The Fragments She Left Behind

I lit my cigarette. The tip glowed red, like the fiery bellows of an angry dragon. 

I took a drag.

During the summertime she’d always take me somewhere fun. Most of the time, it would be a surprise. I might’ve walked through the front door soaking wet from a water balloon fight with the neighborhood kids, but she’d usher me to the car nevertheless. And as I’d sit in the front seat, my clothes soaking through the seatbelt, she’d turn her face to smile at me. 

“We’re going to Disney!” she would shout. We never went to Disney. But it was her way of saying that she’d take me to a fantastical place where only happiness existed, anywhere far away from home. Usually, she’d take me to the beach. As I built sand castles and ran from massive waves, she’d sit under a pretty, pink parasol and smoke a cigarette. I always noticed the striking contrast between the gray of the smoke, which curled seductively towards the sky from under the parasol, and the delicate pink. 

I exhaled. I loved the beach.

I took another drag. 

My mom was quite childish. Like most children, I would often play pretend and let my imagination run wild. I’d always play the part of the hero. My mom was the ferocious dragon in my imaginary kingdom. She’d chase me around the house, roaring loudly as cigarette smoke puffed out from her flared nostrils. I’d swing a cardboard sword around, one that my mom made herself, to slay the monster she had become. We’d laugh and play for hours - and funnily enough, I’d be the one who’d get tired and want to stop before she did. She had so much energy back then. Where did it all come from?

I exhaled. Those were probably the best days of my life.

I took a long drag. 

The leaves were beginning to turn brown and orange that day. I remember it so clearly because I didn’t take my eyes off of the window while they shouted at each other. It was better than staring into the dingy, peeling walls or the blank ceiling. 

“I despise you. What happened to the woman I used to love?” my father said.

“Beats me,” she replied coldly. 

“You’re a terrible goddamn mother. What kind of mother smokes in a household with a young child? How shameful,” he hissed. It was like playing pretend all over again, but he was the dragon this time. I silently wondered what the hero would do. 

“It’s good for her,” she said.

“Excuse me?” he snapped.

“You heard me. She likes it. The smoke makes her happy.” When she said that, my lips curled up the same way that her smoke curled up into the air. That was true. I loved the smell, look, and feel of cigarette smoke because it reminded me of her. 

I exhaled every bit of smoke I could.

Yet, I took another drag. 

It was a few years later that I started to notice that she was changing. She didn’t play with me as much. She didn’t take me out to the beach. At first, I accepted the excuse that she was worried about our family’s budget. But eventually, it dawned on me that she just didn’t want to spend time with me anymore. The little things stuck out to me the most. The fleeting glances, the curt replies, the scarcity of her smiles.

“What’s wrong, momma?” I asked. “Don’t I make you happy anymore?” She looked at me for a while and gave me a weary smile. First, she took a big puff of her cigarette. Then she spoke, and her voice cracked slightly as lovely, ashy smoke spilled forth from her lips with the same ease as her bitter lies.

“Don’t be silly,” she cooed. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re my little hero.” I’m sure that I smiled after she reassured me like that. I bought anything she said at the time. I think I just desperately wanted to feel relieved. 

I exhaled. 

I took a drag. I don’t know exactly when it all turned sour. I don’t think that it’s even possible to pinpoint the moment that things started to go downhill. It was as if time expanded outwardly with an undefinable border…like something gaseous - like cigarette smoke. My mother was sitting on her favorite armchair in the living room, the one with the embroidered roses and songbirds. The T.V. was on, but I could tell that she wasn’t really watching it, only looking at it. I approached her with some hesitation. She was starting to feel like a stranger to me.

“Momma,” I said. I extended my arms and proudly presented a drawing that I made for her. Admittedly, it was just a crudely drawn portrait of her, but it was bordered with gorgeous roses and songbirds. She allowed for a smile to slowly sprawl across her face as she took the artwork from my small, chubby hands. 

“This is great, sweetie.” She took a pull from her cigarette. When she did, some ashes fell and smoldered on my drawing. It charred the edges of her paper smile and left an ugly gray smudge on the pink background. I expected her to wipe it away, or at least apologize. Instead, she set the sheet of paper down on the coffee table next to her and told me to give her some space. I withdrew to the kitchen with watery eyes. My father walked in after me and put a comforting arm around my trembling shoulders. 

“Don’t mind your mother,” he said. “The doctor gave her some medication last week. It’ll make her feel like her normal self in no time.”

I exhaled. “Normal,” huh.

I took a drag. The fighting became louder and more frequent as my teenage years settled in. Naturally, teenagers are inclined to be belligerent and over-reactive. My parents had no time or energy left to understand that after spending most of their leisure time arguing with one another. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I’d slam my fist against the wall and scream for them to just shut up already. It usually initiated a muffled screaming match through the wall. I was glad that there was something between us. I didn’t want to see or smell my mother’s cigarette smoke. It wasn’t a comfort to me anymore. It made me burn with rage, like her lungs probably did after so many years of feeding them poison gas.

I remember that time I snapped and yelled:

“If you hate each other so much, just get a fucking divorce!” 

My parents fell silent. They didn’t try to scream back at me through the wall. My heart thundered as I heard footsteps grow louder and louder until there was a knock on my door. I took a deep breath and invited them in. I planned to face them with dignity. Only my father showed up and entered my room hesitantly. His face portrayed sorrow, not anger. 

“Your mother went to bed,” he explained as he sat down on my bed. I inched away from him. To my surprise, he chuckled a little. “I’m sorry you deal with all of this. But I swear, we’ll make this marriage work. If not for us, then for you.” He kissed my forehead and told me to get some sleep. When the door shut, I let the tears flow mercilessly. It was not my father that I needed to hear that from.

I exhaled, and I had to clear my throat to remind myself not to cry.

I took a drag. I remember that one instance like it was yesterday. I thought that my heart was going to burst. 

“You’re such a disappointment,” she said. She took a drag of her cigarette. She blew the smoke out on my face. “I never even wanted to have you.” It felt like those words sliced me open like a knife. It was like I was bleeding out. But now I know that her words didn’t sting, rather, they suffocated me. They were gaseous and toxic. No substance, just pain. Cigarette smoke.

“You said I was the best thing that ever happened to you. I don’t make you happy anymore?” I don’t really know what I was expecting when I asked that question.

“You really are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Because everything else was complete shit.” She took another drag. Stop smoking. Don’t you ever stop smoking? “You were supposed to make me happy.” Her gaze went off into some faraway place. Mom. It’s YOUR job to feel happy. I can’t feel happy for you. It hurts to know that I’d do anything to make you happy. “How disappointing you are.” Take it back. TAKE IT BACK!

I exhaled. A tear slid down my cheek. I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry today. But I can’t really help it. Thinking about her always makes me feel this way.

I took a drag. When I was seventeen, she left. I still don’t know how she was able to uproot herself so quickly and quietly. I guess she’d been planning it for a while. She took some of her stuff and a lot of my dad’s money. He had to scramble to freeze all of his credit cards. It was kind of funny, in a way. I thought that teenagers were the ones who ran away from home, not their deranged mothers.

For years, I hated her for leaving. You can’t just bring someone into this world and leave them to perish in it. Mom, you were supposed to be the one person in my life who stayed no matter what. But I guess you didn’t see raising me as an obligation. Likewise, it wasn’t my responsibility to make you happy. I’m lucky I still had my dad with me. I don’t know where I’d be without him.

“Your mom would’ve been so proud of you had she stayed to see how beautifully you’ve grown,” he would say. I smiled when he said that, but silently gritted my teeth. He meant well, but he was so wrong. She couldn’t see past her own pride. She puffed her chest up with that smoke.

It was when I was packing for college that I came across the cardboard sword. The color pencil shading was fading and the ends were fraying. I tore it in half and threw the pieces to the ground. As I was stomping on the pieces, a huge wave of despair came over me. I think I started crying my heart out on the spot. I realized that I didn’t need a sword anymore because my dragon had run away. Yet her fire and the smoke billowing from her nostrils remained with me, searing my lungs with every breath. 

“Momma, didn’t I make you happy at all?” I cried.

I exhaled. The orange ring, which had been burning closer and closer to me with every pull, had reached the filter. I dropped the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. The last wisps of smoke unfurled around me, as if giving me a farewell hug. I watched as it dissipated into the endless blue sky, but I did not watch it with resentment in my heart. 

“Y’know those are bad for you, right?” My dad let the front door close behind him with a thud. He sat on the porch steps next to me. I felt the urge to inch away.

“They’re my last connections to her,” I replied dryly. He sighed and folded his hands together, and propped his elbows up on his knees. He knew better than to encroach upon the topic of my mother, so I knew he wouldn’t nag me any further. I smiled. 

“But don’t worry,” I reassured him. “That was my last cigarette. I’m quitting today.”