It started slow: we went walking and my mother, normally so chatty, was uncharacteristically silent on our turn around the neighborhood. She closed the door in my face once we reached her condo. I thought she was mad at me.
Later: her kitchen covered with sticky notes – labels on everything, handwriting meticulous. Scissors, cabinet, ladle, milk. Ice cream melting in the pantry, her knitting stuffed into the breadbox. No explanation for the living room disasters – photos smashed, books thrown everywhere – or the clothes ripped down from the bedroom closet. The glass in her wedding portrait cracked, a jagged line slashed right between her and Dad. She complained about music no one else could hear.
I found specialists. I kept reading the test results: each new pass over the paperwork felt like the emotional equivalent of the sound helium makes, slowly draining out of a balloon. The last doctor was kind; his shiny bald lightbulb of a head reflected the harsh fluorescent lights as he said, It hurts, but some people become ghosts long before they’re dead.
We sat in the car afterwards, my whole body numb, just one big untangleable knot. The heater rattled as it kicked on, fogging the windows.
“I saw Michael this morning,” she said suddenly. “He wants to take me dancing.”
My father had been dead for eight years. Behind her, two large handprints rose up on the inside of the glass, framing her face. The palms dripped condensation.
When I blinked, they were gone.
Rach (Out Loud) 