I wasn’t a live-or-die-for-a-job fella. I was a diligent and hard worker, but running the show wasn’t my career goal. I preferred collaborative scenarios where teams flourished. That should have been another clue that I wasn’t a good match for my ex. If you weren’t in Jennifer’s shadow, you were outshining her and that wouldn’t be tolerated. I had made sure to stay in her shadow but I guess her sun had outgrown our universe.
But I’d dutifully gone along for ten years, and truthfully would most likely still be there if Jen hadn’t discovered Cooper’s letter. The beer, the complacency, relinquishing control to my wife, and walking through life in an aimless stupor was who I’d become. Every single thing I doubt would’ve happened had Cooper lived.
Not anymore though.
I wanted to finally live and accept the parts of me that I kept hidden since childhood. I’d be alone, but that would force me to rely on the person I should have relied on all along: myself.
I closed the fridge before I gave into my desire for a beer. I wanted clarity for the next several hours in case my mother passed away and drinking would hinder that. The digital clock on the microwave read twenty-five minutes past five in the afternoon.
Mom was sitting upright and staring out the window when I entered her bedroom. “How’d you do that?” I asked, pointing at the bed she’d raised on her own.
She lifted her hand and showed me the controller. “I can push a button, Michael. Besides, I had a boost of energy after Dad’s trick.”
“I can see that. Hungry?” I asked, unsure of what else to say. “I can make you some soup.”
“I’m tired, son. I think I’m ready,” she whispered, a slight cough escaping her lungs. “What time is it?”
“Almost five-thirty,” I answered, looking at my wrist even though I’d just seen the time in the kitchen.
She gazed toward the closet and jutted her chin out. “Grab a blue box from the top shelf in my closet,” she stated.
“Why?” Dread crawled across my skin, slow and ominous before setting up shop in my gut. I wasn’t fond of the shift of tone in her voice. I knew this version of Mom. This was theI’m-in-controlMom, so do as I say. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Important stuff,” she gasped, raising her hand to point again and grimacing in pain.
“You’re hurting, Mom. Can you at least take a little morphine?” I encouraged.
She narrowed her eyes at me, once again beingin-controlMom.
“Weare doing this onmyterms, Michael. Time is precious and I want to share something with you before my departure,” she announced.
“How about we tackle that tomorrow?”
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” she stated. “We will enjoy this now and then we can be free to chat until I move on from this plane of existence.”
“I prefer you stay in this plane with me,” I choked out, glancing at the closet. I didn’t want to get the boxes. I couldn’t accept that she was ready. How could she be ready? I sure as fuck wasn’t.
The room was silent while Mom waited for me to comply. She couldn’t be unkind. Her path forward was one of patience no matter how strong the headwinds trying to force her backward were. She never looked back. She never complained about the past. Mom had zero interest in whathadhappened and was far more curious about whatcouldhappen.
“You promised,” she reminded me. “And now is the time to hold up yourend of that bargain.”
I walked to the closet where four blue cardboard boxes sat on the top shelf. The boxes looked like they held fancy hats or winter sweaters, but I feared it held instructions. Death instructions.
“The first one on the left,” she said, pointing a shaking finger above my head.
I placed the box beside her on the bed and removed the fitted lid. A sealed note with my name scrawled across the front was on top. “I thought this sorta stuff was in the safe,” I stated.
“These items are personal effects,” she explained. “Things I saved from your childhood that I want you to have. The letter on top is for after I’m gone.”
I removed the letter, noting a handwritten date in the corner where a stamp would normally be that was dated August 30th.
“For tomorrow,” she said.
I didn’t protest the date. Why bother at this point? Under a baby’s blanket were other short notes clipped to pictures. There were baby clothes and two pairs of baby shoes. A ceramic circle of my hand print that I’d made in kindergarten stood out like a beacon from my childhood. She’d saved it all. Every important moment from her only child’s life had been beautifully preserved and labeled.
I picked up a polaroid of a very tiny me. I appeared to be about three years old wearing a suit with black shiny shoes and a bow tie. There was a rabbit in a wooden wheelbarrow beside me. I was obviously fascinated by the bunny and was pointing to it with chubby fingers to whomever was taking the photo.
The note attached read:You were almost three in this picture on Easter morning. Dad and I borrowed the rabbit from grandpa so you could have him for the day. Sadly, grandpa ate him the following week.
