The Green-Eyed Monster

The Green-Eyed Monster

I said I would tell the truth.  One thing I have learned in the last few months is that the rawness of grief puts you and your emotions on display for all to see…the good, the bad… and the ugly. 

   I used to think I knew what envy was.  When I was young, I thought it was wishing my body looked like someone else’s.  As I got older, it was the heated, lustful glance to the girl in the room who always had a new outfit on, or the just right shoes.  As an adult, it was the moment I took to ponder what it would be like to have enough money to not have to worry about the bills, and be able to walk out of the grocery story with essentially anything you wanted.  What would it be like to think on Tuesday it might be nice to have a gazebo in your back yard, and be sitting in it by Friday? 

            By the time I was in my mid-thirties, separated from my husband, a divorce looming, and trying to make an impossible relationship work, it was my sisters’ Pandora bracelets.  I remember watching them comparing beads at Sunday afternoon, and pretending not to care.  I was polite enough to compliment them, but employed a studied casual disinterest.  They weren’t really my style.  Sniff. 

            Oh, but it wasn’t the beads themselves (beautiful enamel, glass, and sterling silver that they were).  They were just the symbols.  What I envied went so much deeper.  I longed fiercely for what they had, and may or may not even think twice about- they were both in healthy relationships with mentally stable men, and those men were fully employed, contributing to the household, and the livelihood of their mutual children.  Their husbands worked hard to give them small treasures.  They belonged to someone.  They belonged to someone who was able to give them what they needed, and sometimes even what they wanted.  They could wait for each bead to come, without feeling frantic or anxious (as I always did those days) because they knew their husbands were in it for the long haul, and those beads would just keep rolling along- like the paychecks, like the sobriety, like the stable mental health.  Now that’s some envy right there.

            So now, this tight feeling in my chest whenever I see my sister’s face?  This tendency to drop my head, this refusal to meet her eyes, this temptation to walk the other way when I see her coming?  All because her daughter is alive and well, doing all the things my daughter never even got to try-  what’s the word for that feeling?

            Is that envy?  If so, what does it look like?  I bet if someone held a mirror up to my face the next time she is in my line of sight, I’d get a real good picture.   And it wouldn’t be a pretty one. 

They don’t call it the green-eyed monster for nothing.

Still a Team (Part II)

I still remember the middle of the night trips with Cory to the E.R. when I didn't know exactly what was wrong or what to do, only that things were bad, getting worse, and that she needed help.  Sometimes the voices were so bad, she would just hold her head and cry, unable to take refuge even in sleep.  Other times, the delusions had her backed into a corner, afraid and confused.  I was badly frightened at these times, but knew that Cory was already terrified, and she was looking to me as her anchor.

 I would take a few deep breaths, and put on a face that said I was in control, knew exactly what to do next, and if I wasn't sure, I knew exactly who to ask in order to find out.  Cory needed that from me.  When she was feeling out of control or confused, she needed to take one look at me and know I could handle the situation, and be positive that I would keep her safe.  We had an emergency partnership agreement that we'd hatched together.  It went something like this:  I brought the calm and she brought the cooperation.  There were huge amounts of trust required on each of our parts in order to make it work.  What we learned as time went on is that we could count on each other.  We were honest with each other, and we talked... a lot.  Our relationship was strengthened and deepened to a bond I haven't shared with anyone else.  There were times her life was literally in my hands, and she trusted me enough to be perfectly comfortable with that.  She knew I would take the time to explain things to her, we would make decisions about her treatment together, and that we had the same goal:  her health and happiness.
It was something I couldn't do without her cooperation, and something she couldn't do without my support. 
Faced with the horror of sitting through her funeral (grimace), my brain went looking for a familar pattern, and landed on our teamwork of the past.  If there was ever a time for a crisis plan, it was surely now.  So as the people beginning filing in to take their seats, I leaned over my baby girl and whispered this to her,
"Okay, Cory, I'm gonna need your help.  Do you remember how I used to take you to the hosptial sometimes when you weren't feeling well, when you were scared?  Cory, I was really scared, too, I just didn't want you to know cause I knew you were counting on me to be strong.
Cory, Mommy is so scared right now.  But I know we're a team, and we can get through anything together.  So, I had an idea.  I have this painting with the heart on it that you made.  I'm gonna hold it all through the service, and try to be strong.  If I feel like I'm going to lose it, I'm gonna push on that heart, and if you could, Cory, could you please send me some strength?"
I laid my hand on top of hers that was icy, unyielding marble.  I leaned to kiss the small scrape on her right hand.  I smoothed her hair.  I ran my hand gently over her arm, and made sure her sweater was straight.  Even in the extremity of my sorrow, I could not help but to beam down at her face, she was just so damn beautiful.  She still brought me pride.  She still brought me joy.  I would have stayed fixed to that spot, staring raptly down at her face through a prism of tears the entire day, if someone hadn't stepped over to turn on the slideshow.  It was nearly time.  And I didn't want to miss a thing.
Reluctantly, I stumbed away from her side, and found a seat in the front row, my mother on my right side, and Tim on my left.  Bookended by love, I collapsed on the pew, clutching a small picture of her and the heart painting to my chest.
The panic was loose, free and raving through my body, undoing me.  Push.  I reminded myself, and pressed down on the heart with my thumb.
As I lifted my head to look at the screen, I panicked, realizing I was too far away to see.  I had forgotten my glasses.  Cory's lifetime was playing up there, and it was sacred.
I mumbled something incomprehensible to Tim, and stood up, nearly tripping as I began barreling my way over to a small bench directly in front of the screen.  There, that was better.  Push.
Jacob appeared beside me like an appartion, crowding against my side for comfort, for safety.  I could feel him, distantly, as he ducked his head under my arm like a chick seeking the shelter of its momma's wing.  I am ashamed to admit, I barely registered his presence.  My ears, my eyes, and my heart were full of Cory.  There was room for nothing and no one else.  I let the music and the images wash over me- the sweetest sort of agony.   I communed with my girl.
Occasionally, a well-meaning friend or relative would approach me to offer their condolences.  I could not engage with them at all.  I wanted to be left alone, alone with my girl, to enjoy our last moments listening to music together.
I bent down and begged for Jake to tell his dad to make the people stop coming.  Bless his heart, Jake did just that- quietly, respectfully, and without being asked twice.
Maybe once, I came out of myself enough to put an arm around my son, but it was an automatic gesture.  The only time during that wretched day that I actually connected to my son was when I asked him if he wanted to sing a line of a song to Cory with me.  It was a song we'd listened to many times, especially in the car.  Jacob is a shy soul, who remains on the edges of large group situations...watching, and observing silently before he's willing to join.  It spoke volumes of his love for Cory, and the magnitude of his loss to hear his small voice pipe up beside me, clear, confident, and full of sorrow..."I miss the lips that made me fly..."
My body rocked gently to the music.  I sang along quietly, completely unaware of what I would find out later was a full house sitting behind me.  As certain images appeared on the screen, I blew her a kiss, as if  she were simply embarking on a trip, and would surely return.  Far too soon for my taste, a man walked up and turned the slideshow off.  It was time.
Tim, Jacob, and I- all of our hands trembling- worked together to light her two candles as the Coldplay song we had both loved filled the church.  With my eyes glued to my feet, working harder than I ever have in my adult life to operate my legs, I concentrated on walking back to my seat.  I fell into the pew, and reached, wihout looking,  for my mother's hand.  It was there.  Push.
 I longed to sink into myself, sink down in the pew, disappear into the ground if I could..   I do not want to be here.  Please God, don't let this be happening.  Push.
As I pushed down at that small red heart, so tiny and perfect, a small voice within me directed me to sit up straight and hold my head high.  These people were here to see my girl, and she was a lovely, kind, strong, remarkable young woman.  I deserved to feel proud.  I had every reason to hold my head high.
I sang along to the song, and felt so present in the moment, it could have been just me and my girl in that large room packed with people and filled with a mournful, and reverant silence. Push.
At different points throughout the service, I struggled to stay calm.  I pushed that heart over and over again, determined not to cry, not to wail, not to disturb...this was her time.  Above all, i wanted everyone under that roof to leave with a better understanding of who Cory was and what she stood for than what they had known when they walked in the door.  She deserved that.  Isn't that what everyone wants?  To be understood?
A couple of times, my mom turned to me, searching my face that was remiss of tears.  She would squeeze my hand tighter, no doubt wondering if shock had finally severered the tenuous cord between my mind and body.  I could see the question in her eyes:  why was I not shedding a tear for the love of my life, the biggest part of my heart?
Because she meant everything to me.  Because I promised her.  Because she needed me to be strong.  Because we had a plan.  Because we were a team.  Push.
Cory did that for me.  I have no doubt in my mind.  She heard me asking for her help, and she made good on her part of the plan.  She kept my tears at bay.  She silenced the hysterical wail that was lurking in my throat.  There was nothing she wouldn't do for me.  Just as there was nothing I wouldn't do for her.

 

  

We were still a team. 

Meeting the Parents

There are so many chapters to this story- mine and Cory's- that sometimes I don't know where to start...the end, the beginning, the middle?  I have decided on all of the above, in whatever order my mind wants to take me.  So we are, back to when I was sweet sixteen, three years before Cory was born...wanna go?

          

       I’ll never forget the first time I met Bob’s dad.  I had already met his mom one day when I dropped by after school.  She was a short, slight Hispanic woman with dark wavy hair pulled back in a casual ponytail.  She was thirty six, and seemed impossibly young to me.  My mom was fifty one and would never wear a tube top.    I looked from her face to his, matching up the features one by one:  large, dark eyes, strong noses, full mouths.   He looked just like her.  Based on this alone, I loved her immediately and fiercely.  It was automatic, like breathing.  And no matter how complicated the relationship between her and I would grow over the years, there would always be a small piece of my heart that still loved her, remaining hurt and questioning.  There is still.

 As Bob introduced us, she swept over with a dramatic, “Oh, Booker!” as she shot him an approving glance, before centering herself directing in front of me, taking my face between her small, cool, brown hands.  Her eyes caught mine and held them as she stated, “My son said you were beautiful, but my goodness!  It’s so nice to meet you, Nick.”  She called me by his name for me, the one no one else in my life used, creating an instant bond.  In a bare two seconds she had managed to create a connection and to place me up on a high pedestal that I would do anything to stay on. 

After a few minutes of watching their interactions, I confirmed what Bob had already told me in private – he was indeed her favorite child, no apologies.  She worshipped him.  I had the immediate sense he would never be able to do wrong in her eyes.  I also sensed she may be my only competition for his affections; he was the definition of a momma’s boy.  Little did I know at this point that he had his reasons.   The need to please Bob in order to please this woman was instantly instilled in my heart.  I suppose most girls meeting their boyfriend’s mom wanted to make a good impression.  This was the next level.

            Now meeting Bob’s dad was another world entirely.  One Sunday evening, after church, I drove over to pick him up.  We went for a drive (aka found somewhere to park and made out like the hot-blooded teenagers we were).  He seemed distracted, as unhappy as I’d ever seen him in the few short months we’d been dating. Bob was always “up”.  His perpetual cheerfulness, playful nature, and constant banter were some of the things that most attracted me to him.  He relished in doling out nicknames, singing snatches of songs, and peppering conversation with lyrics that were meaningful to him.   He created scripts and rituals; he had an uncanny knack for building intimacy. The closer to him I felt, the more I wanted to please him.   I had never seen him like that, sad and low.  Even his kiss felt different, fraught with something darker than desire.  I pulled away.   “What’s wrong?”  I asked him.

            “Nothing.  It’s nothing, I just really needed to get out of my house tonight.  I don’t wanna talk about it.”  he said, reaching across the seat to resume kissing me instead.  The subject was closed. 

            When our little rendezvous came to a close, I drove him home.  We didn’t play our usual game of kissing at every red light, he just didn’t seem in the mood.  He lived near the church in a small house that was a little more modest than my parents.  “Damn it, he’s still home.”  he muttered, catching sight of the pickup in the drive.  No sooner were the words out of his mouth, than an angry man, red-faced and yelling, burst through the front door of his house, waving a shotgun.  “Get the hell off my property!”

            My jaw dropped.  I looked at Bob who looked as though he wanted to crawl inside himself and disappear.  He opened the car door and stepped out, holding an arm up in supplication like a common criminal caught in some illegal act rather than a son simply returning home from a date with his girlfriend.  “Dad, it’s just me and Nick.  Put that away.”

            “Don’t you tell me what to do, you little shit.  This is my fucking house and I”ll do whatever the fuck I want to.  Now tell that bitch to get out of here.” he gestured in my general direction with the shotgun.  I froze, unsure of the proper response.  Should I duck?  I stole a quick glance of a stocky man, maybe early forties, whose blond hair was starting to gray and stuck up wildly in every direction. 

            Bob leaned in the open car door.  “You’d better go.  He’s drunk again.”  he said it tonelessly, but his face was full of resentment.  And was that hate?  He didn’t have to tell me twice, I had the car in reverse before he’d even shut the door, telling me he loved me, to drive careful, and he’d call to make sure I made it home safe.  He was worried about my safety?

            I drove away from the house slowly, not wanting to look but unable to stop myself from rubbernecking as if this were a grisly accident.  It some ways, maybe it was.  Bob looked ever smaller as he climbed the steps to enter the house, his dad much taller in comparison, louder, obviously drunk, and wielding a weapon.  I was too stunned to cry, but suddenly it was hard to swallow.  Shaken, I turned the car toward home.

            Bob never told me what his dad was upset about that night, but in time I learned this was a regular occurrence at his house.  This problem solving style was so different from my parents; it was like visiting another planet, and observing aliens.  My mom and dad had drawn the lines in their relationship, too.  But their picture looked a lot different.  My dad loved her deeply.  My mom liked to be in control.  So whatever her wish, he simply bent to her will.  I didn’t think less of him; I thought more.  Her happiness was everything to him.  He knew about sacrifice.  There weren’t many arguments at my house that I remember growing up.  Maybe one or two.  Once and awhile my dad would put his foot down against the onslaught of requests my mom dealt out on the daily, just to remind her that he bent to her will because he wanted to, not because he had to.  She would grumble, never conceding his point, but retreating ever so slightly.  After a short time, they would return to their accustomed positions on the chessboard, the queen ruling all. 

            On the drive home, I tried to process what I had witnessed.  Older, wiser, looking back, I should have run for the hills.  But I was sixteen and in love.  What I saw made me feel sorry for Bob.  It made me want to love him enough to make up for whatever horrible things were happening to him at home.  Suddenly, I wanted nothing more in life but to get him out of that house and into a safe home with me, without shouting and without shotguns.  I would treat him the way he deserved to be treated. 

  As I pulled into my own driveway, I saw the one predictable lamp on in the living room- my parents were waiting up for me.  Inside, my mother would be watching a movie of the week, while my dad read a book, most likely The Bible, in his favorite armchair.  They moved around each other in a subtle and graceful dance of routine, perfected over the years… her leading, him following.  The house would be quiet, all the sounds predictable ones.  Screaming voices came only from the tv.  We didn’t own a firearm; my father was a pacifist. 

Above all, it was a safe place.  I had never thought of myself as lucky to have this.  It just was.   It would be a couple of years and many conversations in the dark of night, my head nestled against Bob’s shoulder, watching the shadows play on the walls while he told me about his childhood before I realized just how lucky I was.  Not everyone had it like that.  But it did occur to me, as I turned the doorknob to my parents’ house, that I hadn’t seen his mom.  She hadn’t come out of the house, not even to see who her husband was yelling at or what was happening outside.  That struck me as slightly odd, and many years later when I revisited that night with new and jaded eyes, it put a chill up my spine.

But at sixteen, I was strictly a surface thinker, just like most teenagers.  I was only worried about how his dad’s behavior made him feel.  I had no clue that his dad’s behavior, what he’d grown up watching ever since he could remember, might profoundly influence his own.  I haven’t missed the mark so badly before or since.

Crunk BBQ Sloppy Toms...Minus the Crunk

Last week, I shared my plan to overcome my difficulties cooking in the kitchen by writing about it.  Here goes:

Okay, guys, I am here.  In the bad place.

I have tried to do what we do for children who have trouble following the routine at school- I have looked at my environment, and made some changes to make being here more comfortable and less stressful. 

First, I brought a small picture and a candle in, and set them up on her stool:  Cory Bird's perch.


Music that was significant to her comforts me.   So as much as I thought it would hurt, I have some My Chemical Romance playing.  Seriously, guys, she could be in the next room...comfort and devestation are duking it out on that one.

I am thinking that my trusty cutting board and chefs knife are going to have to be replaced.  Every time I look at them or hold the knife in my hand, there are issues.

Okay, back to cooking.


Why sloppy toms?  10 minutes tops.  Time is of the essence here.  I need to get in and out as quickly as possible.
 I love making them with whiskey, but I was too tired to go buy any, and since I only use it to cook with, I didn't have any on hand.

Crunk BBQ Sloppy Toms:

1 1b ground turkey
1/2 onion, chopped
1 red pepper, chopped
your fav grill seasoning to taste
1/2 palmful Emeril's Essence
splash or two of whiskey (or chicken stock)
2 TBS tomato paste
Worchestire sauce
your fav BBQ (I used Sweet Baby Ray's)

• Brown the ground turkey...remember the flavor comes from being nice and brown...that's where the carmalization takes place. 
•  Season with your favorite grill seasoning and the Emeril's Essence, which will give it a little kick.  Use less than 1/2 palmful for less kick, and more if you like it spicy.
• Add your chopped onion and red pepper.  (Do not let your son talk you into leaving out the red pepper...they are yummy, and he needs as many vegetables as he can get).
• Cook veggies in with turkey until soften.  You should be developing a lovely browned, stuck on substance on the bottom of your saucepan.  Do not despair -this is where you will get your flavor.
• Now we shall deglaze.  This is where the liquor comes in.  Go around your pan twice with healthy splashes.  You can use chicken stock, if you prefer.  I do not prefer- the whiskey makes for a delicious tangy flavor.  But, I was too tired to go buy it, so tonight it was plain old chicken stock, which will serve the purpose.  To deglaze the pan, take a wooden spoon and begin frantically scraping all the stuck on substance from the bottom of your pan.  The whiskey or chicken stock will cook down until it is practically gone.  Don't worry, the alcohol burns off in the cooking process...I am not trying to get my 10 year old slap happy.
• Once you have everything off the bottom of the pan, and your deglazing liquid is cooked down, add your 2 TBS of tomato paste.  This will be the base for your sauce. 
• Go ahead and add a couple splashes of Worchestire.  Taste, and decide if you need more.  I am a taste-as-I-go cook.  Cory used to be my quality control girl.  I miss her in the kitchen so very much.
• Last of all, add your fav BBQ sauce until your sloppy toms are the consistency you prefer.  We like ours saucy, baby.

Pile the meat sauce onto toasted buns...yum.  Extra healthy points if they are wheat instead of white.  We had white buns tonight (I am hanging my head in shame).
We ate our sloppy toms with raw snap peas, and ranch for dipping.
Moderately healthy, no?

Thank you, whomever may be reading, for giving me another reason to be in the kitchen and having someone to be accountable to, when I say I'm going to try to cook more.  This has been a great distraction.
Love,
Nicole

p.s.  Make the whiskey BBQ ones, they are the BOMB!

Art as Therapy

                                                                                  

      When Cory painted, she would go upstairs and put on her raggiest t-shirt, pull on a pair of her grandpa's old faded dockers over her jeans, and settle her slouchy knit hat (also grandpa's) on her head and lose herself. She got messy, she used her fingers, sometimes a fork, and if she was feeling really patient that day..brushes. A lot of times she said she didn't like how her work turned out or that she wasn't any good. I always told her she was fantastic (which i'm not sure she believed) and that the important thing was how she felt when she was doing it (which I think she did believe). And once and awhile, I'd catch her standing back and assessing her work with unmistakable PRIDE. She had the look on her face you only get when you have snatched an image out of your brain, whole and squirming, and plunked it down on a piece of paper, canvas, or a paper grocery sack...complete and unchanged. This painting was one of those times. Cory had the amazing gift to be able to take something dark and make it beautiful. And if not what some would consider    conventionally beautiful, then certainly thought provoking. That is talent.

WWMT Newschannel 3 :: News - Top Stories - Mother discusses daughter's mental illness, tragic death

Still a Team

                                                                                  

                                                                        

July 10-11, 2012

I stayed up until the sun came up the night before I buried my daughter.  No matter how physically and emotionally exhausted I may have been, I couldn’t close my eyes on the few remaining hours that she remained above ground.  If they had let me sleep at the funeral home, I would’ve been overjoyed.  I would have taken my pillow and a throw, and camped out on the floor right beside her, just to be near her...just to see her face.   I can’t believe I didn’t think to ask, although I’m pretty certain they would have kindly, but firmly, said that was just not possible.

Looking back, I know I was in shock.  I stayed up, sitting in my bed, unable to believe this was really happening.  I began making a list of everything I still needed to tell her, because somehow I thought she’d hear me better if we were face to face…our last mother/daughter talk.  That night went on forever, but ended all too soon.  The service was planned to the tinest detail.  The only thing I hadn’t planned for was how to put my heart in the ground, and walk away.

When it was time to put on the black dress with the bright, whimsical flowers, my hands were shaking so bad, and my heart beating so fast, I had to sit down a couple times and put my head between my knees.  This was the dress I had told Cory I wished to be buried in.  It was my favorite; it made me feel beautiful; and I had some wonderful memories of wearing it.  I never once asked her what she’d like to wear to be buried in.  I guess I never thought that was a question you needed to ask a teenager. 

All night long, my anxiety had built to a fever pitch as the hours passed.  I didn’t have the slightest idea how to go about getting through the funeral service of my firstborn.  To this day, I can’t even say the word “funeral”, I just say “service”.  I grimaced as I typed it just now.

Yes, I wanted everyone to honor her by being there.  Yes, I wanted people to see her art and hear the music that she loved.  But oh, how my heart denied that this was really taking place.  I felt sick.  I was stripped of strength.  I didn’t know if my legs would carry me through the day.  Most of all, if there could be a “worst” part of something so horrendous, I dreaded the last good-bye.  To never see my baby girl’s face again?  To shut a lid on her forever?  What had she done to deserve this?  What had I not done well enough that my child be taken so cruelly from this world?  Especially when she fought so hard for everyday things that others take for granted.

I had the idea in the middle of the night to wear tons of bracelets up both arms, as a statement.  See Cory, I want to be like you. You were amazing.  My sister took me out to buy them by the handful.  I was going to suit up.  I was going to try to be strong, for her.  She deserved it.  Look at all she had soldiered through.  These bracelets would be like armor, holding me up, when I felt like crumpling to the floor.  No matter what hard things I thought I had been through in my life, they were nothing compared to this horror.  Nothing.

It was when I began trying to fix my hair in the mirror in my tiny bathroom, while my friend Nicole watched me from the doorway (so reminiscent of all the times Cory had done the same), that I felt myself really beginning to freak out.  I can’t do this.  I can’t do this.  Oh my God.  Please don’t make me do this.

 Nicole, bless her heart, had her hands full.  She got me taking deep breaths, even as she scurried around me fastening bracelets to my wrists because my hands were shaking too much to do it myself.  “You can do this.” she kept repeating.  I don’t know if she believed it, but I know I didn’t.

In the next room, I could hear Tim trying to fix his tie for about the tenth time, as he practiced part of his speech in front of the mirror.  He begged me to eat something so I wouldn’t pass out.  I ate a single bite of oatmeal that nearly choked me going down.  When I saw Tim’s face, his eyes alone confirmed that yes, this really was happening.  He looked terrified.  His eyes were so large, almost bugged out in panic, as he paced around the house, asking me over and over again what year was it when we got married, and how old was Cory then? 

Jacob was silent…his little face white, his eyes shell-shocked.  Tim had dressed him, and done his hair.  He was wearing the same tie he wore on Easter, the one that matched Cory’s dress.  It hardly even occurred to me to look him over and make sure he was presentable.  If you want me to be completely honest, I don’t even think I had seen him in days, whether he was right under my nose or not.  I was checked out.  Thank God for the kindness of family and close friends who had seen to it that he was spared the extremity of those first few days, and that he was fed, talked to, and looked after. 

Tim and I began running desperately around the house, gathering all the things that were needed:  her favorite doll, Josephina, that she’d had since she was eight, her favorite stuffed animal, Duck, who had been through surgeries and ECT with her, a well-loved book, my dragonfly pendant, and her LadyBug nightlight (Cory had always been afraid of the dark).   Jacob was taking their book necklaces with him to trade out:  she would wear his, and he would wear hers.  They had gotten them at the last Art Walk at a cool little booth from a lady who made jewelry.

One of the last things I grabbed was a 2 inch x 3 inch canvas painting that I’d discovered when going through her work to bring pieces to the funeral home.  It was lovely…a sage green background with a red heart in the lower corner.  When I inspected closer, I discovered her fingerprints were embedded in the paint at the top.  Instantly, I knew this was to be my touchstone.

We got to the funeral home a little early.  I went straight to her to spend as many minutes with her as I could before the service started.  I took the journal I’d been working in right up, and began reading it to her earnestly.  People began filing in, and finding seats towards the back, but I didn’t pay them any mind.  These things needed to be said, and it didn’t matter who might hear them, even if I did end up sobbing over her chest as I said them.

This is what I told her:

Cory, I am so so sorry.  Out of all the hard decisions I made when I was taking care of you, letting you go to the store wasn’t one of them.  I never thought this would happen.  Mommy is so sorry she let you get hurt.

Baby girl, I promise you I will never make spicy chicken tacos again as long as I live…and I hope that doesn’t offend you cause I know how proud you are to be a Lantina J

Sweet girl, I want to explain why I didn’t buy you everything you wanted as you were growing up. I was trying to teach you some very important things.  Like Dad told you, things worth having are worth waiting for.  I also wanted you to have patience, which is something a lot of people don’t have, and it is so important.  But just so you know, I had a really hard time holding myself back from spoiling you completely rotten cause I love you so very much.  When I did “surprise” you, you were always so appreciative.

I wanted to tell you I’ve been having some really scary nightmares, but I’ve been telling myself exactly what I used to tell you:  they are scary, but they are not real, and they are not true.

Cory, I held Church and told him what happened.  He is so sad and misses you so much every day.  I will take good care of him.

I am wearing your lipstick so we could be Twinkies one last time.

Baby girl, you have to know that you made me a better person.  You made me grown up sooner.  You made me responsible.  You pushed me to do things that were hard.  You were the love of my life- not Tim, not your father, not any man.

If I had one word to describe our time together, it would be joy.

 

---to be continued

 

 

Confession

Another time travel here...circa 1991...

 

            Bob’s mom was the one I went to when I realized the first time he’d hurt me was not going to be the last.  His promise to never do it again had not held true.  I don’t know if I wanted her advice, if I expected her to reprimand him, or what.  But I needed to talk to someone and I chose her.  I couldn’t figure out how to come right out and say he had choked me when he was drunk.  It seemed impolite to say such a thing to the woman who had raised him.  So I waited for an opening, which she soon gave me by asking how the concert in Detroit had been.

            I answered, “It was great…except…” and then paused, my eyes on the floor.

            “Except what, princess?”  she pressed.

            “Except something happened with Bob.”  I said quietly.  I still didn’t know if I meant to tell it all, but I needed to.  The words were in my mouth like a bad taste I couldn’t swallow past.

            “Did you two have a quarrel?”  she asked.

            “No.  He was drinking…a lot…and, he, uh….he choked me in the hotel room.”  There, I had said it.  Now I waited.  Why did I feel so embarrassed?

            The next thing she said was a question, and one that I least expected.  It wasn’t, “Oh my God, are you okay?”  It wasn’t, “How dare he?”  And it especially wasn’t, “Are you leaving him?”

            It was, “Well…what was he so upset about?  Something must have really been bothering him.” 

            Oh.  Her something clearly meant me. I was caught completely off guard.   I tried to convey the excitement of going to my first live show, the roar of the crowd, the people who milled around– each separate in their own little world but together for one night –part of something bigger and better than what might be waiting for them at home.  I tried to express the sheer energy- the contagious, and almost manic feel of the concert goers.  The moment the headlining band came on stage and the night was lit up with pyrotechnics was one I’d never forget.  For a split second everyone’s faces were glowing, and you could feel the heat pushing out, as if to ask, hey, are you paying attention?  And, are you ready to see something amazing?

  We had double dated with Bob’s friend and his girlfriend.  She and I were jumping up and down on our feet like twelve year olds gone completely mad, star struck, even if the band was hundreds of feet away.  We were caught up.  When the lead singer came out, twelve feet tall on the big screen, and knelt down in his leather pants, belting out our favorite song –live– we went absolutely, unapologetically berserk.  Sherrie said something about the lead singer being hot.  I agreed and mentioned how well he wore those leather pants.  I said I liked his ass.

            Bob’s mom said, “Oh, Nick”, shaking her head, and clucking her tongue.  Her voice was heavy with reproach.  I dropped my eyes again immediately, feeling ashamed, and wishing I’d never opened my big mouth in the first place.  When I looked up, the disapproval in her eyes knocked the breath right out of me.  She was mad at me.  This was my fault, not Bob's.  And  I had gotten so comfortable up there in the clouds, soaking up her unconditional love and feasting on peeled grapes, right along with her son. 

            “Have you thought about how that made him feel?  You hurt his pride, in front of his friends…not to mention whoever was right around listening.   He must have been completely humiliated.  Nick, that was his manhood at stake.”

            I shook my head.  I hadn’t thought about it, but some of those words were the very ones he’d screamed at me.

            “And wasn’t he treating you taking to that concert?  For your birthday?  Just trying to make you happy?  What a shame that such a nice gesture had to be totally ruined.”  She turned away and left the room without another word. 

 The message was loud and clear.  That was your fault. 

 And there was no help here.