My mom died when I was ten. I struggle every day trying to make sure I remember her. It’s hard though, considering I never got the chance to know her as a person. I was too young to realize she was more than just my mom. Everything I know about her or remember are just hard facts.
Her hair was naturally straight but she had a perm.
Her forehead was always covered by bangs.
She was Italian and Irish.
She was anywhere from 5’2”-5’4” depending on who you ask.
Cows were her favorite animals.
She had a cow oven mitt; it had a tongue.
She pierced her tongue and couldn’t talk for the rest of the day because of it.
A naked, green-haired plastic troll stood on a desk in her room.
Green was her favorite color.
Sometimes she wore a New York Yankees baseball cap.
We used to watch Gargoyles together.
She listened to Babyface, TLC, Boyz II Men, and Garth Brooks.
One thing that’s almost tangible for me, the main thing that really brings her to life, is our laugh. This booming sound from within is an exact replica of hers. I hear myself and I picture her sitting at the dining room table, on the phone, with her voice carrying throughout the apartment.
It’s hard for me to know if I even look like her, mostly because she isn’t around for people to compare me to. I like to think that if my mom were around and we went out together, people would tell me how much I look like her. Here I am with my blonde hair and blue eyes, writing with my left hand, being the complete opposite of what my mom was, and not knowing if I’m anything like her.
Girls surround me bleating about how their mother is their best friend and I bite my tongue to keep from crying. They talk about how their mother is their rock and that they wouldn’t know what to do without her. Sometimes they remember that I’m mom-less and turn to me with big eyes before saying, “Oh. Sorry.”
All I can think about is how much my mom is not here. I’m smothered by my need for her. I needed her to tell me what to do when I first became a woman. I can’t think if she would calmly explain what to do or if she would laugh about it to make me more comfortable. I needed her to reassure me that I wasn’t dying when the blood wouldn’t stop and the cramps left me crumpled on my bed. On the days where I couldn’t uncurl myself from the fetal position, I see myself lying on her bed with her watching Gargoyles.
When I first got my heart broken, and I was sobbing into my pillow, I like to think that she would be getting ready to drive to his house and giving her a piece of her mind, or telling him how stupid he is or that he would never get anyone better. Most of all, it would be her consoling me and feeling what I felt, instead of my dad’s cold hand and vacant reassurances.
I imagine her at my graduation, her smile wide enough for the both of us, screaming in the crowd as I walk across the stage. Afterward, I would tower over her, diploma in hand, and she would be wearing heels so she didn’t look so short next to me. At my wedding that I never imagined having, she would fix my veil and tell me I was making a huge mistake with the corners of her eyes crinkled by her smile. She would cry but tell me there was something bothering her eyes as she tried to hold back tears.
It’s the little things that make me realize how much I need and miss her. I watch in awe as my roommate cooks, telling me everything she learned was from her mother. I cringe when people talk about what their first words were, knowing that I’ll never know mine. I try to imagine what our relationship would be like if she was still alive. I like to think that I could talk to her about anything and being able to have that companionship so many others seem to have with their mothers. I stretch my imagination to the brink when I try to think of who she really was as a person.
I walk around wearing her necklaces, cozying up into her flannel and buying things that replicate hers, trying not to lose her.
My sister, Jennifer was standing over my bed in the dark of my room. I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to play school like she always did, or draw puppies her way. I was tired. If I got up, I’d have to listen to her and do whatever she made me do because she was two years older than me with a temper.
“You can go eat or something. Just stay up with me.”
She knew I wouldn’t say no to food. I remembered the chocolate cake we had and with that, I threw the covers off of me and rolled out of bed, making sure to act like I really didn’t want to.
We walked out into the living room and sat on the couch. Jennifer didn’t say a word to me. Instead, she sat with her knees up to her chin and stared at the blank TV. I tried to sit with her but couldn’t keep myself from fidgeting. It got to the point where I too stared at the TV trying to imagine that my favorite shows were on. I stayed like that for as long as I could. Everything was still and I felt like I was being a burden every time my breath got too heavy or I switched positions. Jennifer sat unmoving.
I sighed heavily and threw my head back on the couch cushion. I stayed like that until Jennifer was the one who broke the silence.
“Go eat something,” she said, never looking in my direction.
I pushed myself off of the couch and searched for the chocolate cake but must have only dreamt about it. I sat sitting on the kitchen floor, staring into the pantry, boxes surrounding me like a moat. The phone rang and I realized how late it was. I immediately wondered who it was and why they were calling.
“No. Nicole’s up. I don’t know. She’s in the hospital. I don’t know. Okay. Yeah. Bye.”
“Who was that? Who’s in the hospital?”
“That was Uncle Tony,” she whispered, her voice cracking just enough for me to be concerned, “Mom’s in the hospital.”
Her words weighed me down and I shrunk closer to the floor.
“Why?” I asked but received no reply. I left the pantry and sat back down on the couch next to Jennifer. I didn’t know what we were waiting for, or who, but staring at the black TV screen seemed like the best way to do it. Hours must’ve passed before I finally knew anything.
My grandmother walked through the front door first, with my dad trailing behind. It was then that I realized I didn’t even notice he was gone. Jen and I were still seated on the couch and our grandmother sat between us. I was too concentrated on my dad, who took a chair from the dining room and pulled it over to us. He seemed to let go at that point, falling into the chair like gravity was a puppeteer and his performance was over. His head hung low, almost touching his chest and he seemed to shrink into himself.
I focused my gaze back at my grandmother, who was trying to pull me and Jennifer closer into her.
“Girls,” she started, “I need to tell you something. Just sit down here. Sit next to me.”
“No!” Jennifer leaped from the couch, “Just tell me what happened.”
I watched as my grandmother took a deep breath, casting her eyes down. I couldn’t help but wonder why no one would look at us.
“Your mother,” she began, and I felt my chest tighten, “she’s gone.”
Jennifer sprang from the couch and burst into tears while I just sat there. I looked away. Away from my grandmother and wailing sister. Away from my father who was just barely there. I don’t know what I was looking for but it hit me. My chest closed in and I couldn’t breathe. My body became rigid and unfamiliar. I felt the stunning silence from the blow that came after my grandmother’s words and the shock made it so I couldn’t feel anything. Then all at once, I crashed. Like a black hole my body buckled and closed in on itself just as my grandmother pulled me in before my head could hit my knees. The tears came fast and hard and I was already choking on them.
I just saw her. She was here only a few hours before. We had a pillow fight as she was getting ready to go out for the night, her red blouse flowing against her white blanket as Jen and I rolled around the bed, pillows grasped in our hands. I heaved with guilt, realizing I never said goodbye. I was too busy playing with my toys.
I half turned my head towards her as she was heading out of the door.
“Goodbye, Nicole!” she yelled from the doorway, a hint of sarcasm in her voice as she was getting ready to step out into the night, ready to leave my life forever.
“Bye Mom!” I bet she looked beautiful.
I looked at my father who was sobbing into his hands. I have never seen him cry and it frightened me. I walked over to him and put my little hand on his back, trying to console him but also keeping my distance. His massive paw reached around my waist and pulled me in.
Later, we watched the news about my mom’s accident. There were more facts:
My mom and her friends were pushing it to safety.
It was a four lane highway.
Three lanes of cars were stopped.
A taxi driver came careening around the traffic.
She never saw him coming.
It was a three car accident.
The news showed the car my mom was pushing as the reporter said, “The car was travelling across the highway without its lights on…” They showed the car with the lights clearly on. They showed the side of the road where it was littered with broken glass and a stain that looked like blood.
At the funeral, so many people came. People I had only met once and some I didn’t even know. They were all here to mourn my mom and say goodbye. This was my chance to say goodbye as well but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to see her like this. I stayed outside until my grandmother and Aunt escorted me in, urging that I had to say goodbye. I agreed meekly.
They pulled me down the aisle. Everything in the room was too pink for a funeral. It should’ve been green. I resisted. I started to lean back but felt my family’s hands around my arms, my waist, dragging me closer. Halfway down the aisle and I changed my mind. I didn’t want to see her but I didn’t know how to say it. The casket was getting closer and closer until finally I was looking down at my mom in a box. Everything was wrong. Her hair was too flat. Her makeup was too light. Her lips were closed too tightly. Whoever did this clearly didn’t know my mom. They wrapped her up with herself; her hands clung too tightly to her stomach. Even her smell was wrong.
I knew what they had done. It was obvious. They sewed her lips shut so her mouth didn’t sit agape as people came to touch her face. The long sleeves of her shirt covered any bruises or cuts that she had and the lower part of the casket was closed for obvious reasons. I looked at this stranger and a thought came into my mind, It was a three car accident. Her hands were clasped as they were because someone molded them there. Her fingers stuck together like clay before it’s burned. My mom was clay, and this is what she looked like before they burned her.
I ran out of the room still wishing I said goodbye to her on the night she went out. The person my grandmother and aunt coerced me to say goodbye to was not my mom. When I’m not trying to remember who JoAnn Marine was, I try to make sure she’d at least be proud of me. I cling to other people’s mothers like it will fill this hole within. Not as a replacement but for an idea of what I’m missing. It’s not fair and I can’t help but envy what it means to have your mother in your life. I want to know what it feels like to say my mom is a rock, my best friend, and that I don’t know what I’d do without her. Instead, I look at other people’s moms like I did that blank TV screen and try to portray who my mom would be through them.
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