I burst out laughing at the last sentence, until I began to weep. Sniffling, I set the picture on the bed and reached for another. Tears fell freely as I sifted through photos and memories, digging through the layers of my boyhood.
Another note read:You were five and had finally figured out how to ride a bike without training wheels. Dad took them off and forced you to learn. Of course, you fell several times. Your father was impatient and I didn’t forgive him for three days after that.I was sitting on a bright blue bike and grinning extra wide, my sneakers barely touching the driveway in front of the house we were currently in.
I lifted my eyes to my mother. “Is everything here?” I asked.
She smiled and nodded. “That box is from your birth to age five. The others are the years following.”
“You seriously saved everything?” I asked, smiling through my tears.
“What else would a mother who has only one kiddo do?” she asked. “I put all I had into you, honey. Dad and I were always so proud of you. I am still proud of you,” she added.
“Can we go through them together?” I asked.
“They go all the way until you leave for college,” she warned.
“I’ve got time if you do,” I said. “You can remind me of all the good times, Mom.”
“Watching you grow up was all good times, son.”
We finished box one and then I retrieved box two that was labeledages five to ten.There’d be two more boxes after this one. I planned to take my time so Mom and I could relive my childhood. I was selfishly doing my best to extend my time with her. What Mom had done was provide me a wonderful gift full of memories. Memories I didn’t recall but now I would cherish forever after they’d been retold to me by the woman who’d meticulously recorded them.
The time was 7:17 P.M. on Saturday, the 29thof August.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Mike
Isat beside my mother and watched the digital clock on the dresser countdown the last moments of her life. In my head, I counted silently to myself, attempting to time my count with the change to the next minute. Digital numbers are fascinating to observe on a clock. I stared at the numbers and envisioned how a 3 would turn into a 4. Wondering which hashes of the digital number would disappear as it morphed into the next number.
The quiet room lulled me into thinking that Mom was simply asleep and that I could wait until she woke so we could continue our trip down memory lane. However, her breathing was shallow and the rising of her chest with each breath was becoming less frequent, just as Marie had described. Once again I stared at the clock, timing the intervals of the changing numbers to the rise of Mom’s chest. The time was 10:48 P.M..
Her face grimaced when she was jolted awake from pain. “Michael?” she gasped.
I stood and leaned over her, holding her hand in mine. “I’m right here, Mom.”
Mom’s eyes popped open and she did her best to smile through the agony of what life had dealt her. “I’m not going to lie, Mikey. This shit hurts.”
I believed her.
I had two choices. Either laugh at her cussing, something she never did, or cry because I hated to see her suffering. “Can I give you some meds?” I asked, stroking her face. “Just something to ease the pain, Mom.”
“Absolutely not,” she stated. “We have important stuff to discuss.”
“Can we not do that right now?” I implored. “I love you and you love me. We know that without question so why don’t we talk about something pleasant? Tell me how you met Dad?”
“Ask him yourself,” she answered. “He’s in the corner.”
I immediately moved my eyes from one corner to the next when the lamp with the burnt out lightbulb on his nightstand suddenly turned on.
“See?” she asked. “You need to open your mind, son.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” I asked, exasperated by her insistence of the unnatural even though I’d just witnessed some paranormal activity. “I’m not convinced,” I added.
“Come closer,” she urged. “Listen to me carefully.” I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned closer to her. “I’m going to give you an example of how you can believe that there are extraordinary things in our universes, and you can experience them. In fact, you already do,” she stated. I suppressed the desire to roll my eyes.
She closed her eyes and gasped for air because she had spoken too quickly and needed to wait for weakened lungs to replenish some oxygen.
I waited, thinking she may have dozed off again. “Mom?” I whispered.
“Listen and allow yourself to be open,” she advised, her eyes squinting open, registering the effort she was making to force through the pain. “You have to believe or what’s possible can’t happen for you.”
