Mom turns her head and interrupts Kathy with a look. And in this, my moment of Moments, I see my stepmother’s face, and realize how wrong I’ve been about her.
Mom turns her head back to the window and whispers, much too low for me to hear. I twist her lipstick in my pocket, even closer now, close enough to rest a hand on her shoulder. She looks into my eyes, fully, finally, and for the first time, I see her—God, I see her for what she is, was, and will be. I see a million miles of life, a million lives in one, a million headaches, heartaches, and brainaches, a million ingredients in her eyes. The recipe is this: natural joy and learned sorrow; love found and love lost; fireworks, fortune cookies, famous rock stars, empty bottles, true compassion, false starts, staying up late, moonlight, sunlight, being a wife, being betrayed, being in my corner, being my mother, being, being, being.
“I was lovely once, but he never loved me once.”
I nod and lose my shit. From my gut to my heart to the sockets of my eyes—one dead, one alive—tears don’t discriminate. I am overcome by the urge to tell her about the Great Blinding Eclipse, and how I’ve been half-blind for two years, and how I’ve never told anyone. I want her to be the first to know. I want her to know everything about my trip, all the people I’ve met along the way. I want her to know about Beck and Walt. I want her to know about Arlene and the extra Carlness of Carl. I want her to know about Mosquitoland and our horrible house bought for the low, low price of Everything I’ve Ever Known to Be True. Because right now, looking at this shell that I once called Mom, it seems nothing could ever be true again. I miss Kung Pao Mondays and teaming up against Dad. I miss the mutinous cul-de-sac and giving money to Reggie. I miss the way things used to be.
I miss home.
I want to tell her all these things, but I don’t. I can’t. It’s like running a marathon, then stopping one foot before the finish line. So I stand. Thinking.
I think of a decade-old conversation. From the deformed mouth of a bubbly-skinned man, in line at a bank or a pharmacy or a fish market, it doesn’t matter. The conversation travels through a black hole of time and space, beyond every star and moon and sun in every galaxy of the universe; for its final destination, it arrives at Planet Earth, USA, Ohio, Cleveland, Sunrise Mountain Rehab, Room 22, Mim’s Ears.
“Did God mess up?” I asked.
“Nope,” said Bubbly Skinned Man, smiling like a fool. “He just got bored.”
From that moment to this, I’ve pondered the peculiarities of an angry Almighty. And now I know. I see it in the medicated drool dripping from the face of my once youthful mother. I see it in the slew of trained specialists assigned to her keeping. I see it in the Southwestern motif, from floor to ceiling of this nightmare called Sunrise Rehab, and I know what God makes when He’s angry: a person with the capacity for emptiness. But not the always-emptiness of Dustin or Caleb or Poncho Man. A drained emptiness. A person who was once full. A person who lived and dreamed, and above all, a person who cared for something—for someone. And within that person, he places the possibility of poof—gone—done—to be replaced by a Great Empty Nothingness. I know this is true, because right now, a Great Empty Nothingness is staring me right in the fucking face.
“Mary,” it whispers.
I hold her hand for the first time since that fateful Labor Day, somewhere between mutiny and mediocrity. Crying, I look out the window, hoping like hell she doesn’t say what I know she’s going to say.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers between sobs. “I never wanted you to see me like this. I’m just so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” My words pour out in ugly, nasal globs, and I hug her as hard as I’ve hugged anyone. “It’s okay,” I say again, because if I keep saying it, maybe it will be true. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay. I rest my head on her shoulder and gaze out the shaded window half expecting fireworks to go off in the distance. God, wouldn’t that just be the thing of Things? There are none, but it’s okay. It’s still Labor Day. Just a different kind of mutiny.
And now Kathy is pulling my hand. “It’s time to go,” she whispers, motioning toward the door.
I nod and kiss Mom’s forehead. Turning, I notice a vanity—not the vanity, but one similar—standing just next to her bed. It’s a dark wood, rife with the ornate vine etchings so popular in its day. Though the top of the vanity stands waist-high, a mirror attached to the back rises all the way to the ceiling, standing tall like it owns the place. I cross the room, noticing a hairline crack running the length of the mirror, from top to bottom. When I position myself in the middle, one half of my face is on either side of the crack.
Right Side Mim and Left Side Mim.