Church.
Yeah,right.
There’s no way she’sthere.
I drive around the town one more time, even slower, before pulling my car into a spot in the church parking lot.Well, I suppose church is supposed to be a place for saints andsinners.
I have no idea how long it will be until the service is over, but it’s not like I have anywhere else I could try. This is the most promising lead. So I sit. And I think. Which is something I managed to avoid doing during mydrive.
I have so much to say to her. I want to tell her about all the years in grade school when I sat and watched my classmates make Mother’s Day gifts. All the colorful, plastic beaded bracelets, the picture frames made from Popsicle sticks, the woven keychains. The training bras I bought with my babysitting money so I didn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of telling my dad I neededone.
As hard as that stuff was, they are surface hurts. The worst ones are the ones deep down, the daily subjections that gnaw until they whittle me to nothing.Sometimes a girl just needs her mom,the social media posts say.My mom said…followed by whatever advice was given.Now that I’m older, my mom is my best friend,adult females declare. Or the well-meaning people and their assumption that a mother exists in my life. Of all the daily subjections, those are the worst. Becauseof courseI have a mother. Who doesn’t? And if a person doesn’t have a mother, it’s because she died. Never because she voluntarilyleft.
The more I think, the angrier I feel, until my anger is the color red and the color red is filling the car. I roll down the windows to let it out. When the breeze flows through, it cools me. A little, anyway. The anger is now sharing a stage with thehurt.
I concentrate on breathing. Deep, even breaths, in and out. Claire’s little face appears.My ClaireBear.
The tiny person who saved me. She took my sad heart and brought it light and love. Now it’s easy to see how Isaac and I are meant to be. How much I needed that first hour we spenttogether.
I’m almost smiling when the wooden church doors swing open. Out walks a man with white hair, and a woman with white hair follows. They stand beside one of the open doors, shaking hands with everyone who walksout.
My breathing picks up. I lean forward. My hands are in my lap, my chin rests against the steeringwheel.
Person after person walks out, but I don’t seeher.
It’s like the Dr. Seuss book all over again.Are You MyMother?
The congregation flows onto the grass lawn. Some people go to their cars, but instead of leaving they grab things and go back to the lawn. Some have chairs, some hold bags, other’s carry things that look like foodcontainers.
There. At the woodendoors.
Mymother.
My breath catches in my throat. She’s waving her arms and smiling, like she’s telling a story, and the two old people at the exit are laughing. She walks down the steps and goes to a car. Confusion fills me for the briefest second, until logic kicks in. Of course she doesn’t still own the car she leftin.
My brain moves quickly, cataloguing her every motion.Open trunk, lean one hand on trunk, run other hand along ankle, straighten, pull hair over shoulders, pick up something, close trunk.The first time I saw her I was too shocked to notice much about her, but now I see everything. How she moves, so gracefully. How she talks to every person she sees. Her smile is easy, relaxed,and it never leaves her face.Just like someone else Iknow.
She carries a large plastic container to an empty table, where she removes the contents and arranges them.I’d bet my life those are blueberrymuffins.
And I’d be right, based upon the number of people who flock to the table. She’s laughing and picking up the box, walking back to her car. I’m hit with the memory of standing on a chair in our kitchen, stirring the batter while she dropped in the berries. She told me to fold them in, so they stay whole, then she placed her hand over mine and showed mehow.
I’m out of my car. I don’t remember climbing from it, but now I’m beside it. I can see her clearly. She’s five cars away, her back to me. She’s placing the container back in thetrunk.
Someone calls her name and she looks over. She shuts the trunk and takes astep.
This is mychance.
I open my mouth. No sound comesout.
She’s walking away, loose gravel being pushed aside with every step. I’m steadily losing my chance. My voice is frozen, and so are my limbs. I watch her. From my spot beside my open car door, I watchher.
She moves through people, talking and laughing. She knows everyone. And they all know her.Or at least they think they do.I wonder what story she has toldthem.
I watch the picnic unfold in front of me until I can’t anymore. Because now Iunderstand.
Knowing why she left won’t change anything. Confronting her here, in front of the life she’s built for herself, won’t change anything forme. She can’t give back what she has taken away. Telling her what she’s done to me won’t give me amother.
Nothingwill.
