Unlit Star (32 page)

We start with Neil's baby album. He was an ugly baby—all rolly fat with smashed in facial features and a bald head—and I tell my mom so, which makes us both laugh. We laugh harder when she agrees. I make a comment about mothers supposedly thinking their babies are beautiful no matter what and she says that that is a lie, but they do
love
them no matter what.

“He made up for it as a two-year old,” I murmur, staring at a little boy standing in a sandbox with the sun haloing him and dirt covering any piece of skin not clothed. A wide grin shows gaps and teeth. I can't help but smile back.

“He did. He was such a shit though,” she muses. I look at her in surprise and she laughs again, shrugging. “He was. He used to scream every time I bathed him. He liked being dirty. He liked to eat dirt too. I would find dirt in all his orifices." She pauses. "He refused to eat anything but peaches and peanut butter sandwiches until he was six.”

"He loved peanut butter almost as much as I do," I muse, feeling a sweet clenching in my chest—the bittersweet memory of a young boy with a contagious laugh and fierce
stubbornness.

I touch the shiny cover of the film, thankful for this moment and the way my mother is opening up to me. She used to keep this part of herself locked away. I am guilty of this as well. I didn't talk about Neil because it hurt and that was wrong. I don't want the same to happen with me after I am gone. I don't want to be thought about, but never spoken of. I want to be remembered, not hidden away like a dark, sad secret. I don't want the ones that love me to hurt when they think of me—I want them to smile.

I take a deep breath and look at my mom. She looks back, silently waiting.

“I don't like to think of myself as a coward, but some things even I shy away from—most notably, the subject of Neil, and the strain between us.” I swallow. “I should have talked to you. I shouldn't have pushed you away. I always thought I had forever, that I had time to fix us, but I have realized that none of us have that.” I inhale slowly. “I don't want to go and I am sorry that I am. That sounds so lame, but I don't know how else to say it.”

Her lower lip trembles and tears are trailing down her porcelain cheeks. “You make me so proud, Delilah. You always have. Even when I didn't understand you, I admired you. You're so brave, such a brave young woman.” She takes a stuttering inhalation of air. “You're not supposed to be trying to make me feel better, you're not supposed to be comforting me.
I
should be the one to do it. I'm the mother—”

“You're the mother who lost a son and will soon lose a daughter,” I remind her quietly. “I'm not happy about this. In fact, I'm a little hateful, a little depressed, and yes, selfish. I want to have my life. I want to have my wedding and my kids and my career. I want grandchildren. I want ice cream and movies and music. Peanut butter. I want the sun and the stars, sunrises and sunsets. I want the scent of rain around me and the cold of winter, the warmth of a blanket. I want love and laughter. I want to create something amazing and have it be in someone's home. I want to grow old and fat and say whatever the hell I want without caring how others react. I want that sense of entitlement to be bat shit crazy that seems to come with old age.

“I want so many things that I will never have, but...” I wipe tears from my eyes, seeing them mirrored in the blue eyes focused on me. “But I have so much
now
. I have to remember that. You're the one who has to keep living. You...and Monica...and...and...Rivers.” Pain lacerates my heart and I talk around it. “You're going to need each other. You're going to have to be strong for each other. Promise me, okay? When one of you falls, the other two will be there to help them back up.”

“I want the same for you. I would give it to you if I could. I promise you. Of course I promise you,” she says, enfolding me in her arms. “You're just starting to live. This isn't the way this is supposed to happen. I'm supposed to go first. I'm not supposed to see my children die.” Her voice cracks as she tightens her hold on me, her tears wetting my shoulder.

I am openly crying as I confess, “I always thought you were comparing me to Neil, that you were trying to use me to fill the hole he left within you instead of really seeing
me
, but I realize now that that was never true. You were trying to hold on to me because you couldn't him. You were trying to keep me safe because you weren't able to with him. You can't control the world around you, Mom, but you can take comfort in all that you have. You have me, always. And Neil. You always have us. Don't forget. I'm not really going away.”

Her grip on me becomes painful as we both cry, but I don't mind. We are a mother and a daughter knowing their time together is almost at an end. It hurts. The pain is filling me, pulsating through me. I will cry this night with her and then I will smile for her after today. I will be brave for the ones I love.

I pull away and clasp her hands between mine. Her face is red, her eyes bloodshot, and grief hides the beauty of her features. “Can you promise me one more thing?”

She nods abruptly.

“When you look at your flowers, can you think of me?”

“Oh, Delilah,” she weeps, covering her face as her shoulders shake from the force of the sobs leaving her. She grabs me and unceremoniously pulls me to her, brushing hair from my face and kissing my temple. “Yes. Yes. I will do that. I will look at my flowers and think of you.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Not a lot of talking happens after that, both of us too sad to do much of anything except cry and look at memories of lives forever captured within the pages of a photo album. I am seeing myself, knowing this is how I will be soon—just a face in a picture.

“YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE a drink with me. It seems silly to make you wait.” She blinks as pain filters through her eyes, like she is only now aware of what she just said—I won't be around to drink when I am legally able.

Her face crumples and I pat her hand. “Stop it, Mom. Don't be a sad drunk. No one likes them.” I take the glass from her and swallow some of the pale yellow liquid. “Lemonade and vodka?” I guess.

“Yeah. I decided coffee just wasn't going to cut it tonight.” She gets up and mixes another drink, returning to the table and setting it before me.

I sip it, liking the tangy bite it has.

“Do you know what I keep thinking?”

“That drinking and thinking is a bad idea?”

She shakes her head, swiping tangled hair from her face and behind her ears. “I keep thinking that, if I'd bothered to know who I was sleeping with, maybe none of this would be happening.”

“Oh, Mom, don't think that way.” I reach across the small table and squeeze her hand.

“I can't help it. What if it's genetic?” She blinks her eyes and tears fall from them. “What if your father has it or someone else in his family? Maybe they could have checked for it sooner. Maybe it could have been operated on before it got to the point where it couldn't be. If we'd only
known
, maybe none of this would be happening.”

“And maybe it would have been, regardless. Thinking that way doesn't make a difference in any of this. It is what it is.”

She snorts and takes another drink. “Delilah, stop sounding like the adult. You're making me look bad.”

I get up with my glass and walk from the room. I come back holding a portable CD player my mom likes to drag into the backyard when she's gardening. It's old school, but effective for what she needs. Drinking to dull the pain is okay and everything, but there has to be a limit, and there has to be music and dancing involved to keep the heaviness out of the room.

“What are you doing?”

I hit play and turn the volume up. 'I Can't Change The World' by Brad Paisley flows from the speakers. My mom is a country music nut. I enjoy certain country songs, but I am more drawn to fast music with unexpected beats and bass, music that physically moves me, although I like anything, as long as it touches my heart or gets my body moving. But this is what my mom likes and tonight is her night, so I pull her up from the table as we sing along with Brad.

It isn't that I've never had alcoholic beverages before, but the times have been infrequent and never with my mother. I suppose all sorts of rules need to be broken in instances like this. Mothers and daughters become drinking buddies, enemies become tolerable, strangers become lovers. One drink becomes two and we dance to Taylor Swift's 'Mean'.

The music and drinks continue to flow as we decide to do makeovers. My mom forms my shoulder-length hair into messy curls, I paint her nails black with pink dots, and we talk about boys. I talk about Rivers and she talks about Neil's father. I wonder where he is. I wonder if he misses his son as much as my mom does. I wonder if he still loves her like she still loves him. Was the pain of losing Neil the last nail to fall from the woodwork of their connection? Love comes, it fades, it goes, but it always has the power to return. I don't even know if she realizes it, but her eyes light up and her voice softens as she talks about him.

"You know the Willow tree in Mr. Miller's backyard?" I mention at some point during the evening. My eyes are tired and sleep is calling me, but I feel like we need to talk about this. It's important to talk about Henry Miller, his loss, and even his tree.

My mom leans her back against mine, my eyes in one direction and hers in another. "Yes. You and Neil used to love playing on it. I can't count all the times you two would sneak off to it without telling me."

"He never cared. Henry." My voice is soft.

"No."

"He used to sit on his back deck and watch us with a smile on his wrinkly face. He never said anything other than hello and goodbye, but I liked him. There was soundness to him, like he was an unbreakable foundation in an always changing world. Of course, back then I just thought he was neat because he had a Willow tree." I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. "There's something magical about that particular kind of tree. I wonder if Henry realizes that. I wonder if he had it put there for his family that he lost. Those trees cry for the dead. It's like their branches try to sweep up all the pain and loss in the world and hold it to them so that it does not touch us. I wonder if he thinks the same."

She shifts her position until her side is to my back, placing an arm around me and resting her chin on the top of my head. "That sounds nice. I'm sure he does."

"I think you should talk to him."

She pauses, and then nods, her chin rubbing against my hair as she does so. "I think I will."

The hours sweep by, turning the evening into late night, and when we finally fall asleep in a pile of blankets and pillows on the living room floor, I feel closer to my mother than I ever have before. I sleep with her herbal scent around me, at peace with tomorrow and whatever it will bring.

I awaken to my mother shaking my shoulder and telling me to get up. “Rivers is here.” Her tone is firm, but I still catch the hint of sorrow in it. She's wondering how many more mornings we have together.

I glance at her as I get to my feet, rubbing my forehead. “He said he wouldn't be over until later today.”

“I think he wanted to surprise you.” She tries to smooth my curls that have turned into a natty mess. I let her, smiling at her when our eyes meet. Her hand slowly falls away and she gives me a tight hug. "Better hurry. He looked anxious."

I race through the living room and up the stairs to the bathroom where I quickly brush my teeth. I don't even bother to look at my hair because I know if I do, I won't go downstairs until it's into some form of control and that would be wasting time better spent near Rivers. I sprint back down the stairs, take in the raised eyebrow my mom gives me from the kitchen as she says, "Tick tock," and come to a stop in the small entryway.

Running my fingers through my hair as I move toward the door, I give up trying to detangle the curls when my fingers get caught in the locks. I open the door to sunshine and a gaze immediately set on me. My pulse picks up and flutters form in my stomach.

Dark eyes hold me in place and I put a bright smile on my face. "Hey. I thought you had stuff to do this morning."

"I talked to Thomas last night."

"Oh?" That wasn't what I thought his first words would be to me. I was thinking something more like a hello, a comment on my bed head, maybe even declarations of love. "Is everything okay with you two?"

He shrugs, looking down. Then he grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me outside and to him. His arms wrap around me as his cheek rests on the top of my head. His heartbeat thunders in his chest and I place my ear to it. "I missed you," he says into my hair.

That's better. My smile deepens. "I missed you too."

Rivers pulls away, studying my
head. “What did you guys do last night? Exploratory hair fashion?"

"You talked to Thomas about what last night?" I ask, deciding not to answer his question.

"We have a cabin in the woods."

"Isn't that one of those scary movies you made me watch that really wasn't scary?"

"Yeah. Anyway, the cabin is about ten miles outside of Prairie du Chien. We have about a hundred acres of land we inherited from a distant relative of my mom's. Most of it is woods. I guess that's why we originally moved to the area, but Thomas didn't want to build on the land, so instead we found a house in town. There's a cabin there that we would stay in every once in a while as I was growing up. We'd hunt the woods and fish in the creek near it. I can't remember when I was there last. It's been a couple years. The point of all of this is that I talked to Thomas last night about me moving out there."