EAGAN
There weren’t a lot of defining moments in my life. Lots of little moments, like when I saw a sunrise or a stunning view of the mountains, or when my dad carried me to bed, tucked me in, and read me a book. Or when Scott put his arm around me during a movie and I barely watched the show because I was more excited by him.
No doubt about it. The most important event of my life was my death. That day, that moment, seems to stand out above all the rest. Everything intensifies, slows down. I watch it in slow motion. I see the audience, the horror on their faces when I don’t get up.
I feel bad for them. I mean, they’re all left with that same image. Everyone there will remember that moment for the rest of their lives. For some, it will become one of the most important events of their own lives. It will change everything.
I’ve avoided thinking about how it is for everyone on Earth. I haven’t had any desire to see my funeral. And I don’t want to see any skating competitions without me in them. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to accept my own death.
I have a sudden ache to see Mom now, not just as a memory. I want to make sure she’s okay, that she knows that I loved her even though we fought all the time. I want her to know that I’m sorry I left.
I wonder what she’s doing now, whether she’s still selling houses. Or has she become a recluse who stays in bed and never leaves her own house? I wonder if seeing my old pond skates on the back porch brings her pain or comfort.
I imagine her in my head. I see her dark, curly hair, cut just below her ears because she thought her ears stuck out otherwise. I see her manicured nails painted a rusty red color, the black-rimmed reading glasses she wore on her head. I see the way she puckered up her mouth when she drank lemonade, and the intense gaze of her watching me skate, as though she was on the ice with me.
And suddenly I’m back in my room. My own room with my comfy bed and pillows and the purple and white bedspread. Is this another memory? I didn’t see this one flashing before me. So how did I get back? Was my death just a dream? Or did I wish this so hard that I made it happen?
Mom is here. She’s going through my drawers. My green cashmere sweater is in her hands, the one I begged for when school started, even though it cost more than two pairs of jeans.
“Mom!” She doesn’t answer. Can she hear me?
I’m an arm’s length away. I step forward. The floor creaks, and I wonder if I made that noise. But our old house makes all kinds of noises.
Then Mom looks up, straight at me. But her eyes look right through me. She has dark circles under her bloodshot eyes. Her hair is longer than I remembered and it’s uncombed. So unlike her. She looks as though she hasn’t slept in a long time.
“Mom,” I say again. But she doesn’t hear me. She looks back at the sweater, brings it to her face, and inhales the scent. Tears stream down her face.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” I’m crying too. “I never meant to leave you.”
Then I notice her swollen belly under the blouse. Is she pregnant? At her age? What a shock! But I feel a sudden rush of joy. I’m going to have a baby brother or sister!
“Is that what you were going to tell me?”
Mom moves the sweater from her face
and places it back in the drawer. Then she opens my desk drawer. A
crumpled piece of paper sticks out. The letter she wrote me. She
presses it open with her palm and reads it. Fresh tears flood her
eyes and drip down onto the writing, smearing the ink.
Dear Eagan,
How did we get to this point? You’re my whole life and I only want the best for you. That’s why I’m hard on you. But please know that I love you more than anything else in the whole world. If I could take back that slap or anything else I ever did in my life that upset you, I would.
I can’t, of course, so I don’t expect you to just forgive and forget. I look forward to the day when we’re not always at odds with each other. I had a difficult relationship with my own mother, and I was sure I would be different when I had children of my own. Sadly, it seems I have become all that I didn’t want to be: my own mother. But my mother and I reconciled when you were born, and I hope you will one day be able to forgive me as well. I only hope I don’t have to wait until I have grandchildren for that reconciliation to happen.
Love,
Mom
Thank God I saved that. I’d have hated for her to find the letter in the trash. That explains why we rarely visited Mom’s parents, who lived eight hours away from us. Mom didn’t get along with her own mother.
“Why?” she says, and her voice sounds like a wounded animal. “Why, why, why, why?”
I reach out to hold her, but my hands go right through her. How can I comfort her? How can I tell her I’m okay?
Am I really dead? If so, why do I feel so torn up inside? Why am I sobbing? Why do I feel so helpless?
“Mom,” I shout through my tears. “I’m here!”
And as suddenly as I was thrown into the world, I’m torn out of it again. The gray mist swells around me and I hold my head, feeling dizzy. It’s almost a relief to be back. Mom’s grief was too much to bear.
“Where were you? Did you go back?” Miki asks me.
“In a way. I wanted to go back so much. But I didn’t expect it to be so complicated.”
Miki shakes her head. “That’s just the beginning.”