13

She once told me I was going to be the better version of her - right at the end, when I thought the end was just the beginning - but I’ve long since stopped believing it was true. Maybe it could have been, had she been around long enough to tell me what that meant, or how to do it, or what I had ever done to make her believe such a thing. How had I duped her into thinking I could really even function in the world, much less surpass her? My own mother, corporate break-out star, near-gourmet chef, professional hostess, whip-smart and sexy woman? The self-taught, self-made, self-sufficient New Yorker who’d lived in 10 states, financially supported her own mother, taught herself almost everything she knew?

The aneurysm came on slowly in truth, but to us, it was all at once. I wonder many things about her life now, but at first, I only wondered about her death. Did she know it was coming? Could she feel something was wrong? Why did it happen to a woman who was just beginning to reap the rewards of the life she had built? They are questions that I don’t have any answers to, even 15 years later. In some ways, it feels like my life stopped the day she died and has not restarted since. To any observer, it looks like I have miraculously moved forward - I have a spouse, have a home, have a job. I have duped them, too. I still feel 18 years old on the inside, no older or more steady on my feet than I did the day I got the call. 

It came only a week or so after we had dinner together, after she’d had a margarita and I’d driven us home in the dark, the Texas freeway spooling out in front of her BMW. “You’re going to be the better version of me,” she’d said. But I still don’t know what she meant. I didn’t ask. I thought there would be time to learn her lessons, thought that the time I had to absorb her wisdom was just beginning.  

But it was not, and today, I am stuck in time. I watch the tulips in my garden beds die due to lack of water or nitrogen or some other plant vitamin I can't seem to get a grip on. My boss, once optimistic about my limitless potential, writes me a performance improvement plan. I have a hard time juggling my friends. I almost never travel; in fact, I’ve never left the country, because I can’t afford to. I cry in the shower. I pick at my skin. I wonder where the woman she saw in me went, or if she has ever existed at all. I look over my performance improvement plan, and I wonder what my mom would add to it. I wonder if her prophecy was just a mother’s wishful thinking.

*****

It took me all 15 years to collect everything of hers and begin to sort through it. The Christmas ornaments and turkey-shaped Thanksgiving napkin holder were at my dad’s house; several years of photos, the contents of a hope chest, and a small collection of tarnished jewelry at my stepdad’s. At her friends’ houses were water-stained recipes, holiday letters, and photos of her in college. On my own nightstand, a card she’d written for my high school graduation. “You are everything a parent dreams of and more,” it says. “We’ve done our job, now it’s time for you to do yours!” The only problem is that I have no idea what that job is or how I’m supposed to do it. I feel like I’m taking a final exam without having gone to a single class. I’m confused. I’m the child a parent dreams of? I inspect myself in the mirror, wishing I had her long teeth, her smooth skin, her ample boobs. I wish I had her consistency, her clarity of purpose, her ability to self-actualize. I wish I could stop crying in the shower.

 Everyone who has sent me condolences over the years on her birthday or Mother’s Day always says, “There was no one like your mom,” like I don’t already know it. Like I don’t still dream about her once a week or hear her laugh ring out in quiet moments, a phantom sound, the echo like a lost limb. 

Now that I’ve corralled them all together, I sort through old photos and yearbooks, recipes and cards, at a slow and inconsistent clip. Sometimes it makes the dreams more intense. In some, she returns to me with a grin, her arms wide open; she’s just been busy, caught up in something for a while. Sometimes the dreams are sinister, her departure propelled by persecution, or worse, indifference. In all the dreams, I long for her wisdom, her hugs. I long for more answers, more help. On the inside, I am still 18 years old, and I have no idea how to survive, much less carry her legacy like a torch. Millions of years of evolution fall flat at my feet.

*****

Today, I sort through an unmarked box my stepdad dropped off the last time I was in town. It’s the last of her stuff, I think. These are old work documents of hers, many from the 80s. There are video tapes labeled “1989 training” and “30^th birthday.” A pair of broken branded sunglasses, a pink and white visor. I move most items immediately to the trash. By now, I’ve figured out what constitutes an important memory and what will just thin the memories out, making them watery and flavorless. I finally come to the bottom of the box, tossing aside a map of Disney’s Epcot and another training manual. I find a couple more cards, one to her from my grandmother, one from my dad to her, and finally, at the very bottom, one from her to me. It has a purple, glittery “13” printed across the front with a wax stain, maybe from a birthday candle, and a big yellow daisy. I don’t remember receiving this card at all. I flip the card open and see her slanted cursive, my heart squeezing. It reads:

“Happy 13^th birthday, sweetie! 

I know this has been a hard year for you. I hated being 13, too.

You are so smart - so much smarter than I was at your age - and mature beyond your years. My wish for you on your 13^th birthday (as you become a teenager!!!) is that you never lose your enthusiasm for life or your willingness to keep trying. You are going to make a lot of mistakes along the way, and that’s OK. If you're trying hard enough, you'll feel like you're failing a lot, but that's the time it's the most important to hold on and strap in. That's your only job. Don't stop trying, don't stop failing, and don't stop following the things that excite you the most. I love you!

P.S. Don't forget that life happens out in the world, and not behind your laptop screen.

Love,

Mom."