sheet, letting my tears soak the coarse fabric.
“Mama, I just want to know you’re still here.” My voice is muffled against the bed. I lift my gaze to look at her. Can she hear me? Deep down does she know I’m here, know what’s happening around her?
I stare at my fingers, alien to me, always hiding away in my pockets or gloves. I watch them hover like spirits over Mama’s face. Then slowly they come down and make contact.
Papa and I drive home in complete silence, each left to our own thoughts. A thin rain begins to fall, and the only sound is the car wipers slapping against the windshield. The signals and brake lights from the cars ahead of us are indistinguishable blurs of color. The sky is a drab shade of gray.
The grandfather clock just chimes six p.m. when we walk in the front door.
Six o’clock. I was supposed to do something at six.
The aroma of cornbread and chili permeates the air. “Smells like Helen’s been cooking,” Papa says. He pulls off his overcoat and lays it across the dining table. I am already halfway up the stairs.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, and I mean it even though my stomach rumbles.
“Me neither,” he replies, but he glances toward the kitchen with a tell-tale look of hunger in his eyes. He looks back at me. “Are you all right?”
Am I all right? Did he really just ask me that? My mother happens to be in a coma, but I’m just dandy. What about you?
“I’m good,” I say.
Papa pulls off his black leather gloves one finger at a time. He holds them in one hand and absentmindedly slaps them against his other palm.
“I should know what to say to you,” he says finally. “I’ve run a major corporation and I’m going into politics. I always know what to say, right? This has been a rough day—for both of us.”
He pauses, waiting for me to respond. My robe is damp from the rain, and I’m starting to feel the cold against my skin. I want a hot shower. I want to go to bed. The chili smell makes me feel ill.
Papa continues, “Your mother had an insulin reaction in her sleep. You heard what Dr. Zimmerman said. Too much alcohol, too many sleeping pills, too much insulin.” He comes to the stairs. He’s close enough to touch me, but he doesn’t. He tries to smile, but his lips won’t obey.
“Mira,” he says gently, “you did everything you could. Don’t blame yourself.”
Don’t blame myself. How can I not blame myself? What’s more, how can Papa not blame himself? Isn’t it natural for people to blame themselves when tragedy strikes?
Papa walks away and slips into the kitchen and I continue up the stairs. In my room, I take off my robe, letting it fall to the floor in a soft, fuzzy, wet heap. Then I crawl into my bed. I spy my cell phone on the nightstand—not where I left it. I’m sure Helen must have found it and brought it in here for me. The screen shows I have a text. Reaching for it, I power it down. I’m not in the mood for messages tonight.
All I want to do is close my eyes and let Mama’s memories fill me up. The initial jolt of her psyche colliding with mine was like the stab of pain you get from an electric shock—only times a hundred. But after the shock subsided, the floodgates of my mind burst open and a deluge of everything Mama entered my skull. The memories came in a jumble, but lying here now I have time to sort them out, to reflect on each one.
I see her as a child, the youngest of five, happy and loved by parents who adored her. Her mother was affectionate and her father was even-tempered and kind. Though I saw no evidence of wealth in Mama’s memories, she lacked nothing to make her feel safe and loved at home.
On her fourth birthday, she got a yellow lab pup named Squiggles. She and the pup grew up together. He was her best friend, guardian and confidant until he died quietly in his sleep when Mama was fifteen. Losing him was the second greatest sorrow she ever experienced. The greatest came not
“Mama, I just want to know you’re still here.” My voice is muffled against the bed. I lift my gaze to look at her. Can she hear me? Deep down does she know I’m here, know what’s happening around her?
I stare at my fingers, alien to me, always hiding away in my pockets or gloves. I watch them hover like spirits over Mama’s face. Then slowly they come down and make contact.
Papa and I drive home in complete silence, each left to our own thoughts. A thin rain begins to fall, and the only sound is the car wipers slapping against the windshield. The signals and brake lights from the cars ahead of us are indistinguishable blurs of color. The sky is a drab shade of gray.
The grandfather clock just chimes six p.m. when we walk in the front door.
Six o’clock. I was supposed to do something at six.
The aroma of cornbread and chili permeates the air. “Smells like Helen’s been cooking,” Papa says. He pulls off his overcoat and lays it across the dining table. I am already halfway up the stairs.
“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, and I mean it even though my stomach rumbles.
“Me neither,” he replies, but he glances toward the kitchen with a tell-tale look of hunger in his eyes. He looks back at me. “Are you all right?”
Am I all right? Did he really just ask me that? My mother happens to be in a coma, but I’m just dandy. What about you?
“I’m good,” I say.
Papa pulls off his black leather gloves one finger at a time. He holds them in one hand and absentmindedly slaps them against his other palm.
“I should know what to say to you,” he says finally. “I’ve run a major corporation and I’m going into politics. I always know what to say, right? This has been a rough day—for both of us.”
He pauses, waiting for me to respond. My robe is damp from the rain, and I’m starting to feel the cold against my skin. I want a hot shower. I want to go to bed. The chili smell makes me feel ill.
Papa continues, “Your mother had an insulin reaction in her sleep. You heard what Dr. Zimmerman said. Too much alcohol, too many sleeping pills, too much insulin.” He comes to the stairs. He’s close enough to touch me, but he doesn’t. He tries to smile, but his lips won’t obey.
“Mira,” he says gently, “you did everything you could. Don’t blame yourself.”
Don’t blame myself. How can I not blame myself? What’s more, how can Papa not blame himself? Isn’t it natural for people to blame themselves when tragedy strikes?
Papa walks away and slips into the kitchen and I continue up the stairs. In my room, I take off my robe, letting it fall to the floor in a soft, fuzzy, wet heap. Then I crawl into my bed. I spy my cell phone on the nightstand—not where I left it. I’m sure Helen must have found it and brought it in here for me. The screen shows I have a text. Reaching for it, I power it down. I’m not in the mood for messages tonight.
All I want to do is close my eyes and let Mama’s memories fill me up. The initial jolt of her psyche colliding with mine was like the stab of pain you get from an electric shock—only times a hundred. But after the shock subsided, the floodgates of my mind burst open and a deluge of everything Mama entered my skull. The memories came in a jumble, but lying here now I have time to sort them out, to reflect on each one.
I see her as a child, the youngest of five, happy and loved by parents who adored her. Her mother was affectionate and her father was even-tempered and kind. Though I saw no evidence of wealth in Mama’s memories, she lacked nothing to make her feel safe and loved at home.
On her fourth birthday, she got a yellow lab pup named Squiggles. She and the pup grew up together. He was her best friend, guardian and confidant until he died quietly in his sleep when Mama was fifteen. Losing him was the second greatest sorrow she ever experienced. The greatest came not
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