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Despite not knowing anyone here, everyone seems to know me pretty well. Although it takes me a second to realize they are talking to me because they keep calling me by my full name, Elizabeth—I’ve been called by my nickname, Birdie, my entire life.
I walk over to a card table tucked off to the side displaying all the photographs. We didn’t take a lot of pictures. I had a couple of us from when I was about six or seven years old, but the rest are of me in my teen years.
Luckily, the Fournier brood has a whole box of photos of my mom when she was younger, and some even have me in them—it must be soon after I moved in with her because I look young. I take in all the stacks and scrapbooks. Jesus, these people took a lot of pictures. I’ve never seen any of them before and can’t help but notice how happy Mom seemed. I smile. It’s a side of her I’ve never seen before. I wish I could have had that version of her, she looked so effervescent.
I grab a stack of photos and flip through them. Peering up at the measly photo boards I made, I realize there’s not one photo I brought that features us appearing happy at the same time. In every picture, either I’m smiling and she’s not, or she’s smiling and I’m not—quite the metaphor for us.
I come across some of us on a vacation at a lake, but there’s something off about my face, I don’t look like myself. Is it because of the huge grin? It leaves me feeling uneasy. I take two of the photos and slide them into my purse without anyone noticing. My family won’t mind, and I could use the proof there was a day, twenty-some years ago, when Mom and I were happy simultaneously.
* * *
I’m finally home. Thank God this shitbag of a day is coming to an end. Micky has insisted on being my chauffeur since the car was totaled in the accident. I’m good with using public transportation, I used it often in college, but eventually, I’ll need to get a vehicle. I can’t even think about that yet, I still have to figure out what to do about Mom’s apartment and how I will pay off her credit cards.
Micky helps me carry the picture boards, at least a dozen flower arrangements, and a few casseroles into the apartment. No idea where I will put everything. Why don’t people give cash instead? The money, you can use. What am I supposed to do with an obscenely large crucifix made of white lilies and a blow mold of Jesus hanging in the center? It’s so melancholy—and pretty damn ugly, if I say so myself. I need somewhere to stash it, so I toss it in the extra washroom shower and yank the curtain closed. Problem solved. We get the last potted plant inside and then walk back to her car to say our goodbyes.
When she gets in her car, I hand over two full trays of leftover food from the reception that didn’t fit in the refrigerator. She rotates, sets them in the passenger seat and looks back at me with a clenched half smile. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m fine. As good as somebody can be after their mother dies. But at least the funeral is over.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to come back to the apartment tonight? You didn’t have the greatest childhood here.” Her eyes shift to the brick building. “It feels weird leaving you. What if I stay with you tonight?”
“Honestly, I think I just need some space tonight. I’m so drained after the last few days.” As if confessing it was some kind of a release, my shoulders slump, and I notice how dry my eyes are.
“I’m not surprised, you’ve been busting your ass putting that service together, and today wasa lot. Just promise you’ll call if you change your mind, or if there’s anything you need. Snacks, beer, lasagna, you name it, I’ll come running.”
“Ha! I think they gave us enough bacon casserole to last six months. Thanks for taking some of the food home for me.”
“You bet, babe. Take care of yourself, okay?”
“I will. Love you, Mick.”
“Love you more.”
“Drive safe,” I tell her as I shut her car door.
Micky disappears down the road, and I drag my feet as I walk back inside. I’ve always hated the way the hallways smell here, like Hamburger Helper and other people. I get to our door, relieved to be in my own space again, but I’m confronted by another scent. Mixed with all the floral aromas from the funeral bouquets is the unmistakable smell of Mom. I never noticed it before, but now that she’s gone, it’s more potent than ever. How much longer will the apartment smell like this? It’s comforting, but it’s also a reminder that she’s never coming back. It’s strange sensing someone in a place, knowing they will never return to it. Though our relationship wasn’t great, she was still my mom for the last twenty-two years.
After kicking off my uncomfortable kitten heels, I stand in the entryway. It’s so quiet. Needing some background noise, I turn on the television, and The Shopping Channel pops up on the screen. The air is filled with some lady squealing that theCanTech Portable Cordless Air Inflator with Case and 3 Tipswill “change my life.” She actually said that.
I waffle back and forth on whether I should change the channel. Biting my bottom lip, I contemplate my choices. My mother was the last one watching TV, she chose this channel. If I change it, then I’m cutting one more tie to her and her existence here. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But when you have a complicated relationship like ours, every little strand of connection counts. After the host says—for the third time, about not missing out on the new introductory price, the decision has been made for me.Sorry, Ma, I’m out.
I find a rerun ofSchitt’s Creekand listen to Alexis bitch about David stealing her yogurt. It’s a nice escape. Leaning against the dated pink sofa, I stand watching for a few more minutes—laughing for the first time today. A commercial break hits and I’m thrust back to the present. I need to get out of this dress.
God, it feels good to take my bra off.After pulling on an oversized t-shirt and sweats, I’m a tad lighter after this especially heavy day. I walk into the washroom to scrub the day off my face and notice the black smudges under my eyes. I don’t remember crying. I finish washing my makeup off, brush my teeth, then stand and stare at myself in the mirror. Now what the hell do I do?
I walk out to the living room to lock the door for the night. I’m exhausted. Looking at the floor as I walk, my gaze catches on the photos I stole sticking out of my purse. Picking them up, I study them again. Then I take the picture boards and carry them over to our kitchen table. I turn on the overhead pendant light and examine the photos carefully, comparing them to the ones I took from the reception. Something isn’t right here. Although similar, the two young girls in the pictures aren’t the same.
Why didn’t I see this before? Are the pictures I took from the funeral of Mom with some other child? I turn over the photo and “Julianne and Elizabeth” is written in loopy cursive.Nope, that’s my name. Using the palms of my hands, I rub my eyes and focus, trying to analyze them with fresh eyes. I inspect the image of me running on the beach. Wait... where’s my birthmark? I have a heart-shaped birthmark on my thigh, but it’s not in this photo, and it definitely should be. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I snatch up another photograph, this one a close-up of Mom and me smiling together. That girl has brown eyes.
Mine are gray.
TWO
Irun my hands over my hair to make sure it isn’t sticking up anywhere.
“Hey, Birdie, whatcha doin’ up there?”
She sticks her head out of the fort window and smiles at me.
