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"Would you like a cup of tea and a cookie?" Mrs. Hartwell asked me. "I got your favorite at the store just now."
"As much as I hate to say no to shortbread cookies, I should go back downstairs and check on my mom. If she's sick she might need something."
"Maybe one of her spells?"
My heart sank. I sincerely hoped she had a cold or the stomach flu rather than one of her spells. During her depressed times, she rarely got out of bed and wouldn't eat. All she wanted to do was sleep. "This new medicine the doctor gave her last month is supposed to help with all that."
"Has she seemed better?" Mrs. Hartwell shrugged out of her coat and hung it in the small closet just right off the door.
I wanted badly to say that she had but in fact, she'd seemed as fragile as glass…as the one crystal glass we owned. "I'm not sure."
"All right, run home. Call me later to let me know how she's doing."
"Will do."
I let myself out and pranced back down the stairs. My legs were strong from all the walking to and from the bus stop as well as all the errands I did for Mom on foot.
When I arrived back inside our unit, I picked up my pack that I'd left on the floor and hung it on the hanger by the door. Mom liked everything in its place. I knew better than to leave it, or it would agitate her. She wouldn't say anything, but I would know because she would wring her hands until I put it right. I wasn't sure if other mothers were this way, but I suspected not.My best friend Sarah's mom was the opposite. Their small house was cluttered, filled with books and games, with no particular place for anything. It was hard to believe that people actually lived this way, so free and without fretting over every little thing. The glimpses I’d gotten into their family life had left me with an undeniable envy. What would it be like to live that way? I’d never know.
Sarah’s mom also didn’t have spells or bouts or whatever the word was to describe my mother’s months of depression.
I grabbed my lunch box out of the backpack and took it immediately over to the sink to scrub it clean, then dried it and put it away in the cupboard. I made my lunch every night after dinner to take with me the next day. Sarah ate school lunch, but I liked to make my own food. It was a happy time for me. Being in the kitchen making food for Mom made me happy. Taking care of Mom was what God had called me to do. I felt sure of it. At Sunday school last week, our teacher had said that God created us all with certain gifts, and we must make it our life's work to use them for good.
I stood in the empty kitchen, debating what to do about Mom. Below on the street, cars and the occasional truck splashed through puddles. Should I check on her, or would that disturb her nap? She must be napping, or she would have come out to greet me.
In the end, I decided to peek into her room just to make sure she didn't need anything.Please God, don't let it be the beginning of one of her spells.
My mother was in bed, curled up like a cat on top of the made bed. She often slept this way, and it always made me feel as if I were peeking in on the child she’d once been. She hadn’t pulled back the bedcovers but instead lay on top of the quilt some aunt I’d never met had made. Was she asleep? Her eyes were closed, and she looked peaceful. But so still. Pale too.
Something was wrong. My heart sped as my stomach dropped.
“Mom?” I drew nearer. Her long brown hair had been braided neatly down her back. She wore her best dress, the one with the blue flowers against white. A wrap dress, she’d told me once, never went out of style and flattered any type of figure.
I perched on the side of the bed and touched her shoulder. “Mom, are you asleep?”
No response. And her body felt cold and stiff against my fingers. Out of the corner of my eye, I realized there were items on the bedside table that weren’t normally there. “Oh God,” I whispered out loud. No. No. It couldn’t be. But it was. Why else would an empty bottle of pills and an envelope with my name written on it be in the spot usually reserved for her glass of water?
I tore open the envelope with trembling hands.It can’t be this. Mom, please.
The note was short.
My dearest Elliot,
I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, but the pain is too much. This world and you will be better off without me. Please know this—I love you more than anything in the world. You’re the only good thing I ever did.
Stay brave and feisty. Don’t be like me.
Mom
“Mom, what did you do? What did you do?” I started to sob, blubbering like a baby. The phone. I needed to call 911. Maybe they could save her. She might just be passed out as I’d seen Mr. McMurtry once asleep in front of his own doorway.
Frantic, I ran into the kitchen and yanked the phone from its holder and dialed 911, a series of numbers I’d hoped I’d never have to punch into a phone. I should have known. Seen the signs.
A woman answered right away.
“My mom,” I croaked out, running back to be by Mom’s side. “She took a bunch of pills and now she’s not moving.” I fell to my knees beside the bed.
“Is she conscious? Does she have a pulse?” The operator’s voice sounded calm and smooth. She’d done this before.
