“You’re such a disgrace to this family!”
I should be taken aback by her words, but instead, they don’t sting as much as I expect them to. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I told her that it was her choice to have me. I stare at her curly hair, the scarlet ringlets bouncing as she shakes, her head cradled in her hands. I should probably leave before she starts crying. Too late. There are small spots where the fabric turns darker on her blue scrubs. Told myself so many times that I should run away. Escape this hell that is my life. Once, I even packed a bag. But I never did get around to leaving her to toil here.
If I slam the door to my room she’ll come running up the stairs, and I’ll have to face another hour of lecturing. I close the door, making sure to create as little noise as possible. My room is a pigsty. Books everywhere. If I peeled each piece of clothing off of the little mountain that’s formed in the corner, I could probably reveal everything I’ve worn since last week. I topple onto my bed and look at the dusty picture frame propped up neatly on my nightstand. It’s five-year-old me sitting on a man’s lap, my mother standing next to us, dressed in a vibrant floral gown. I look at the man. He sports a neat comb-over and striking eyes. This is supposedly my father. He’s never come to any of my performances or said Happy Birthday to me, but this man is my dad. I look at my mother. She’s so young in love. Little did she know that her love life wrecked this child of hers. I look out my window. One lonely street lamp among a dark blue sky. It lights up the grass around it in a yellowish hue. The outside seems so welcoming now.
Before I can think, my hands start rummaging through drawers, exploring their contents, and stuffing clothes into a small drawstring bag. I throw in all sorts of things without looking. Deodorant, toothbrush, a sad tube of toothpaste, some rubber bands, and a few granola bars. My mother shouldn’t call me downstairs for another thirty minutes, so I look around my room. Clothes everywhere. The bookshelf is tilted, almost. Before I leave, I may as well tidy up in here. It should give at least a little joy to my mother. My odd twisted way of lightening the mood, perhaps. I pick up my clothes and this trance overwhelms me. I can almost imagine my mom opening the door to see her daughter, sitting on the floor, folding clothes. After I fold everything, I organize my bookshelf, leaving a piece of notebook paper and a blue pen out on the shelf. I glance at all the books on the shelf. Mostly picture books and chapter books. The occasional young-adult novel. My mom bought me these back when she still loved me. I glance at my phone. 8:23 pm. Mom will call me down to dinner or something in a few minutes. I write until I fill the page, a few tears falling onto the paper, creating an inky mess. As I come to a close, my pen lingers on the paper. This may be the last time I see my mom. I end the letter with Love and Forever Will, Your Daughter.
I should be taken aback by her words, but instead, they don’t sting as much as I expect them to. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I told her that it was her choice to have me. I stare at her curly hair, the scarlet ringlets bouncing as she shakes, her head cradled in her hands. I should probably leave before she starts crying. Too late. There are small spots where the fabric turns darker on her blue scrubs. Told myself so many times that I should run away. Escape this hell that is my life. Once, I even packed a bag. But I never did get around to leaving her to toil here.
If I slam the door to my room she’ll come running up the stairs, and I’ll have to face another hour of lecturing. I close the door, making sure to create as little noise as possible. My room is a pigsty. Books everywhere. If I peeled each piece of clothing off of the little mountain that’s formed in the corner, I could probably reveal everything I’ve worn since last week. I topple onto my bed and look at the dusty picture frame propped up neatly on my nightstand. It’s five-year-old me sitting on a man’s lap, my mother standing next to us, dressed in a vibrant floral gown. I look at the man. He sports a neat comb-over and striking eyes. This is supposedly my father. He’s never come to any of my performances or said Happy Birthday to me, but this man is my dad. I look at my mother. She’s so young in love. Little did she know that her love life wrecked this child of hers. I look out my window. One lonely street lamp among a dark blue sky. It lights up the grass around it in a yellowish hue. The outside seems so welcoming now.
Before I can think, my hands start rummaging through drawers, exploring their contents, and stuffing clothes into a small drawstring bag. I throw in all sorts of things without looking. Deodorant, toothbrush, a sad tube of toothpaste, some rubber bands, and a few granola bars. My mother shouldn’t call me downstairs for another thirty minutes, so I look around my room. Clothes everywhere. The bookshelf is tilted, almost. Before I leave, I may as well tidy up in here. It should give at least a little joy to my mother. My odd twisted way of lightening the mood, perhaps. I pick up my clothes and this trance overwhelms me. I can almost imagine my mom opening the door to see her daughter, sitting on the floor, folding clothes. After I fold everything, I organize my bookshelf, leaving a piece of notebook paper and a blue pen out on the shelf. I glance at all the books on the shelf. Mostly picture books and chapter books. The occasional young-adult novel. My mom bought me these back when she still loved me. I glance at my phone. 8:23 pm. Mom will call me down to dinner or something in a few minutes. I write until I fill the page, a few tears falling onto the paper, creating an inky mess. As I come to a close, my pen lingers on the paper. This may be the last time I see my mom. I end the letter with Love and Forever Will, Your Daughter.
I want my mother to forget me. I want her to start anew, maybe get a husband, and have a kid she actually loves. All my life I’ve only been a burden to her. This decision is in no way going to hurt my mom. I think she realizes that this was going to happen someday. I’ve made it 15 years, and that’s enough. Of course, I’m going to miss her, but if I love her, this is what I have to do. I open my window and throw the bag down onto the lawn. Thank God I didn’t pack anything fragile.
“Rache, dinner!”
8:30 pm. Right on cue. I kiss my room goodbye, making sure to linger on the photo frame. Mom doesn’t even look at me when I come to the table. There’s a paper plate with a ladle full of cold pasta. I don’t even need to look at it, to tell that it’s obviously bland. I watch my mother as she stares at her phone, subconsciously taking bites of pasta and then retracting with disgust. And then taking a bite again. I take a bite of my own and silently agree with my mom. What is this bitter aftertaste? It may be my last full meal so I stuff up anyway. After I finish, I throw away my plate in the trash. I look up at the fridge, a billion little magnets and knick-knacks hanging from it. One of them is a magnet I’d made for my mom on Mother’s Day in second grade. It’s a tiny picture of toothless me holding up a sign that says Love you, Mom! I look over at my mother. She’s still absorbed in her phone. I wish that she would come here and hug me. I wish she would stop me from leaving. I look at her closer. All those years of complaining and lament. The negligence. The abandon. I look at a set of magnets. They’re alphabet ones that spell out S-M-I-L-E. Mom used to spell out one positive word every day. I look at her again, but this time I smile. I smile so big that it hurts. Not as much as it hurts me inside. I scream at her in my head, “Mama, look at me! I’m smiling! You told me to, and so I did, Mama, I smiled! Mama, won’t you smile too?” At this point, I’m crying, fighting with myself for having second doubts. How could I feel so far away from her?
Talk to her, you idiot! Tell her what she deserves. I wipe my tears and turn towards her, taking a step.
Forgive her. Everyone makes mistakes. Let her know that it’s okay. I glance at the time. 9:06 pm.
“Mom.”
She doesn’t even take her eyes off her phone.
“Mhm.”
I look at her.
“I love you.”
She scrunches up her face, illuminated by the white screen on her phone.
“What?”
She obviously didn’t hear me. I shuffle to the living room and sit on our couch, the plastic cover squeaking with my every move. There are no photos on the wall. There’s no cheesy saying painted on the door or inspirational wall art. Just gray, dull, paint. Beige sofa still wrapped in cellophane. An empty living room. If I leave now, she won’t notice until tomorrow morning. I look at my home one more time, the gray color oddly comforting me, and I step outside into the world.
I grab the bag and stare at my Mom. She’s still on her phone. If she looks, up she can probably see me clearly, holding this bag, and making a decision that’s too big for me to make. Am I Insane? I shouldn’t have to think this hard. My feet take me down the road until I’m at our neighborhood’s entrance. There are two ways to go. One will take me to the park. The other will take me to the convenience store. I could get food there. I make a right and start walking.
It’s scary, walking alone. I expect a clown or bear to come attack me from behind. Maybe I’ll get kidnapped by some man cruising in his car. Nevertheless, I keep walking. The familiar hue of streetlights starts flooding in and I feel a bit safer. My shoulders relax as I spot a park bench. This isn’t just any old bench. This was the bench that Mom and I used to sit in, every time we came to the park. I can almost feel the presence of younger me licking an ice cream cone in this very exact spot. Or when I would tell Mom about school on days we couldn’t get ice cream. This park bench seems like it would be somewhat comfortable. I may as well spend one last night with my memories before I forget them altogether.
My eyes adjust to the lighter sky as I wake up. Surprisingly, I actually slept. The bench seems cushiony, however. There’s a little pressure around my shoulder area and I look up to see a hand there. Veiny, fragile, and wrinkly. A few rings, including a small painted one. I gave Mom this ring in kindergarten. My eyes trace up to her arm and stop at her wet, blue scrubs. Her red ringlets have lost their bounce. I watch her tired face and the way she peacefully snoozes against the streetlight. And that’s when I tell her.
“I forgive you.”
I know she probably didn’t hear me, so I slump onto her shoulder and try to sleep again. I feel her hand slide over my shoulder. It feels like I’m six again, my tired mother cradling me. I hear the faintest whisper.
“Rachel, I’m sorry for being such a negligent mother. All I can do is hope that you truly forgive me and that we can start over. “
I snuggle in closer with her. Turns out she still loves me. I Do Forgive You.
“Yes, Mom. That would be nice.” The birds start chirping as the sun starts rising over the hills. It’s freezing outside, but oddly I feel right at home. At about 4 in the morning, mom and I decide to take the walk back home. We don’t talk to each other at all but it feels nice. My arm in hers as we listen to the birds sing and the early morning traffic. When we reach home, it’s a new kind of place. The gray wallpaper is now lit with a warm orange tone, not even really gray anymore. I walk into the kitchen as mom sets her keys down, and something catches my eye. The fridge looks the same but one thing is different. It stands inconspicuously among the other miscellaneous objects. The magnets now spell out S-O-R-R-Y.
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