August 26, 2016: Friday
Dear Brian,
Right now it’s 11:50 pm. By the time I finish writing this letter, it’ll probably be Saturday morning; but for now I’m going to just call today Friday. Guess what I found two weeks ago!
Bored as usual on the weekends, I rummaged through some old, cardboard boxes in the hall closet, the one I never got to that summer when I was fourteen. You would not
believe some of the junk that was packed there! There were tiny shoes that we all probably wore when we were each two years old, little white-turned-yellow onesies, and a ratty baby blanket. At the very bottom of the box, once everything else had been shoved aside, I also found three fat photo albums. Beneath those was a small pile of miscellaneous photographs: Simon at ten and me at two, giggling in a pile of brown and reddish leaves; Simon at age four, splashing in the tub with our father’s arm snaking into the camera’s view; Mom’s eyes flashing with delight, a bouquet of roses hugged to her chest.
That one I reached to take, bringing it within inches of my face. Lost in a memory of when life had been happy and blessedly whole, I traced my fingers over Mom’s face and then the white of her teeth. Oh, yes, I knew what that was. Though unfamiliar on her lips, I recognized her smile nonetheless. And it made me want to nearly scream.
Even though I was too young to have memory of the scene, I can guess it was taken on Mom’s birthday. It’s the flowers that tipped me off—roses, which you, Simon, and I made a tradition of buying on that one special day a year. A sharp pang sliced through my chest, and I quickly replaced the photo back into the box.
In case you don’t remember, Mom’s birthday was today (soon to be yesterday, actually). After a few minutes more of rummaging, my mind strayed back to the photo. Finding it again, I just sort of stared at it, trying to recall a day I couldn’t possibly have stored in my memory. What I wouldn’t give to have one more day with the mom who tucked me into bed, who read me books on the weekends, who actually knew how to smile. Though I’d never admit it out loud, sometimes all I really wanted was my mom back. But then I remembered that that person was long gone, and besides I wasn’t the greatest of sons either. Looks like we were a perfect match that way.
Even so, while she may no longer be the best of mothers, at one point in my life she still worked diligently to give me, you, and Simon a happy childhood. For that she still deserved something, didn’t she? Maybe not for who she was now but for then. Right?
So shoving the box back into the closet for the time being, I locked myself in my room to come up with a decent birthday present for our mother. And for the first time in seven years, she got roses on her birthday. From behind the kitchen counter, I peeked into the kitchen to watch her answer the door. As if swimming in an ocean of perpetual bewilderment, she stood frozen as a young man in jeans and a forest-green t-shirt deposited a bouquet of roses into her unsuspecting arms. When he wished her good day and left, she plunked down onto the couch, not noticing me take a few tentative steps into the room.
Turning the bundle around in her arms, she found a card, which had been stuffed between two stems to keep from falling out. Gently, she plucked it from the bouquet and unfolded it. As her eyes moved across the paper, I recalled the words I had dictated to the florist:
Happy birthday, Mom. Hope these make you smile.
Forever,
Benny
Ever so slowly she turned to look in the corner of the room, where I stood holding my breath for her reaction. At first she stared at me, a thin sheen glimmering in her eyes.
Oh great, I thought:
she’s going to start crying again. But before I could so much as step out of the room, a tiny smile flitted over her face. It was fleeting and weak at best, but a smile was definitely there. It was a start. In return I offered a hesitant half-smile of my own… or tried to. Might’ve looked more like a grimace, though.
“Thank you, Ben,” she murmured, card still clutched in one hand. The other was wrapped almost protectively around the bouquet.
This time I did smile—a wide, toothy grin. “You’re welcome,” I replied.
With a light sigh she pushed herself to her feet so that she could look at me without craning her neck. Even doing that still had me a good few inches taller, but she didn’t seem to mind much. Arms still laden with roses, she offered, “Let me just put these down, and then maybe…” For a moment she looked hesitant, and her next words came out sounding more like a question than a statement: “You and I could… do something?”
Despite feeling thoroughly uncomfortable at the suggestion, I nodded. After all, it was her birthday. Besides, wasn’t another rarely-seen smile worth whatever lame activity she might propose?
As it turned out, the day wasn’t as horrible as I would have assumed. Sure, I probably could have found a whole slew of better things to do with my time; but really, it wasn’t terrible. If you asked me flat out, I might even have told you it was… fun. Maybe.
Anyway, after dumping ourselves into the car, we started driving without any real idea of where to go. After a bit of aimless driving, we finally decided to visit that old beach we haven’t been to in years. In fact, the last time we were there I think
Dad was at the wheel. But that’s where we went and stayed for most of the afternoon. At first I tried to get Mom into the water, but all I got was a “Yeah
right!” as if I were completely insane for even
thinking it. So I decided to go in alone and left her there, tugging off my shirt, sneakers, and socks. Since we hadn’t packed for a trip to the beach and didn’t have the appropriate attire for such an outing, I just exploded into the ocean wearing only my shorts. A blast of icy water sprayed my knees, and it was the most amazing thing I’ve felt in… ever. At least that’s how it seemed anyway.
When I went back to the sand, thoroughly exhausted, I made sure to shake water off all over Mom. Blocking her eyes from the sun, she laughed—
laughed, Brian, can you believe it? She laughed as if you, Simon, and Dad never happened, as if it had always been just the two of us and we wouldn’t have it any other way. Have I ever told you that I love her laugh? It’s beautiful, Brian—do you remember it? Until now I hardly did.
As the sun inched below the horizon, I lay back on my elbows beside Mom on the burning sand. Still wet, I shivered against the growing chill in the air.
Since we hadn’t packed towels or anything like that, I was sopping; and sand clung to my skin and hair. When it got too cold to stay outside, we clamored back into the car. My shorts
squelched as I sat down and buckled my seatbelt. Watching Mom drive back towards the apartment, I realized all those wrinkles of tension that she usually had—they were gone. For once she seemed relaxed; it was a good look on her.
The drive back was a quiet one. Halfway back to the apartment, Mom switched on some of
her music;
you know the kind I’m talking about. Classic rock or something, as if the old folks of the world are trying to turn their music
normal after all this time. When we got back, I took a quick shower and changed into some dry clothes. All my wet ones I dumped into the hamper that sits in the corner of the hallway. (We only bring the laundry to the basement to wash when it starts to smell or when it fills up—whichever comes first.)
By the time I was dressed, my stomach had growled at least six times. Intent on making a birthday dinner big enough for two, I entered the kitchen. Imagine my surprise to find Mom already there, head poking into the freezer as she fished around for something. Unsure of what to do or say, I just stood there, decidedly awkward.
Finally, with a triumphant “Ah-hah!” she closed the freezer door. In her hands was a package of ground meat that had probably been there a week or two. She set them on the counter and turned around to call me, only then realizing that I was already there. A smile breaking out on her face (what was that—three times in one day? Four?), she said, “Let’s have a barbeque!” Aside from the fact that we lived in an apartment building and had no backyard for a barbeque, we also didn’t even
own a grill.
“A… barbeque?” I questioned, completely at a loss for what to say. “Um… where would we have a barbeque?”
She pointed to the oven. “Right here. Come on,” she insisted at my obvious relcutance, “we’ll have loads of fun.”
I didn’t really know about that; but I agreed anyway, probably because it was her birthday and… well, why not, right? What’s stopping us from having a barbeque in our kitchen?
So that indoor barbeque of ours? Complete. and utter. chaos. By the time dinner was over, I was ready for another shower. But in the end it was worth it because Mom was laughing so hard she practically had tears streaming down her cheeks. The last time that happened, I was probably in diapers so – like I said – worth it.
First Mom turned on the oven to preheat. To be honest I was a bit surprised she remembered that part. Let’s not kid ourselves here: you and I both know she was never the greatest of chefs, and that was even
before she stopped making dinner altogether. But she did it.
Anyway, bringing the ground meat over to the table, we sat down and each grabbed a chunk to form into patties. At one point both of us reached for more of the stuff at the same time. Her meat-slicked fingers brushed mine, all sticky and gross.
Even though mine were just as disgusting, I yanked my hand back and wrinkled my nose. “Ew, Mom!” I snickered, “Your hands are nasty!”
“Oh, like yours are so clean,” she retorted, grabbing a hunk of meat and rolling it into a ball. Then, with an impish smirk, she chucked the raw meatball right at my face. Too stunned to duck, I got a faceful of cow. How appetizing.
How would
you react if someone threw food at you, huh? What could I do? No
duh—I got her back. Before she could pull it from my reach, I snatched the whole package of meat for myself and grabbed handful after gooey handful, launching each at Mom like soft, mushy bullets. By the time I ran out of meat, the oven had beeped and Mom and I were both completely covered. All that remained of our attempt at a birthday dinner were three raw, somewhat squashed patties. The rest that had been previously shaped were used as ammunition for Mom because I had the package of meat; and she needed
something to defend herself with, right?
With Mom insisting that we should make it like a
real barbeque, we put the patties on the bare oven rack and then let them cook for a while. Meanwhile, we tried to bring the kitchen back to some semblance of order. Let me just say… it didn’t work too well. And you know what else? By the time we were semi-finished, a burnt stink filtered through the air. Like I said, Mom’s not the greatest cook; what I forgot to mention is that I apparently inherited her wonderful talent.
“Let’s eat!” Mom said, licking her lips as if we’d just cooked some fancy gourmet meal. What exactly did she see that I didn’t? To me there was no dinner, only former-food gone wrong. But she proudly extracted the burgers, dropped them on a paper plate, and carried them to the table. Head held high, she took her seat and motioned for me to do the same. Before I sat down, I grabbed a bag of buns from the cabinet, tearing it open. Then, as I sank into my chair, I handed her one, which she accepted with a smile. In return she offered me one blackened burger. By that point I was too hungry to care what it looked like and just dug in. The last one we ended up splitting in half, each one of us taking a piece.
Give or take half an hour later, dinner had been more or less wiped off of the kitchen walls and ceiling. (I swear, it got that messy, Brian.) After a quick goodnight – no hugs; too awkward – we each went to our respective rooms and closed the doors. As I passed through the living room, I saw the roses I bought, bright and cheerful and all that jazz. I’m glad I found the photo and remembered our tradition. Even if it’s not a forever change, at least Mom had
one day of smiles, right? And I had fun, too.
Anyway, here I am in my room, writing this letter to you. My eyes keep closing, but I’m trying to stay awake for as long as I can. See, once I fall asleep, this day will be over. I’m not naïve enough to think that Mom will stay this happy forever, When I wake up tomorrow, sure there might be some residue or memory from today; but life will eventually slip back into the routine we’ve created for ourselves. By now it’s already after midnight, so the day’s long over anyway. Still, I’m reluctant to call it quits, to go to sleep and leave this behind. The best part about it was that it was so… so
normal. Our family—we don’t
do normal anymore.
But I guess all good things must come to an end, right? I’ll brave the storm. I just wanted to tell you about my day before the memory faded or before I woke up tomorrow and told myself it must have been a dream. This way I’ll know forever that it really
did happen. Goodnight.
Love,
Ben