Driving East out of Scottsbluff, I pass all the familiar sights which bring me peace and put a smile on my face. There were the dozen or so horses walking with each other in still dew-laden field. Red cows meandered among the shimmering rolling hills of the morning. The sun glistened everything along my route North along Highway 385.
Somewhere past Alliance and before Chadron I turned right down a dirt road. Around a quarter of a mile later, I turned left into a field. I had reached my destination of a journey that had begun more than a year before.
She was asleep when I walked in. The nurse said they were purposely keeping her unconscious. Still, as I looked at the broken body that was my mother, I could see her wincing in pain. No one knew if she would ever wake up again.
My home is 1,725 miles from hers. I sent an email to family of my arrival, only realizing then, I had no contact information for my nephew. We hadn’t spoken since shortly after my grandmother’s funeral 13 years ago.
My mother raised David after my sister abandoned him at 16 months old. He was my little brother and nothing else mattered right now. The head-on collision had erased the chasm between us. We texted briefly after my cousin gave me his number. He offered to pick me up at Newark Airport.
I climbed into his monstrous pickup and wondered how much silence would dominate the 90-minute drive to my hometown. He was worried I hated him. I wondered if he was still racist and bigoted. We found our answers before we even exited Newark Airport. In between catching up, there were lots of “you stupid bastard, learn how to drive” and “come on, what the fuck are you doing?” because, of course, we are the only ones who truly know the proper way to drive.
We spoke until just before sunrise. He cried. “You used to take me everywhere and we’d do all sorts of fun shit and I didn’t appreciate it and I’m sorry.” I refrained from correcting his run-on sentence. Eventually, the words, “David. Stop. Stop apologizing. We’re good,” tumbled from my brain and out of my mouth.
We were no longer those struggling people of a decade ago. I was diagnosed with PTSD, a result of severe childhood trauma. He was, understandably, an angry young man. His parents abandoned him and refused to admit his existence. We shared our common experience of being abandoned by our fathers and how that shaped a part of who we are. Mom did her best to teach us to be honest and good.
The first time I saw her after the accident, silence controlled the room. Her eyes fluttered. She tried to focus. Was she awake? No, well, maybe. There was no way to tell if she comprehended anything we said. Aunt Elaine and Uncle Dick, her brother and sister, had been there every day since the accident. They sat in silence. They spoke to her. They worried.
Bruises – red, blue, black, and purple – littered themselves across her body. The broken bones are too numerous to list. A special surgeon repaired all the tiny bones in her right wrist. We all worried whether she would be able to crochet again. I thought of the blue and pink and white blanket she made me, which has been on my bed the better part of three decades.
As I stood there looking at my mother, who at once appeared peaceful and wincing in pain, David leaned in to me and softly said, “Just so you know, I’m ready to go when you are.”
His tone was understood. Neither of us were handling the situation well. This is our mother. She spent her career helping others and, now, lies still in a hospital bed, relying on a machine to mechanically inflate her lungs so she can breathe. I choke back tears, but, later, alone, the salty liquid flows like the stream we always drank from in the Shawangunk Mountains.
I leaned in to David and spoke quietly. “I’ve been ready to go for a while, but I’m waiting for everyone else to leave so I can talk to Mom alone.”
David nodded and unfurled his arms. With a booming voice he said, “All right, y’all need to get the fuck out so Irene can talk to Grandma alone.”
Everyone nodded. There were, “oh, okays” and “of courses,” uttered. They left me alone with the beeps and boops from the machines now surrounding her.
My life is 25 hours away from hers. It is impossible to stay, so I made my goodbyes. I am short and couldn’t reach to kiss her on the forehead in the single place without bruises. I gently caressed her left cheek and thought of the times David and I had been bruised and beaten down by the world. She never gave up and always had her hand outstretched to lift us back up. I leaned in as far as I could and, holding back all the tears that wanted to fall out, whispered in her left ear, “it’s okay, Mom. You worry about getting better. I’ll take care of everything else. David is helping. It’s our turn to take care of you.”
It’s not the first time he’s come to visit me. Michael Myers has appeared to me in dreams before. He always scares me. I’m conditioned to be afraid of him. He is, after all, a multiple murderer. Last night, he appeared just outside my window at 15 Corwin Avenue, the house in which I grew up.
He gently tapped on the glass with the tip of his knife. He stood there, looming over all the shadows filtering in from the moonlight. I was terrified, of course. Who wouldn’t be. Was he there to kill me? To kill someone else? I didn’t know. I rolled over and faced the wall, trying to pretend he wasn’t there. In my little mind, that would mean he would go away.
My mom had just taken me to get my hair cut. She had to run a few errands before we went back home. I was sitting in the front passenger seat. We were stopped at the red light by the police department when a friend of hers started talking to her from the next lane over. After a few minutes, her friend asked her who the boy was with her in the car.
“That’s not a boy, that’s Irene,” Mom said. She said it matter-of-factly like her friend was an idiot for not recognizing me. I was six years old.
My cousins, from left to right, Andrea, Kaylie, Jacob, and Patrick.
I can’t remember if it was 1992 or 1993, but I had traveled back to New York from Lincoln, Nebraska, to visit my family. I had called ahead of time and asked my Aunt Elaine if she would cut my hair. Most of my haircuts as a child were done by her.
I used to keep my hair short and had the same cut often. I knew Aunt Elaine. I knew she wouldn’t mess up my hair. “Just do it the same way,” was all I asked.
