CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Mike
“Hello,” I said, picking up my cell phone before the humming vibration woke Mom.
“Hi, Michael.” It was my soon-to-be ex-wife, Jennifer. “Marie called my folks and they called me,” she began. “How’s your mother?”
That was Jennifer’s way. Get right to the point of every situation and conversation. No time or effort spent on small talk, catching up, or an exchange of fuck-you’s.
“Anytime now,” I whispered, getting out of the chair so I wouldn’t wake my sleeping mother and making my way to the hall.
“I’m sorry, Michael. I just wanted to check on her,” she stated. She was back to formal names and made no effort to conceal the fact that she was eating something while speaking with me. “I won’t be able to make it to the funeral,” she added. “My new job has me buried.”
The use of the word buried was lost on her considering what I was facing at the moment.
The reality was she probably would have missed the funeral even if we were still married.
She didn’t do funerals. That and she avoided Idaho Falls like the plague.
I believed she didn’t like that girl. The one who grew up here.
Not to mention she’d still be seen as high-school Jennifer who was the bubble-headed blonde, not the more glamorous, uber-successful woman she was today.
“I understand,” I lied, tapping the wall lightly and counting the seconds with my fingers until I could hang up.
“I’ll let Mom know you called and were concerned,” I lied again.
There was no way in hell I wanted to soil the last hours I had with my mother by reminiscing about a failed relationship with the former beauty queen of Idaho Falls High School.
“I wish I had more time,” she said. “You know, work and all.”
“Mom will understand, Jen. You’re busy. We get it,” I said, a bit harsher than I intended to sound. “Take care,” I added.
She wasn’t finished. “My parents said you haven’t called or stopped by to see them since you got back in town, Michael,” she quickly added, interrupting my desire to end the call.
I hated how she butchered my proper name with her guilt inflicting tone. “Perhaps after . . .,” she stopped mid-sentence.
“Perhaps after what, Jen? After Mom dies?” I asked, finishing her sentence for her. “So maybe I can have a little family reunion with your parents?”
“Don’t be difficult, Michael,” she said.
“Don’t be gross, Jennifer. Why don’t you visit them instead? Oh wait, you’re too busy,” I hissed.
She’d hit a nerve.
“I sincerely hope that you never have to deal with what I’m dealing with right now. So do me a massive favor and fuck off.” The phone went dead. I hadn’t hung up. I guess I wouldn’t be stopping by her parents’ house after all.
I made my way to the kitchen and opened the fridge, staring at the contents like something inside might improve my mood.
I’d bought a case of beer and hadn’t touched a single bottle since arriving a couple of weeks ago.
Maybe I hadn’t been addicted to the beer as much as I was to the numbness provided while living my dull life in Seattle.
A life I’d wasted over the past ten years because I just trudged through it.
My life choices weren’t Jen’s fault. I knew that, but admitting that I’d failed in our relationship still hurt.
She deserved more honesty as much as I deserve more respect.
The fact was that after Cooper died, I allowed my life to be influenced by external forces like parents, friends, and Jennifer.
“Let’s go to UW now that you’re not going to WSU,” Jen had suggested right after Cooper’s funeral, his corpse barely cold in the ground.
“I never wanted you to go to college without me,” she’d added.
So, of course, I went to the University of Washington in Seattle.
“I’d at least get engaged before she wises up,” a high school football buddy who’d joined us at UW advised one day while we worked out at our frat house.
“She actually wants you for some odd reason, dude,” he’d quipped, and then added.
“We all know she’s out of your league.” I didn’t ask her to marry me immediately but I eventually did and she’d said yes.
Now I look back and wonder why I wasn’t more thrilled that she had wanted me.
“If Jennifer thinks it’s best for you to stay in Seattle after you graduate since you have a life there, I support you,” Mom had agreed.
“Jennifer is ambitious, honey, but I bet that can be a good thing,” Mom had added.
I doubted she honestly felt that was true.
Mom knew Jennifer, and she knew me. She knew it wouldn’t be a good thing.
I wasn’t a live-or-die-for-a-job fella. I was a diligent and hard worker, but running the show wasn’t my career goal.
I preferred collaborative scenarios where teams flourished.
That should have been another clue that I wasn’t a good match for my ex.
If you weren’t in Jennifer’s shadow, you were outshining her and that wouldn’t be tolerated.
I had made sure to stay in her shadow but I guess her sun had outgrown our universe.
But I’d dutifully gone along for ten years, and truthfully would most likely still be there if Jen hadn’t discovered Cooper’s letter.
The beer, the complacency, relinquishing control to my wife, and walking through life in an aimless stupor was who I’d become.
Every single thing I doubt would’ve happened had Cooper lived.
Not anymore though.
I wanted to finally live and accept the parts of me that I kept hidden since childhood. I’d be alone, but that would force me to rely on the person I should have relied on all along: myself.
I closed the fridge before I gave into my desire for a beer. I wanted clarity for the next several hours in case my mother passed away and drinking would hinder that. The digital clock on the microwave read twenty-five minutes past five in the afternoon.
Mom was sitting upright and staring out the window when I entered her bedroom. “How’d you do that?” I asked, pointing at the bed she’d raised on her own.
She lifted her hand and showed me the controller. “I can push a button, Michael. Besides, I had a boost of energy after Dad’s trick.”
“I can see that. Hungry?” I asked, unsure of what else to say. “I can make you some soup.”
“I’m tired, son. I think I’m ready,” she whispered, a slight cough escaping her lungs. “What time is it?”
“Almost five-thirty,” I answered, looking at my wrist even though I’d just seen the time in the kitchen.
She gazed toward the closet and jutted her chin out. “Grab a blue box from the top shelf in my closet,” she stated.
“Why?” Dread crawled across my skin, slow and ominous before setting up shop in my gut. I wasn’t fond of the shift of tone in her voice. I knew this version of Mom. This was the I’m-in-control Mom, so do as I say. “What’s in the boxes?”
“Important stuff,” she gasped, raising her hand to point again and grimacing in pain.
“You’re hurting, Mom. Can you at least take a little morphine?” I encouraged.
She narrowed her eyes at me, once again being in-control Mom.
“We are doing this on my terms, Michael. Time is precious and I want to share something with you before my departure,” she announced.
“How about we tackle that tomorrow?”
“I won’t be here tomorrow,” she stated. “We will enjoy this now and then we can be free to chat until I move on from this plane of existence.”
“I prefer you stay in this plane with me,” I choked out, glancing at the closet. I didn’t want to get the boxes. I couldn’t accept that she was ready. How could she be ready? I sure as fuck wasn’t.
The room was silent while Mom waited for me to comply.
She couldn’t be unkind. Her path forward was one of patience no matter how strong the headwinds trying to force her backward were.
She never looked back. She never complained about the past. Mom had zero interest in what had happened and was far more curious about what could happen.
“You promised,” she reminded me. “And now is the time to hold up your end of that bargain.”
I walked to the closet where four blue cardboard boxes sat on the top shelf. The boxes looked like they held fancy hats or winter sweaters, but I feared it held instructions. Death instructions.
“The first one on the left,” she said, pointing a shaking finger above my head.
I placed the box beside her on the bed and removed the fitted lid. A sealed note with my name scrawled across the front was on top. “I thought this sorta stuff was in the safe,” I stated.
“These items are personal effects,” she explained. “Things I saved from your childhood that I want you to have. The letter on top is for after I’m gone.”
I removed the letter, noting a handwritten date in the corner where a stamp would normally be that was dated August 30th.
“For tomorrow,” she said.
I didn’t protest the date. Why bother at this point?
Under a baby’s blanket were other short notes clipped to pictures.
There were baby clothes and two pairs of baby shoes.
A ceramic circle of my hand print that I’d made in kindergarten stood out like a beacon from my childhood.
She’d saved it all. Every important moment from her only child’s life had been beautifully preserved and labeled.
I picked up a polaroid of a very tiny me.
I appeared to be about three years old wearing a suit with black shiny shoes and a bow tie.
There was a rabbit in a wooden wheelbarrow beside me.
I was obviously fascinated by the bunny and was pointing to it with chubby fingers to whomever was taking the photo.
The note attached read: You were almost three in this picture on Easter morning. Dad and I borrowed the rabbit from grandpa so you could have him for the day. Sadly, grandpa ate him the following week.
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 labeled ages 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 29th of August.