Sunset

Life began suddenly. I was swept from my mother's arms at her death, before I could walk. I spent 178 days with my mother (including the days I was in her womb). I felt the loss of my mother, Frances. My sister mourns her more chaotically, as she lost her at 3. That event was the abrupt start of my timeline, while my sister's loss began just as she became aware of the world.

The concept of death was dangerously on the fringes of my sister's infantile understanding. Instead of knowing nothing, she was painfully aware that her mother was gone and wouldn’t be coming back. For Heather, the loss felt like a betrayal.

Frances languished in the hospital for a little over 10 days after a car accident later deemed fatal. My aunt's quivering voice echoes: “She was getting better-” as she reflected on the tragedy, which left her mortally wounded by depression. These memories come from the earliest days after the accident, just before our lives changed forever.

I have overheard varying accounts of what might be considered Frances’s last words. The account of my mother’s last conversations would become her last wishes. Each family member remembers her words and her demeanor differently during those conversations.

I would rather believe her final words were never heard than imagine they were dismissed by the family matriarchy. The dead cannot argue. Despite the confusion surrounding my mother’s death, I am left to reflect on the words she carefully recorded before my sister was born:

“Named Ni-Cole after your dad. Shoemaker after Grandpa. ‘Heather’ is your own baby. A name is what you make it. My real father wasn’t much to me; he wasn’t there! Grandpa, my Daddy, Shoemaker was there! So carry his name with PRIDE! I loved your daddy, and you are part of him. I did want you to have his name, too. I thought A LOT about this decision.”[sic]

She considered Byron Shoemaker her Father. As she stated, she didn’t take that decision lightly. Even though those words were for my sister and written in different circumstances, I find them revealing. She chose my last name to be Shoemaker.

After my mother’s passing, the question of who would raise us arose. I wonder how long it took to make that crucial decision. I know protestations were made, but I’m unsure how firmly they were argued or how much time was spent on alternatives. This uncertain period, right after our mother’s death, set the course for our upbringing.

Carol Shoemaker became the first, and possibly only, choice for our care. Objections were made about my grandmother’s capability, mental capacity, and mental stability.

In the end, Byron Shoemaker was 61. My grandmother, Carol, was 58 when they took on the task of raising two small children. One of us was still in diapers.

THE DARKNESS

I would be remiss not to note the deep darkness in which my new mother spent most of her days. After we moved in with Carol (hereafter ‘mom’), she wrote down some of her thoughts during our first year together, marking a new chapter in our lives.

Her anger and frustration are clear in her sad diary from that first year.

In the first entry, made less than a month after Frances died, she wrote, “Heather and I talked about using a pretend toilet outside. I also told her that yelling hurts her, and that I yell to get her attention. We both want to do better. Heather wants to tell her mom ‘Hello’ and how much she misses her.

“Crystal is teething and unhappy. Heather was good today, but is still angry. She wants to go home sometimes, but she also says this is her home now.”

My first memories of Carol are nightmares. I didn’t have the words to explain the frightening war scenes before my eyes. I saw death, hurt, and pain. My complaints weren’t audible, but my body kept the score. Though I was ‘quiet’, ‘obedient’, and ‘good,’ my body seemed to object to my existence. These memories stem from my earliest years after losing my mother and adjusting to our new home.

My mother had very little faith in health professionals and considered homeopathic treatments supreme. So when the scales on my back became painful, my mother offered me up to be inspected, poked, prodded, and humiliated by anyone who thought they might have the cure. Many made suggestions that would, in my eyes, be equivalent to witch's brew. It turns out there is no amount of picking or tea tree oil that would have ‘cured’ varicella-zoster virus (shingles).

My body continued to cry out for help in my early years. I remember how the lights brought me such pain that tears fell from my eyes. I would whimper at the stabbing pain. My mother poured hot oil down my poor ears to treat infections.

When I could, I told my mother her treatments helped, because it pleased her. I wanted to be a good girl.

I remember how it often burned to pee. In those cases, mom placed me in a bath of warm water and told me it was ok to pee. Mom often demanded the time and date of my last bowel movement. If I was uncertain, I faced painful enemas. Sometimes my lips would start to burn and blister.

Ringworm made my hair fall out and my scalp itch. I remember chewing candy and feeling a crunch. I took the candy from my mouth and saw that the white pieces were actually my own teeth.

I remember the smell of camomile tea that I was able to later associate with a friend of my mother's who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and would often drink soothing camomile tea.

Before I could read, which was during those early years with Carol after my mother’s death, I would find the biggest book I could and pretend to either read or sing off the pages. I found comfort in my own voice when everything else was silent. That’s right, there was silence when my sister was away at school.

There was silence at night as well. Before I even knew what a migraine was, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass for relief. The glass would become slippery and moist. I stared out the window over thousands of acres of farmland. I could only see distant moving vehicle lights, small enough to be ants.

Silence and peace came at night. Mornings were filled with rushing rage. Mother demanded we not stay in bed a moment longer than she wished. I was greeted with the crack of a belt and my sister's screeches. The house was cold and horrible. The firewood barely burned as mother badgered us to eat more hot cereal. Who would be the first to have a thorny brush pulled through our hair? Our hair was tightly braided on both sides of our heads. I often volunteered to go first. I was a good girl and made no complaints as my mother pulled on my hair.

After the chaos of the morning, we were pushed out of the house before the sun had yet to rise to wait for the bus. There was peace again in the foggy morning. In our childish language, we gauged the weather by the state of the mill in the distance. “Can’t see the mill” would mean the fog is very dense. “There’s no wind” means that the stream rose high up into heaven before disappearing. The big blue chimney stack can still be seen puffing out a steady stream of steam to this very day.