Never Left Unsaid

I don’t believe in the idea that heaven is a place that we go to after we die.

For instance, I don’t believe that in this moment, my mom is now in heaven, and we are left here on earth.

I don’t believe that heaven abides by the laws of chronological time. I don’t believe it is bound to a certain place or time.

Right now, here on earth, I am sitting in my parents' living room after the ambulance has taken Mom’s body. It’s just me and Dad, in her home, and she is no longer here.

The heaven I believe in is where we are sitting in this same living room, and Mom is here, bustling and fussing about. I believe that heaven is a place or time where we are all together, regardless of who is still living and who has already died, according to the timeline in our heads.

That’s why, as I sit here on the couch next to her blue and white checkered wing-backed chair, that is unmistakably vacant, somehow through the heavy silence that has replaced her constant chatter of unfinished thoughts, I can hear the ghost of her hurried footsteps pattering down the hardwood floors of the hallway.

Lost in my current state of shock, I watch dust motes floating in the air through the sunlight filtering in through the ruffled curtains, not unlike the memories that are floating through me right now.

***

“Mom,” I whisper while standing at the door of her bedroom, while I clutch onto my stuffed dog.

She doesn’t move.

“Mom,” I muster a little louder.

Finally, she stirs, “What? Are you okay?”

“I’m scared,” I say, walking to her bed, relief washing over me that she is awake and I’m no longer alone in the darkness. “I had a bad dream.”

“It’s okay, I’m right here.” She tells me as she lifts the covers for me to crawl in and then wraps her arms around me. Her warmth and comfort soak through me and the fear fades as I am lulled back to sleep.

***

I’m attacking my parents' house with a broom and dust cloth.

Dad has been cleaning like a maniac. He's worried about people coming over.

“She would hate for everyone to see the house like this.” He mumbles more to himself than to me.

I want to tell him that they don’t care. They just want to bring food and what comfort they can, because it’s just what people do when someone dies. They’re not coming over to judge Mary for the state of her house when she fell over with a heart attack.

But I don’t, because for one, he’s right, she would hate it. And second, I need the distraction that cleaning like a maniac is offering just as bad right now. So, I carry on with my broom as my sword and my dust cloth as my shield.

***

“I just got fired,” I say in place of a greeting as I call Mom.

“What do you mean?” She asks. I’m not sure if it’s concern or confusion I hear in her voice.

I can imagine when you get a call from your sixteen-year-old daughter while you’re at work and the first thing she tells you is that she got fired from the first job she’s ever had, it’s probably the latter.

I can imagine what she’s thinking. Why couldn’t this wait? Why didn’t I just tell her when she got home? But I couldn’t wait any longer.

“I was raped.” I spit out.

***

“Are you ready to see her?” An older gentleman from the funeral home asks.

He has a softness in his eyes that makes me admire him. I can’t imagine how many times he must go through this, seeing family members preparing themselves to see their loved ones for the very last time and to say goodbyes they didn’t get a chance to say. But he still has so much kindness and sympathy in his eyes as he addresses my sister and me. It’s as if constantly seeing death and grief hasn’t hardened him to it, but somehow the opposite.

I take a deep breath and nod.

***

“What happened?” Mom asks me, wiping away tears as she stares at me through the shock that is so visible.

So, I told her what happened to me.

“It was when we were cleaning up after everyone else left for the day.” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like me, much too monotone.

“I told him ‘No’. I said it over and over and over, but he wouldn’t stop. And then, I froze.” My voice finally cracks at the end, the first sign of any emotion attempting to break free.

After a long pause, “So why were you fired? What happened?” She asked, obviously trying to make all the pieces fit.

“It happened a week ago, but I didn’t know what to do. I just couldn’t stand being alone after everyone else went home for the day, so I told my boss, I thought I could trust her.”

She continued listening, not looking at me anymore, but looking at the floor, which, in that moment, I was grateful for.

“Then today when I got to work, her husband asked to talk to me. Honestly, I didn’t understand most of what he said, but when he finished talking, he told me my last paycheck was in the office. So, I left, and that’s when I called.”

***

“Your mom was so proud of you.” Jean, Mom’s best friend, tells me while she puts a comforting hand on my shoulder.

The wave of family and friends has started to come.

Dad is just relieved that the floors are clean, but not at the cost of taking away something to obsess over. He’s moved on to what we are going to do with all this food.

I give a faint smile, not knowing if I completely agree with her, but I appreciate the sentiment. It’s the kind of thing you tell people when there is no right thing to say, and no one really understands the complexity of my relationship with Mom, so why wouldn’t it be the right thing to say?

***

I’m sitting in a chair in the waiting room at my OB.

I enjoy seeing all the other moms at different stages of motherhood. I play a game with myself as I wait, guessing how far along they are by the size of their bellies.

That girl there, definitely nine months along.

I see women that it is probably their first pregnancy, like me. I see women waiting with their other kids, looking like this time would be better spent taking a nap. The door opens, and a woman walks out in tears with her husband holding her. My heart breaks for her as I say a silent prayer for her.

We are all at different places in our journey of motherhood, but we are all the same. All we want is a happy, healthy baby. We would do anything and everything in our power to protect our children.

Sometimes, for reasons out of our control, we fail.

***

“Hello.” A knock comes from the door.

I walk down the stairs to the front door and open it to see my Aunt Lisa. Her gray hair with a few remaining streaks of dark brunette, so like my mother’s, is clipped back in a mess. Her eyes are red and glassy. She looks tired, she looks lost. I suppose I do, too.

“Hey,” I say as she walks in and wraps me in a hug.

“I just don’t know what to do.” She tells me. It’s going to be hard for her. They lived next door to each other, and were such a constant presence in each other’s lives.

“I know,” I tell her as we keep holding on to each other.

“Come on up,” I lead her up the stairs into the kitchen with golden yellow laminate flooring with that very 80’s geometric print.

I grab the coffee pot and a mug and start pouring her a cup. I don’t ask her if she wants cream, because I know that she doesn’t. She doesn’t even drink coffee. It’s just something to do. I stare at the wooden table underneath the coffee cup.

***

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say through clenched teeth, looking down at the kitchen table, instead of looking up at her. “I’m not ready.”

“I just want to know what you are dealing with that you needed to start talking to a therapist. Is everything okay?” She asks with a tone that triggers the rage to build even more, like she is trying to sound surprised.

“Please respect that this is not the right time, Mom," I tell her, pleading with her to drop it.

We haven’t so much said the word rape since the day that I called her at work. That was fifteen years ago.

“I’m just not ready, not like this.” A rage is boiling up in me. I don’t want to talk to her when I am this angry about it.

“Please, just talk to me.” Mom pleaded.

And then, fifteen years of pain, anger, and grief erupted at that kitchen table.

***

I’m not a hugger. But I am learning that memorials for your mother make you do things you normally wouldn’t, like hug everyone who comes up to tell you how sorry they are.

I started the afternoon feeling my social anxiety rise over the top in the little, small-town bar, which is full of all the people who loved my mom. It’s so packed you can barely walk through the crowd. So, after my sister and I sneak out back to smoke and a few margaritas later, I can finally breathe. Somewhere between margarita one and three, I become a hugger.

Another family friend comes up in the parade of people who adored Mom.

“Your mom was one of my favorite people. If I ever needed to feel better, I would stop at Mary’s for a cup of coffee, and I would leave feeling better.”

I smile and say, “Yes, she always knew how to make a person feel their best.” But inwardly it was like a stab in the heart. Why did everyone else in her life get this version of her?

***

“It’s been a year since your mom passed away. How was that milestone for you?” My therapist asks me.

“It’s hard, of course. But it’s not that she has been gone for a year. It’s hard accepting that I was angry at her for half of my life, and I was still so angry at her when she died.”

My therapist nods understandingly with a soft half-smile.

“I’m not saying that she handled things right when I went to her after I was raped. But no mother should have to know what to do in that situation.” I say.

“And, yeah, I feel like I had a justified reason to be mad at her, but she didn’t do it to hurt me. She didn’t know how to handle her emotions and what she was feeling and going through, so she didn’t know how to help me through it either.” I explain.

“It’s just hard to accept that after all the hard work of spending years trying to heal, I feel like I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, and Mom will never get to see this version of me. I will never get the chance to tell her that I forgive her after I told her that she didn’t do enough to help me that day in her kitchen. I was hurting so badly still when I told her that.”

My therapist nods again, and after a pause she says, “What would you tell her now if you did have that chance?”

***

I’m sitting on the couch in the living room, watching dust motes float in the air. I look over at her blue and white checkered wing-backed chair, and I hear the hurried footsteps pattering down the hardwood floors of the hallway.

Mom comes into the room, going on about something, and I watch her as she sits down in her chair, holding a coffee cup that has yet to be drunk from.

“Emily?” I hear her say as if she’s looking at me for a response.

“Are you real?” I asked her, unsure of what answer would make me feel better.

She considered it for a moment before replying, “I suppose I am as real now as I ever have been.”

“I forgive you,” I say in a weak voice.

“What?” She asks as she leans closer.

“I forgive you,” This time I say stronger, “You were in an impossible situation, one that I wish no mother ever has to be in. I shouldn’t have expected you to know exactly what to do or what I needed. I obviously didn’t know what I needed either.”

I fight through the tears welling in both of our eyes.

“I’m sorry that I was so mad at you for so long. Everything was so repressed that I didn’t even realize how mad I was at you for the longest time, but I was just mad, mad at everything and everyone. I know you did all you could do in your own way. I’m sad that something so terrible put this wedge between us. But most of all, I am sorry that I am forgiving you too late, I am sorry I didn’t heal in time to tell you this.”

“Oh, Emily, it’s not too late.” She says as she sets her coffee cup down to wipe her tears. “Time doesn’t mean a thing.”