Chapter 15
Eleanor
On a quiet afternoon after I returned home from school, Mom and Dad were sitting outside near the ocean, looking out at the waves crashing against the shore.
I walked toward them and smiled. Dad looked at me, his eyes dripping with tears, and my smile quickly disappeared. “What is it?” I asked.
Dad couldn’t even speak.
He just shook his head and covered his mouth with his hand.
“Mom?” I moved over to her. She was resting her head against the back of the wheelchair, and her eyes were closed. I took her hand into mine. “Mom.”
She ever-so-lightly squeezed my hand.
“Still here, Eleanor Rose,” she said.
I exhaled in relief. “I was nervous.”
“It’s OK.” She slowly opened her eyes and raised a hand to my cheek. “Can I have a minute alone with Ellie, Kevin?”
He cleared his throat and sniffled. “Yeah, of course.”
Dad walked away, and I sat down next to Mom’s wheelchair. The light breeze brushed against our skin. She was so tiny, nothing but skin and bones. Sometimes I worried if I touched her even softly, she’d just shatter into a million pieces.
“Do you need another blanket?” I asked.
“I’m good.”
“Maybe you’re thirsty? I can get water.”
“I’m good.”
“Or maybe—”
“Ellie, it’s OK. I’m OK.”
But you’re not.
We sat there, staring out at the afternoon sky in complete silence. Hours passed, and the sun began to set. The sky was painted with vibrant colors, and it was beautiful watching how they blended into the ocean.
“Your father’s going to need you,” she said. “More than he knows, he’s going to need your light, Ellie.”
“I’ll be there for him.”
“I know you will.” She inhaled deep and exhaled slowly. “I once read a tale about dragonflies, life, and death. Can I share it with you?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes, and I watched each breath she took.
“It spoke about how the dragonfly is born a larva, but when it’s ready, it sheds its casing and becomes the beauty we see flying around us.
In many stories, this is seen as the process of both life and death.
The dragonfly emerging from its casing is just like when the soul leaves the body.
There are two stages to the dragonfly. The first stage is when it is an insect that lives underwater.
This is its life on earth. The next is when it emerges and finds its flight.
It becomes airborne and finds a new freedom.
That’s when its soul is freed from the restraints of its body.
Isn’t that beautiful, Ellie? Isn’t that an amazing thought?
That even after death our spirits live on? ”
Tears were rolling down my cheeks, but I was quiet.
I couldn’t reply.
It hurt too much.
“I won’t be in pain,” she promised. “It won’t hurt anymore. I will be freer than ever before, and you know what? I will still be here. Whenever you see a dragonfly, I need you to know it’s me.”
“Mom . . .” I kept holding her hand, and the tears kept flowing. “It’s too soon.”
“It’s always too soon, baby, but I just want you to know .
. .” She tilted her head in my direction and opened her eyes.
“You are my heartbeats. You are my masterpiece. In a way, I feel as if I cheated death, because I get to live on within you, in your smile, in your laugh, in your heart. I’m there for it all, Eleanor.
I’m eternal because of you. So please, do all the things.
Take risks. Find adventures. Keep living for me, and know that it has been the greatest honor being your mother. I am so lucky to have loved you.”
“I love you, Mom. More than words, I love you.”
“I love you, baby girl. Now can you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“Can you walk me to the water?” I hesitated for a minute and looked back toward the house where Dad had headed. I was positive she wasn’t strong enough to make it to the shore on her own. She’d been so weak lately, yet she placed a hand on my forearm. “It’s OK. I know you got me.”
So I bent down and took off her slippers and socks, and then I removed my shoes and socks too.
I took her hands in mine and, slowly but surely, walked her to the edge of the water.
It was freezing that afternoon. The water was chilled beyond words, and we both squeaked as it touched our toes and rose to our ankles.
We laughed too.
I’d never forget that, hearing Mom’s laughter.
At one point, she asked me to let her go, and she stood where her feet met the ocean.
Her eyes shut, and she held her hands up in the air, her arms forming a V, and tears rolled down her cheeks as the setting sun kissed her face.
“Yes, yes, yes,” she cried, feeling every part of the world around her, seeming to feel more alive than she had in quite some time.
Then she reached out to me, and I took her hand in mine.
She leaned on me, and I was strong enough to hold her up on my own.
We stared out into the night, finding a new kind of comfort.
She was OK in that moment.
She was happy.
And I swore, for a short period of time, the water healed her soul.
* * *
Two days later, Mom took her last breath.
Dad held her right hand, and I held her left.
The clock in the bedroom ticked, but time stood still.
I thought there would be some kind of comfort that came from knowing she was no longer in pain. I thought since we had seen it coming, it wouldn’t hurt as much. I thought I would be somewhat OK.
But I wasn’t.
Every single part of me ached.
Nothing can prepare a person for death.
You can’t speed past the hurt to reach the closure.
You are simply overtaken by sorrow. Grief shows its face, and it unforgivingly drowns you, and for a while, you wonder if staying under the water would be better than ever breathing again.
When my mother took her last breath, I wanted to take my last one right there beside her, but I knew that wasn’t what she had wanted. She wanted me to emerge from the darkness, to swim again.
And I would.
Just not that night.
That night, heartbreak won the battle as I steadily fell apart.