I’ve known this young woman, who is now a senior in high school, since I visited her and her mother in the hospital the day she was born. She and her family are dear people in my life. She’s given me permission to publish this essay which won her a trip to New York City to accept a national award and scholarship. I’ve shortened it some, as you can tell, this passionate, painfully beautiful, beautifully painful essay. It follows:
There was no funeral for you. No minister. No service. No burial. We spread your ashes under the Folly Pier. You spent most of your childhood there.
It’s said that roses have forty petals. There were over forty times forty times forty of them strewn out in the waves. The ocean hasn’t calmed since. You must have been happy to get away from this cruel world that made you so sad for so long.
You weren’t even on my mind the day you died. You’d texted me the night before . . . to tell me you loved me . . . .
I said I love you too. Maybe if I’d said it more often this wouldn’t have happened.
I had a quiz in chemistry the day you died . . . then the intercom buzzed. I needed to go sign out, but dad didn’t tell me that I was leaving early that morning. I knew it was Holy Week, but the only day I left early was for the Mass of the Oils, the day before . . . .
Maybe it was a mistake. A million things were running through my mind. But not you. The lady at the front desk told me to call my dad, that it was a family emergency.
Then dad told me that you were in the hospital . . . I was getting so panicky, and I started crying. The lady at the front desk asked for the reason I was leaving, so she could fill it out on a slip. I said, my mom.
My hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I knew there was something dad wasn’t telling me. You’d been in the hospital plenty of times before and I was never pulled out of school for it.
I started thinking of scenarios I used to make up in my head at night if you died. How I’d handle you having cancer or getting into a massive car accident. I’d cry myself to sleep and wake up the next morning fine because it wasn’t real. You always texted me before the alarm went off, and it used to make me angry, but nowadays I would want you to because it’d mean this was just another scenario in my head.
. . . I was getting so angry that nobody would tell me what was going on with you. We stood outside the ER . . . I don’t think any of us were prepared to handle the words mom’s heart failed last night, she’s in a coma . . . you couldn’t leave us again. Not permanently.
I was five when you and dad divorced, and the only thing I understood was that daddy was now playing mommy too. I remember walking in that day as you packed your bags and wiped tears when I asked you where you were going. All you said was away . . . .
There was nothing inviting about the waiting room; it was cold and sterile . . . all that anyone said was that your heart failed, which I didn’t believe because the last time I saw you, you told me you had quit smoking and the doctor said your heart was in great condition.
The last time I saw you was at my favorite pizza place. You made fun of me for eating ranch with my pizza . . . and called me a “stag” when I said I hadn’t found a prom date yet . . . I hadn’t seen or talked to you in a month . . . . [after] you told me I wasn’t being a good enough sister to Heather or Angel, and I told you that you weren’t being a good enough mom to any of us. You texted me saying I’m sorry and I love you, and I refused to reply because I wasn’t going to play your pity games . . .
[Your husband] . . . told me that people in comas can hear and asked if I wanted to go first to talk to you. I hesitated, but went anyway because you always wanted to hear from your baby girl. I walked in to see your face so swollen and flat, your eyes shut so tight that you didn’t even have eyelids. All your golden rings and jewelry were gone, and it made you look naked. Your hair was getting too gray, and I was going to re-color it after our Easter picnic that you planned for the weekend.
. . . I held your hand, and the cold and rubber touch startled me because it felt fake. I clenched my jaw and touched your hair, and I wonder even now if you felt it because it felt brassy, and you really needed a haircut . . .
Will you let me do your hair again? It’s getting grey. Half a century is showing . . . I saw puddles of water forming in your eye sockets, and at first I wasn’t even aware that maybe it was tears . . .
And guess what, momma? I got a prom date . . . I’m not a stag anymore . . . I’ll even let you do my makeup if you want . . .
Your eyes didn’t flutter the way I thought they would. You didn’t give me a hug or squeeze my hand three times to tell me you love me. The puddles in your eyes just got bigger . . . I was tempted to wipe them, but decided not to in case you woke up and wanted to do it yourself.
Were you already dead?
All we did was sit there for hours, and the news never changed. Your blood pressure stayed low, the outcome wasn’t good . . . I overheard that you’d have to be put on life support for the rest of your life . . . I didn’t eat for four days. But since you died, I’ve gained thirty-five pounds because after those four days I thought about how you were probably jealous that I was losing weight and for you it was always a struggle. You hated your body . . . your skin . . . your hair . . . . You wore a scrunchie that always matched your socks, shirt, underwear, bra and eye shadow. I used to always make fun of you for that and purposely wore unmatched socks just to irritate your OCD . . . .
When I look in the mirror I really do see you. But it doesn’t make sense because all I see is how ugly I am and how beautiful you are and so many ways I’d tell you that if you were still alive . . . .
. . . I went back home after six hours because there would be no new details until the next day. I argued with dad about going to school the next day because he said I needed to get my mind of it. But I told him nothing about school, or anything really, was going to get my mind off my mother dying . . . .
I wasn’t prepared for what dad told me . . . You know your mother hasn’t been a happy person for a long time . . . you tried to kill yourself . . . you’d OD’d on your blood pressure medicine . . . you tried to . . . you killed yourself.
I didn’t even want coffee that morning. Can we have coffee when you wake up? Will you do my makeup for prom? Will you squeeze my hand three times and tell me everything will be okay?
. . . part of me had to keep myself from grabbing you and shaking you until the pools in your eyelids spilled out like waterfalls and you could open your eyes and tell me everything was going to be okay . . . .
. . . I didn’t get dressed. I didn’t do my hair. I didn’t put on any makeup. Your dark almond eyes, your nose with the little bump in the middle, your mouth that always looked like you were frowning unless you were smiling. I didn’t want you to think I was beautiful anymore because I didn’t want you to have to think about the things you wanted, that I had . . . .
. . . I didn’t want to cry for you that day. I didn’t need to because everything was going to be okay. God was going to grant some sort of wonderful miracle and your organs would start functioning again and your white skin would soften with color. Your rings would be back on your fingers and the tears would go back into your eyes. You would tell me you love me and squeeze my hand three times and your eyes would open and cry all over again with joy because you’d be happy . . . everyone would love you for being so strong and not leaving me this time. You would look at me with those almond eyes, smile and say hey baby girl . . . .
