“Baby, I don’t want them cutting into me or poisoning my body. I don’t want to become a shell of myself. I’ve made peace with it.”
“What if you die?”
“So be it.” Mom met my sister’s eyes. “At least I’ll go on my own terms.”
My mouth went chalky. My legs shook.
“You both know I’ve always wanted to live near the ocean. I’ve been researching condos in San Diego.”
“This is the excuse you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?” Nat raged, wiping the tears that now streamed down her face. “After all these years, you’re finally going to let the depression win.”
“Honey, I didn’t choose to have cancer.”
“You have to fight.” Nat pounded her fist on the table to emphasize the last word. “You have to be strong.”
“I’ve been fighting my whole life.” Mom hung her head. “I’m tired.”
Nat came around the table and gripped Mom’s shoulders, eyes wild. “I’ll fight for you, then. I’ll drive you to every appointment. Get a leave of absence so I can take care of you. Shave my head. Whatever it takes. I’ll fix this.”
Mom fingered Nat’s glossy dark locks, then pulled her into a hug. “I love you so much, Natalie.”
Nat let herself be held for a second before pulling away. “Mom, no. You can’t give up. Tell her, Kit.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My hands and feet were numb. My brain had been shredded in a blender. Mom’s gaze settled on me. It pleaded for understanding, for me to take her side.
When I didn’t respond, Nat whipped her head toward me. “I’ve had to be the bad guy our entire lives, while you got to be the favorite. But you’re not going to have a mother soon if you don’t give her a little tough love for once.”
Something cracked inside me. “Mom, please. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for us.”
“That’s enough, girls.” Mom pulled us both close.
In the boiling trailer I blinked, feeling that familiar wave of nausea. No part of me wanted to do this exercise. I could come up with a make-believe story, an easier one to swallow and share—about a mother who was overly critical of grades or wouldn’t let boys come to the house. Before I could stop myself, I plucked a couple of strands of hair from my head. The relief was instantaneous. I was righted again, like when water at the car wash streamed down the windows, clearing away the dirty soap.
Ruth broke the silence. “Talk to your parent about this memory. You can start out by retelling the story or you can launch straight into your feelings. But I want you to have an honest conversation, say whatever you’ve been holding back all these years. Imagine you were to write Mom or Dad a letter, but then never mail it. How free you would be to tell the truth, no matter how poorly that truth might reflect on you. Today is not about judgment. It is about clearing space for ourselves to heal. Don’t worry about taking turns with your partner. You should talk over each other. You can scream. But I want you to stay grounded. No violence.” She paused. “You may begin.”
Jeremiah and I hesitated, listening to the voices around us for cues. Most of our classmates spoke in hushed, hissed tones.
But Sofia wailed right from the start. “How could you? Your granddaughter died, and instead of comforting me, you said she brought it on herself.”
My eyes popped open, widening at the accusation. The voices rose in anger.
“How many times did you use me as your punching bag?” Raeanne spat.
“I shouldn’t have stolen your money,” Sanderson said.
“How could you let her drown?” April said. “You were supposed to keep us safe.”
Ruth’s voice was featherlight in my ear. “Please keep your eyes closed, dear. Focus on your own memory.”
My eyes snapped shut. Jeremiah’s voice wavered when he spoke. “If you’d had one ounce of compassion, none of this would have happened.” His voice was so cold that goose bumps pimpled my arms.
He hesitated when he noticed I wasn’t speaking. “Anything you want to say, Kit?”
I took a long inhale. “You left us. We needed you.”
“Atta girl,” Jeremiah said.
“We would have been okay if you’d lived.” I felt guilty for blaming my poor dead mother, who, on top of battling lifelong depression and terminal cancer, now had to carry the weight of my failures too. I wished my sister was sitting across from me instead of Jeremiah. She understood loneliness better than anyone, how it became a barnacle.
By now the room was soggy with misery. Sofia and Raeanne were yelling. Sanderson rocked, apologizing over and over to his parents, slowing only when Ruth murmured something in his ear. I snuck a peek at Gordon. Straight-backed and unmoving, he sat in the corner. I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed.
“His death is on you too,” Jeremiah said.
I trembled, overwhelmed. I didn’t have time to think about whether I wanted to participate—I just did, so my voice wouldn’t be notably absent from the crowd’s, like when they did the group “om” at the end of a yoga class. If I didn’t keep talking, Jeremiah might get self-conscious again that I was eavesdropping on his conversation.
“You should have fought, Mom,” I said a little louder to match the volume of the rest of the mob. My mind whirled. “Why weren’t we worth sticking around for?”
“You’re doing so well,” Ruth said. I wasn’t sure whether she was talking to me or Jeremiah. “Keep going.”
“I should have been there for you. I’m sorry,” I said, then voiced the thought I’d had thousands of times: “This is all my fault.” I’d been easy on her when I should have been tough and tough when I should have shown compassion. I was vomiting on my own feet in Vegas while she took her last breaths. She mattered more to me than everyone else combined, yet I had totally and utterly failed her. I hung my head, desperately fanning myself.
Ruth moved away, then shouted to be heard over the cacophony. “Good, everyone, very good. Now be still.”
The room quieted, reeking of sweat and body odor. I needed air.
“Take a photo of your memory and put it in the middle of a crisp white bedsheet.”
I pictured my mother slumped at the kitchen table, upset that we were ganging up on her. I put the image in the bedsheet.
“Bring the four corners of the sheet together, and close it with a bungee cord. You can’t see the photo anymore. The memory is trying to tug free, so it may jump around inside the sheet. Do you see it?”
I did as I was told, wrapping the bungee cord around my mother’s betrayed expression.
“Now hurl that wrapped-up memory as hard as you can against the wall. Let me hear the sounds of your efforts.”
People began to grunt, as if they were trying to push a building off its foundation. Someone howled. Jeremiah’s hand sliced the air, and I imagined he was actually trying to whip away his memory. I hesitated, not wanting to throw my mother against the wall. Could we not open a single window in this sweltering trailer? I longed for a breeze, for escape.