Beautiful Ghosts

My steps on the wet sidewalk are heavy. The rain pours down, hitting my tightly pulled back hair and mingling with the tears on my cheeks. My heart feels like it’s a glass jar someone just threw onto the ground, pieces everywhere, sharp and jagged. My sobs are loud and audible. On any other day, I would be embarrassed, but today, I don’t care. Inside, I’m an empty, cold shell. The one person I loved, was gone.

When they lowered my mother into the ground, I had felt numb. I had made myself feel numb. Now, I let my feelings flow freely, giving me permission to cry. The sky could fall on me and I wouldn’t care. Life without her was meaningless. She’s gone. I reach my tiny apartment, and shakily unlock the door. Once I’m inside, I immediately collapse onto the bed, not caring that I’m wetting the sheets. The pain inside me is so much, too much, and I can’t get rid of it. I put my hand in my mouth and bite down, hard, just to release a little bit of the pain. Who knew death could hurt so much?

The next few days are a blur. I stay in my apartment, in my bed, only getting out of it to stuff some cake in my mouth. I don’t care anymore. I had turned off my phone so I wouldn’t have to read the hundreds of fake sympathy messages people would send me. God, how am I supposed to function now that she’s gone? How will I live? Can I live? I look at the knife on the counter. Should I?

That last question is dismissed without a second thought. How could I betray all the hard work my mother put into raising me by ending my life just like that? I’m the only person carrying her mark, her memories, now. I can’t let her be forgotten like that.

After about a week of sleepless, teary nights, and painfilled days, I hear a knock on my door. I stumble towards it, not bothering to try and fix my hair or wear something other than old sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I open it, and standing there, with a face that’s almost my mother’s, is my aunt. I gasp, and step back in astonishment. I haven’t seen Aunt Becca in years. She lived all the way on the other side of the county, and with the amount of money we earned, it was hard to visit.

“What... what are you doing here?” I ask. She looks at me with a somber smile and love in her eyes.

“Jasmine, I’m worried about you, of course. Why else would I be here?” Her voice is so warm, so gentle, and so like my mother’s that I break down crying almost immediately. She comes in and closes warm arms around me, hugging me in a way that I didn’t know I had wanted, but suddenly knew I had missed.

“She…she’s gone. I can’t believe she’s gone.” I gasp my words out, trying to breathe in between my sobs.

“I know, honey, I know. We’ll get through this. I promise you, we will.” Her words are a comfort and my sobs quieten.

“Thanks, Aunt Becca.”

“Of course, honey.”

Later, as we sit on my bed, she springs another surprise.

“Actually, there is one more reason I came.” I turn toward her and lift an eyebrow. She continues, “Your mother left me something to give to you.”

           I draw in a sharp breath. “What is it? Do I want to know?” Aunt Becca reaches into her bag and takes out a worn book with a brown leather cover. I take it and breathe in the familiar scent. “What is it?” I ask, even though I already know. I just want her to confirm it.

           “It’s your mother’s journal. After she got the diagnosis from the doctor, she immediately called me and told me to give this to you after she…” The unspoken words at the end of her sentence hang heavy in the air. I grimace and look down at the book. It’s familiar. Many times, I had seen her at her desk, writing in this with a smile. It gave her pleasure, to record her life in words.

Aunt Becca gets up. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Call me tomorrow!” I look up and nod my head. “Will do.”

After she’s gone, I open the worn book with awe. The pages range from yellowing paper to crisp new white. I realize that she had to add pages towards her later years, she wrote so much. I skim over the pages, not looking for anything in particular, reliving her married life and my childhood through her eyes. Her wedding day. My birth. My first smile. Then I come across a passage:

Today was a long day for me, but when I saw Jasmine smiling up at me with those big brown eyes, everything else went away. My jasmine flower, you are the most precious treasure the universe has given me. I would give anything for you, do anything. You are my heart, my soul, my world. I love you.

A tear drops onto the page, and I realize I’m crying. But this is a different sort of crying. These tears are filled with the love my mother gave me. I smile, the first time I’ve smiled in a long time, and wipe the tears away. I continue flipping pages, until I come across another passage, but one that makes me shake with anger and clench my hands in fists. It’s about the day my bastard father left with another girl. I can feel my mother’s pain radiating from the page. She loved him, and he betrayed her.

I read the journal every single day, my mother’s words comforting me, even though she’s gone. Then I see words that make me gasp.

Today was Jasmine’s first ballet class. She looked so adorable in her pink leotard. It almost makes me sad, reminding me of my days.

What did that mean? I remember my ballet days. I started before kindergarten but quit after high school started because I was just too busy, and quite frankly, and I didn’t have any talent. My mom was sad but let me choose my path. But… did this passage mean she was sad for a different reason? I quickly reached over and grabbed my phone, dialing Aunt Becca’s phone number.

She picked up immediately. “Honey? What is it? Are you hurt? Do you need me to call 911?” I chuckle.

“I’m fine, Aunt. Really. I just have a question… about my mother.”

           Aunt Becca let out a breath. “So you’ve gotten to that part.”

           “How did you know?”

           “There was only one part in your mother’s life that she kept hidden from you.” My breathing got faster. “Just tell me, please.”

           Aunt Becca’s voice grew softer, sadder.

           “Jasmine… your mother was a ballet dancer.”

           What? WHAT?

           “I’m sorry, Aunt Becca, I think I just hallucinated. What did you just say?”

           She laughed sadly. “You heard me right, Jasmine. Your mother was a ballet dancer for the Royal Ballet in England. But she gave it up to come to America. At first, it was to follow that father of yours, but when she realized she was pregnant, she stayed here to raise you.”

           My breaths were short and fast. “She gave up her career… this wonderful life… for me?”

           “No, no it’s not like that dear, please don’t blame yourself.”

           “But who else do I have to blame? She sacrificed her whole entire life for me. How am just supposed to overlook that? And… and she never even told me.”

           I’m crying again. Tears for the lost life my mother had, tears for the happiness she could never have if she hadn’t had me.  

           “Listen here, young lady. Your mom was never happier when she was with you. No, not even when she was performing. You were the sun her world revolved around. Do not let yourself be the asteroid that destroys her memories.”

           I give a weak chuckle. “Wow, Aunt, heavy on the space metaphors, are we?”

           She laughs. “But seriously, listen here kiddo. Do what you have to do to honor your mom’s memories. She will always be proud of you, no matter what.”

           I smile. “Thanks, Aunt. I needed that.”

           “Anytime, Jasmine.”

           A few days later, I’m staring at the front door of a ballet studio, feeling stupid. When did I ever think I could do this? How is taking ballet classes going to help me? But suddenly, I feel my mom’s arms around me, and I hear her voice.

           “Jasmine, no matter what, I will always be proud of you.”

           I stand up taller. I can do this. This will be the day that I finally bring back a part of me that my mom apparently secretly shared, too.

           The studio is light and airy, with a marley floor and mirrors all around. It was beautiful. I take a place at the barre, feeling both at home and an alien. The teacher is an older woman with dyed blonde hair.

           “Alright everyone, let’s begin. Reverance please.”

           I tondu and plie to the right and then to the left, all the years of ballet I took as a child rushing back into me. As I stood by the barre, listening to the teacher call out the exercise, I could my mother’s hand on my shoulder. Even though I wasn’t any good at this, and the teacher kept yelling at me to turn out, I kept going. I didn’t quit. Because, I knew, no matter what, my mother would be proud of me.

           “Mom,” I whisper under my breath. “I love you too.”