dumbstruck facial contortions, I was lost again to my laughter.  

Understanding alighted her eyes and she grasped my arm, sniffing a tainted spot on my wrist.  “Are these the strawberry pops I sent for the boys?” she mused. But at this point I was too far gone.  I nodded grabbing the railing to pull myself up to the

bedside while peels of laughter slowly cascaded into quiet fluctuations of the chest.  My mom began to laugh too as she poured some her water bottle onto my dad’s shirt and began to wipe the remnants of this signal of my distress. Silence slowly fell on the room, as she looked at the ruined shirt.  Fingering the stain slightly, she held it up to her nose and breathed in.  Turning to me she said, “Rebecca.” 

As she broke into quiet sobs, I just held her.  Sometimes a name only sounds right when it carries more meaning than identity. A name can be a placeholder.  A proper noun parading as a pronoun.  Rebecca can be the antecedent for ‘I’ve lost my best friend. I don’t know how to process that. Please love me.’  And a Popsicle can be the inciting incident for this revelation.