I
t wasn’t always just my mom and me. There was a time when my dad was in the picture, but that was such a long time ago. I don’t remember much about him. When I try to form a picture of him in my mind, all I get is a hazy image of a tall man with dark hair. And though it’s hard to tell, I think he’s smiling. We don’t talk about him, though. Anything about my dad is taboo. I don’t know how I know that. I just know it. It’s this unspoken rule that my mother made and I’ve just always obeyed. But I have a feeling he was a good man. Just conjuring up that picture of him makes me feel a bit safer. She never spoke of him. Not since it happened. I think she blames herself.
The details are difficult. I remember all the wrong parts. I was so young. Was I about four when it happened? That sounds right for some reason. I had just turned four, and my birthday was a few days before it happened. I think that’s why my mom always seems sad around the time of my birthday. But she hides it. Says she’s sometimes like that; says that her eyes are watery because of all the dust in the air. That’s what she always said. But I can hear her sometimes in the middle of the night. Tiny, suppressed sobs coming from her room.
It was springtime. A cool day, I remember, because my mom struggled to get me to zip up my jacket. I hated how the zipper cut into my neck. It was morning. I remember the smell of the dew as we walked from the house to the car. I remember the gulps of fresh air I took, as if to drink it in. To this day, I find myself holding my breath sometimes, on spring mornings, waiting for the bus at the end of my driveway.
I don’t remember where we were going, but I knew that wherever it was, we were going to meet daddy there. And that made me happy. A light drizzle started as we got on the road. I would watch the little droplets of rain as they landed at the top of the window and follow them as they became tinier and tinier and finally disappeared as they reached the bottom. It was a game I used to play, and still find myself playing when my mind wanders off on long car rides.
The droplets got bigger and bigger until it became a full-fledged storm, cascading down on the road. That’s when my mother started getting strange look on her face. A determined look, eyes squinting into the fog. And her knuckles were white as she gripped the steering wheel. I remember balling up my own little fists to see if they would do the same thing. Just as I was studying the way little mountains of bone formed and disappeared as I clenched and unclenched my fists, there was a shrieking sound. The car braked and I was pushed forward, just about hitting my head on the dash. My mom threw open the car door and ran outside screaming.
The next thing I remember was sitting on the sofa at my Aunt Rosa’s house. Aunt Rosa was by my side explaining something to me, but I couldn’t understand the words. They didn’t mean anything. They were just a jumble of sounds put together, and I started laughing at how funny she sounded. She held her head in her hands and her whole body shook. I tried to explain to her what was so funny. But she just cried. So I shut my mouth.
And once more it becomes hazy.
It’s funny how I can remember the events leading up to the accident with such amazing clarity, but I don’t remember much about the time after it happened at all. I mean, I can remember pieces: feelings, colors, images. But nothing that tells a story.
There was a lot of black. I remember seeing people crying and my mother sitting on the couch surrounded by people I knew to be her friends. The woman sitting next to her was her best friend Carmen. She sat holding Mom’s hand. I remember wanting more than anything to see my dad, but I kept telling myself that he was away on business and would come back soon, like he always did.
Soon the colors started getting brighter. People weren’t always crying. And we started doing the things we normally did. But it wasn’t like before. Mom always looked like she was far away. I’d sing to her, dance for her, play with her hair - anything to try and get her to smile at me the way she used to. Anything to get more than just a pat on the head and that faraway smile. I just couldn’t reach her.
Since then I’ve gleaned bits of conversations and can sort of piece together what happened. I mean, I knew my dad died in a car accident. But I also knew that there was more to it than that. We had been on our way to pick him up at the airport. He went away on business a lot, I remember. But we were running late because of the rain traffic. We got there just in time to see the accident.
My dad leaning out into the street, waving for a taxi. And as the taxi tried to stop for him, it skidded and ran up onto the sidewalk. Hitting him. And my mom saw the whole thing happen.
He must have thought we forgot about him, since we were pretty late. And so he would have to find his own way home.
Just then we pulled up.
It was raining too hard. The street was too wet. The taxi’s brakes were in need of a tune-up. So many factors figured into his death. But my mom blamed only herself.
So really my whole life has been tinged with this unspoken sadness.
My mom’s still distant. Years and years have passed. I’m about to go off to college. And still, she’s in her own prison to which only she holds the key. It’s been just her and me for so long, you’d have thought that maybe we’d have formed some sort of bond. Just the two of us. Facing the world together. But no. She’s in her corner and I’m in mine. There have been times when I’ve tried to reach out, like I did when I was little. Times when I’d try and get her to open up to me by opening up to her. But there’s just no doing.
That’s not to say she’s been a bad mother. She’s always provided me with what I needed, working long hours just so I could have the luxuries a kid with two parents has. She’s been a good mom.
And now it’s time for me to go.
We’re on our way to school. Most of my belongings are packed in the back of our van. Mom’s driving and I’m listening to Counting Crows album. It’s raining, and I’m watching the droplets of water race to the bottom of the window. I feel like it’s my last chance. It’s now or never. And so I say it.
“Dad would have been proud of me, don’t you think? Going off to college? All grown up?”
School’s pretty far away. Driving along what seems like an endless stretch of deserted road, so when the car jerks to a stop, we’re in no danger of an accident.
My mother turns to me slowly, with tears running down her face. But she’s smiling. At first she just stares into my eyes and I’m amazed. She takes my hand in hers and says, “Yes, honey. Daddy would’ve been so proud.” And suddenly I realized that I’d never had time to grieve over the loss of my father. I’d spent my whole life grieving over the loss of my mom. Somehow losing her was worse than losing my father, because she was still with me. But an empty shell of a person. She’s here now. She’s with me. That’s what matters. And she exudes this warmth. This warmth that I’ve felt before, but not for a very long time. And suddenly I’m crying, too. Not because I miss my dad and wish he were here with me, but because, finally, after all this time, she’s ready to come back to life.
- Analise Anton