The Probably Not Mine Pile

Jetty told me this morning that my daughter would be visiting tomorrow. I nodded in the way that means I understand, which is different from the way that means I agree, which is different still from the way that means I believe her. I have apparently mastered all three.

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Desktop:

Files;

-> memories ⏎

My fingers intertwine around the warm mug, and my feet remain strapped in those awful garden shoes. They take me by the window where my daughter is standing in the garden, which is fine, except I’ve never had a daughter, and the garden is full of snow, and it is July, and the girl is waving like she's been waiting a long time.

I wanted to ask her, “Who are you?” But instead, I waved back with a polite smile, as that is probably the right thing to do when someone waves to you.

However, I remember how the hummingbird on my windowsill once sang that harmonious melody. My fingers used to tap the handle-less mug I held to that same rhythm. The hummingbird seemed to laugh with me, contributing to my morning spirit. That melody was gone now, replaced by a menacing echo to cause blisters in my ears. The large hand on the clock showed 6, like it always did. I was almost certain it was real. I touch the windowsill, gliding my fingers through the cracked wood like I used to. A splinter grazes my index finger, causing a tiny prickle of blood to ooze from behind my nail. I smile because this must be mine.

Now the woman I doesn't recognize is pounding on the door and is standing in front of me, and the woman is crying, and she has her mother's mouth, which is impossible because her mother never cried, not once, not at the funeral, not at anything. Does this make me a horrible person?

I guess I’ll put her in the “probably not mine” pile.

The pile is getting large.

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The “probably not mine” pile, in no particular order;

- A waving woman in the garden in July during snowing season, who’s not my daughter

- A funeral where everyone laughed. I've been to funerals. Nobody laughed at mine. Theirs, I mean, because nobody laughed at theirs, I think.

- A man that squeezed my hand under the table at dinner. He rescued me from a burning building once. I don’t think this happened, but I feel safe knowing that.

- My old radio blasting Billy Idol with the potentiometer set to the maximum, painting in a graffitied garage. I’ve never owned a garage. Or, a car for that matter, so I don’t think this is me.

- Eiffel Tower skydive with hot instructor. It’s so fucking absurd that I’ve kept it for my own amusement.

- Spending hours driving aimlessly around the beach in a green Ford, singing along to songs from One Direction. I never learned how to drive. Probably not mine.

- A Thursday afternoon sunset with bright aurora borealis. I looked up once, and I remembered they don’t appear over cities, or maybe I remembered incorrectly, which is honestly spot on.

- The woman who was crying with my mouth. She’s been here the longest; I can’t just cast her out now, so I always end up keeping her.

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I was in the kitchen. Mine, I believe. The same cracked windowsill and smell of burnt wood coming from outside. From the inside. Ah, from the chimney. Only now, it was dark outside and still winter.

“Mom.” I barely heard it when it bounced back to me like a boomerang.

My tiny daughter (who I didn’t give birth to, apparently) tugged at my blouse covered in polka dots. No, wait, that’s the blanket I was covered in. The radiator never worked; he always bought me blankets. I’d laugh as my collection of blankets stretched through the house.

She wanted me to say something. I looked into her blue eyes and smiled a wordless smile.

I remember I actually told her about something. Scolded her, even. I told her something about not spilling ham and cheese. Or was it yoghurt? I told her something; I know I did. But now, I didn’t. She looked disappointed because I just kept smiling; she kept waving and crying and begging me to speak. I stood still and waved back because it is always polite to wave back.

Now, all of a sudden, I’m back. I turn around, and she’s in the living room calling me over, her dark blue eyes focused on her colouring book. She mouths something, but I can’t hear her. I crouch down on the couch to hear her.

“Mom!” I yell without thinking, looking at my own face crouched down by the couch. The woman in front of me I no longer recognise, smiling aimlessly. I tried to muffle my scream and my cries, waving at her to get away from me.

Was I ever really beautiful? Is this disease messing with me, or is this the truth?

I didn’t like this, so I’m putting it in “probably not mine". But it felt like mine, so maybe it was.

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I sharply inhale the morning air into my lungs, letting them have their morning coffee too. Who made me go on a run this early? I check my phone, date 12/07/2016, time: 05:05. I remember because it’s my birthday. My birthday. Yes, my birthday.

I’m a Cancer. I remember I read my horoscope that morning, telling me that for my birthday, I’d be rich. I scoffed and showed my husband, who spun me around and kissed me like the world was ending. Like, really kissed me. I heard my non-daughter boo us from a distance, and I honestly couldn’t complain. I was happy she was back during summers; we missed her during the winter. I never get her anymore.

Now, the beach lay on my left, and my willpower was left back at home. I slumped down on the damp sand, just staring at the tide that washed in in rhythmic strides. I mentally made note of:

- the way it mercilessly covers/destroys everything in its way

- Nothing is really destroyed since it’s just water

- Except for sand, obviously

- Water is held together by hydrogen bonds. How can we just touch water and not feel them?

- Why can’t I be more like the wave?

- Why am I more like the sand, and I always let everyone wash over me?

That determined me more than I thought it would. I picked myself up from the ground with a newfound determination. When you turn 60, nothing washes over you anymore. I ran that whole morning with one thought in mind: don’t be like the sand.

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This morning, I tapped my fingers to the rhythm of the hummingbird song.

Tap. Tap. Tap tap.

This time, I was in a bed. A white bed with… (I forgot how they’re called, so I’ll come back later) things attached to my arm. It seems the hummingbird followed me here. I smiled, eyes closed, making use of the moonlight shining on me.

Suddenly, it stopped singing. I asked why. It asked me, “I’ve been coming here for so long and singing for you, and you never introduce yourself. "That’s quite rude.”

Now, usually this would have been an easy task. Unreasonable at that. I sputtered a laugh. Was it usually this high-pitched? No, focus! My mother, my mother… she used to call me to do the dishes! In the sink. In the yellow kitchen, my drawings hung up on the fridge. Think! “Come here…. Aaaaa? Bbbb? C?”

Okay, another one. My husband. He’d call my name when he got home. He’d call my name when he was angry. His green jacket would be full of dust, and he’d scold me for brushing it off. It’d roll off his tongue in such a mannerly way, as if practised a million times. And it was…?

Nothing.

I scoured through all my memories: birthday cards, letters, books, dedications, letters, letters, songs, letters? I turned back to the hummingbird, letting defeat weigh over me. It must be showcased above my head as a bright, red sign with neon block letters saying 'nothing'!

“Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing", the bird chants, back to its menacing manner. It's a shame how easy an angel turns into a devil. I shut out the sound, blocking my ears, and yelled at it to stop. What do you do when a bird so sweet turns to weep and you can’t tell whether to run or scream?

You cry. You cry until you hear the very words you told yourself. Why do they make sense? You cry until you mutter, "Don’t be like sand. " And then, maybe, you finally sleep.

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The electric door clicks open, and heavy footsteps make me wince. It must bearly, as the hummingbirds are singing.

However, I pretend to be asleep a little while longer. I sure as hell did not come here to be disturbed. I huffed and puffed in silence as an actual voice interrupted me.

“You must be Celia’s daughter, Amelie.” The woman’s voice sounded familiar. I peeked through one eye and saw the jet-black-haired nurse (I’ve named her Jetty) who had been the sheer pain in my ass ever since I got here. “Sleep now," she’d say when I’d watch the birds out the window. "No," I’d answer, and she’d pat me on the back sympathetically. I hate that gesture.

“Yes, I am. How is she?” A grown voice echoed in the empty room. The room had, in fact, stayed empty for a reason; I have nothing of my own to remind me of my life. I have nothing I cherish enough to look at every day and think back to when. I don’t think back to never.

“She’s making some progress.” Jetty hesitated. “However, you must be aware that due to your mother’s old age and her dementia diagnosis…”

“It’s difficult for full memory restoration, yes, I know.” The girl sounded defeated, and my heart almost broke. Whoever her true mother must be, I know she would be devastated to hear that.

“But not impossible,” Jetty whispered, turning back towards me. Her shadow blocked the sunlight hitting my face in the mornings, and I groaned a ‘good morning'. “Good morning to you, too, Celia.” Jetty pulled off the covers from my bed and smiled excitedly to the other woman, as if to tell her that today might be the day something might happen.

I glanced up at the woman, and something flickered in me, like I had a piece of me finding its home. My non-daughter was here, and I felt like I had to tell her she had it all wrong. I just didn’t know what to say yet. She sat down in the chair next to my bed, her blue eyes radiating their way into my soul.

She seemed comfortable there. In the chair, I mean. Like she’d bought her own chair and brought it here to be familiar, and maybe even comfortable. I don’t know.

“Hi, Mom.” She whispered, a soft smile touching her lips.

I frowned, but I realised it might hurt her more, so I tried smiling. I’m not your mother, I wanted to say. Instead, I told her about that day. “You… you were booing me before.”

Her face turned from sad to confused in a matter of milliseconds. “What?” She sputtered a laugh, covering her mouth.

“Before I left for the beach. You were booing me, and I couldn't complain.” I said, frowning as I recalled. I expected her to remember. To know what I was telling her.

Maybe she did. She put my hand in hers, but not in the Jetty way. In the way that felt… complete. I glanced down at both our hands that served as a silent clock, displayed in front of us both. A ticking bomb. She knew who I was.

“Don’t be like the sand,” I told her. I felt that it was important that she knew this.

“Okay, Mom." She smiled, a tiny tear falling down her cheek. I reached out to get it, my frail, old, soggy skin melting under the tiny droplet of water.

I knew I’d done that before.