The Light She Gave Away

"What do I do?"

Silence. Stillness. I had to ask.

--

"Please, mom."

My mom and I had always been close. I idolized her. She was strong and gentle, outspoken and kind. She was practical.

Due dates marked on the calendar, checks sent in the mail two weeks before they're due. She's one of those people that doesn't hesitate to call customer service when she doesn't understand something, and by the end, they'd thank her genuinely for calling.

That's never been me.

I learned early on my dad was more of a follower. Laid-back, go with the flow. My mom loved him for that for a while, but she came to hate his disorganization. It stressed her out.

So she took over, told him what to do then did it for him days later when so many clean clothes piled up in the basket that he had nothing to wear.

It wasn't long after that he gave up entirely. He started sleeping through the days, going out for a drink with the boys all night. It was the city after all. He wasn't especially bad. The younger crowd in the city were used to living life at night, going bar to club to IHOP to bed. My parents met on the subway at 2 a.m. after all. But suddenly it wasn't exciting anymore. It was irresponsible.

He picked her, he picked a more "grown-up" life, one with rent and a baby. Now it was a problem.

"Help me."

Pretty soon my mom, trying to support both of us on an executive assistant's pay, gave him an ultimatum. The next morning he and his favorite beer mug were gone, the ring on the table the only real evidence he left behind. We haven't heard from him since.

When my dad left, she took a job in a small town north of the city to save on rent. I was 2. In a lot of ways, I belong here. It's quiet, hidden, like me. But there is a part of me that still longs for the movement of the city. Noise to drown out the echo of my thoughts.

She and I are close. It's hard not to be when the only Friday night entertainment is a big tarp hung up in the schoolhouse's cafeteria and called a theater. But we came to love it. The people were welcoming, the land beautiful, and everything felt at peace.

In the city, she told me, it always felt like we were fighting something, like we banded subconsciously together to defeat the embarrassment of changing, of introspection. Everyone wanted to be better, but only in the eyes of others, and only if it was immediate.

Here, there's an honesty. If you're a bad person inside, everyone will come to know it. There, you could go your whole life playing a part and no one looked close enough to notice. You could disappear and everyone would forget about you in a month. Here, there was the accountability of a small populace. You could retreat, but you could never hide. She liked that. She liked telling the truth.

"Tell me what to do."

My mom's office experience somehow translated into managing the grocery store for our aging neighbors. I walked the aisles after school, eaves dropping, straightening soup cans. She had a way with people. I never had that.

She was the kind of the person that would push you to be your best. She signed me up for the talent show when I was too scared. She stood backstage with me, giving me a last spur of courage before I walked out and sang to an audience of my peers and their parents. She made her way to the middle seat in the front row. She sat down and nodded calmly at me. I could do it. She knew I could. So I did.

She was a giver and a saver. She was a beautiful combination. When it came time for college, she took me to my dorm in the city. She stocked my cabinets with spices and tupperware. I never had to worry about tuition or rent or food. She'd been planning since she found out she was pregnant. And even though my dad leaving threatened that, she found a way to make it work. To give me a future.

It wasn't fair.

"I need you."

I was driving when I got the call. My hands shook before they even finished the sentence, but I tried to keep it from my voice. They didn't think I understood, and took the time to remind me it was serious. I reassured them. I hung up. And I screamed the whole way home. My husband met me at the door, placed a hand on my back, and led me to his truck.

The hospital was over an hour away. My phone rang, concerned and nosy names flashing across the screen. I forgot my charger, and as my battery depleted I lost contact with the world. I turned off the ringer, that sound already driving itself into my mind, grating into my sanity. I was waiting for the call. The one that said she'd passed before I made it. The one that said I wouldn't get to say goodbye.

"I'm sorry."

Once we made it, we were taken back to a private waiting room. The air conditioner seemed to blow directly on me, no matter how many seats I switched to. I felt my husband's hand brush into mine. He grasped it firmly, bracingly. Finally they took us back.

I paused at the door. Her vibrancy was cut. The light surrounding her poured in from the window, but it seemed absorbed by her dull skin, shining only off the fresh blood above her left eyebrow.

This wasn't her. I took a step back. A doctor rounded the corner and sat us down.

"Thank you."

She had three weeks. Three weeks to tell me what to do. Three weeks to wake up and prove everyone wrong, like she always did.

That made her silence so much more stifling.

Three weeks ago, she hit a pole head on driving home from work. Three weeks ago, I was again pushed on stage, this time to make the worst decision I'll ever make. The curtains pulled back, revealing a naked, vulnerable, terrified version of me.

I was on the stage for my sympathetic audience. Their rehearsed sadness, their trite dialogue. They played the part perfectly as they watched me on the stage, anxious to see me break, to see me hurt. Offering thoughts and prayers at all the right moments, excited to have something to make them interesting when they leave. And they do leave. They walk out pleased with their own act, leaving me on the stage, alone, the light still blinding me.

But I was ready.

A whisper from backstage, "You can do it."

I see her, a memory silhouetted against the end of a long, dark tunnel.

My husband's calloused hand grabbed onto mine as hers slipped quietly out of the other.

The strength she nurtured ready to catch me. I took the pen; I was ready. She was ready.

"I love you."

The doctor made his way to the ventilator and dropped the curtain as I bow next to her bed, wetting the cloth with my heartbreak.