“Well, excuse me, if I’d like—to know—” her voice begins to crack and I know that the theatrics I’m so accustomed to are coming. “—that my son-in-law’s organs have saved someone’s life.” She covers her mouth with her hand and storms right past my dad.
On cue, he and I both sigh deeply. He shakes his head and looks down to his feet then back up to me. “You know how your mama is, Sade,” his gravelly, low voice declares on another sigh.
“Yeah, I know, but acting like a bully doesn’t get her anywhere with me,” I rebut, holding up one finger.
“I know. I know.” Dad nods.
A long pause passes before I end up feeling guilty for snapping at her. I hate feeling guilty.
“I’ll go talk to her,” I mutter begrudgingly. I drop the shirt I had just picked up and shoulder past Dad out into the hall in search of Mom, who has likely retreated to the car.
I don’t know why I bother even coming home. Maybe an extended stay someplace else is a damn fine idea. I need room to breathe. I need room to be angry. I need room to be irrational. I need room to be whatever my grief dictates without my mother or anyone else dropping in to smother me into a fit of rage.
As I anticipated, Mom is sitting in the front seat of the car, examining her reflection in the vanity mirror. She lifts a tissue and blots her eyes.
Wonderful. Made Mom cry. Again.
She catches sight of me from the corner of her eye when she flips the sun visor up. She averts her eyes forward, ignoring me. I round the car to get in the driver’s seat.
“Mom, you know I don’t mean to snap at you.” My confession sounds pretty sincere but she doesn’t acknowledge it.
She folds her hands in her lap and keeps her eyes facing forward.
“Come on, Mom, I’m trying, okay? It’s hard for me and it’s no excuse but just know that I don’t like my behavior either.”
She glances over to me then out the window. She’s thinking. I see the speech forming in her head. “You know,” she says wistfully, “when you were born, I looked at you all wrapped up in that receiving blanket and I knew I’d always do anything in my power to keep you happy and safe. I was tired. God, how I was tired. Twenty-three hours of labor wasn’t easy and I was ready to give up. The doctors said they were prepared to take me in for a C-section but I told them no. I said, ‘Just hold out. Just wait.’” Mom holds her hands up, reliving the ordeal. I’ve never heard her speak so candidly about my birth. I know it was tough on her but she’s never told me much about it. “I knew my girl even back then. Even before you were born. I knew that you were stubborn and you may take the long route, but you’d always show up in the end.” She smiles dryly. A lone tear slips down my mother’s troubled face, making me feel even smaller than I already feel. “So I hung in there. I thought, this can’t be fun for her, either. She’s in there being pushed, and squeezed, and cornered. So I told myself to hang on. Wait it out. To let you come when you were ready. Four hours later, it was finally time to push and even though I didn’t have an ounce of energy left, I did it. I did it for you and I did it for me. Your tiny shoulder had been sort of stuck and the doctor had to help us out with the forceps, but we did it. Seeing you wrapped up and pissed off, screaming at the top of your lungs, was the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. You are the most perfect thing that I’ve ever done. Even bruised and a little beaten from delivery, you fought. You made your presence known. You screamed loud and told the world that you had made it. You were here. My nurse even said you were the loudest little thing she’d ever heard in fifteen years of delivering babies.” She brings a wad of tissues to her nose, wiping away her emotion. “I knew that you and I would always fight against each other. I knew that you would bring me to the edge of giving in, but I’d hang on because you’re my baby and you’re worth it,” she croaks tearfully. “So that’s where I am, Sadie. I’m tired, and I’m scared, and I’m on the edge of giving in, but I’ll hold on because I know that you’ll come through this. If I could take this from you, I would. I’d take that hurt in a heartbeat. But I can’t. All I can do is push, and squeeze, and corner you until you give in and come out of this to scream to the world that you’re still here, dammit. You may be worse for the wear, but you’re still my baby girl and you made it.”
I lean over the center console and pull my troubled mother to me. “I’m sorry, Mom. I hate upsetting you,” I admit as I lose the battle against my emotions. Tears spill down my cheeks and drip from my chin onto her shoulder. I’ve cried on that same shoulder more times than I can count. I’m glad to have that shoulder to cry on. Lucky.