Motherless Child

I hate this day.

Mother’s Day.

On my back, my legs and arms stretch to the bed corners, the sheet shrouding me. I hear Ben banging around in the kitchen, singing off-key. Lying still in the pale dark, all I remember is how her final hours unfurled with slow-motion precision, each second forever seared in my memory: how I perched beside her on the narrow hospital bed set up in the dining room, how the feeble May sun flickered through the sheers, casting her face into yellow shadow, how that morning was strangely quiet.

That Mother’s Day, ten years ago.

An odd, sad noise had woken me up, it sounded like Pumpkin meowing to come in. When I snuck from bed, the plaintive cry circled up. Crouching behind the railing, I heard my father’s voice soothe, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, darling… I promise.” I remember wondering what would happen the next day, what promise he was making to Mom. I crept back to my too large bed, too excited to sleep – maybe tomorrow she’d be better.

But she wasn’t better. Daddy hovered, tucking cool, pink sheets around her wasted body, fingering the IV line for kinks, injecting medicines into the drip, his eyes strangely glassy. I clasped her hand, the skin stretched parchment-thin over bird-like bones. My stomach felt leaden. That hushed morning was an instant that seemed like forever. She gazed at me, her eyes half-open, narcotic glazed slits.

“Phoebe,” she rasped, a hoarse whisper, “Live.”

Those were her last words. I try to honor her wish, to give life shape and purpose, but her absence left a gaping hole which only grows larger and more painful, much like the cancer that consumed her. Resentment wells, smothering the good memories. I flip onto my stomach and cry in the warm, flanneled dark.

The bed sags. Hands travel my shoulders and neck, hot through the sheet, stroking my hair smooth against my head. Ben lies on top, hugging me from behind.

“I’m sorry.” He holds me close, trembling with me, his fingers erasing my salty tears. “Hey, you need to get ready. Time to go to church.”

“I don’t want to go.” My voice quakes, laced with petulance. I know I’m being churlish wallowing in self-pity, and all I want to do is hurl my body to the floor and pound, pound, pound my hands and feet. But I don’t; I have no idea how to throw a proper tantrum.

“Up,” he says, tugging my hands. “We’re going.”

“You’re coming with me?” I struggle up. “But you don’t like to go to church.”

Ben rolls the blanket down to my feet and cool air rushes over my legs.

“I want to be with you,” he says. “All day.”

He pulls me from the bed. The cold lump that seems to always settle in my chest melts a little. With a soft “thank you,” I kiss him and shuffle to the bathroom.

After toast, we make our way to the Unitarian Universalist church and sit in my usual spot, four pews from the front. The sun peeks through grey scudding clouds, brightening, then darkening, the austere white sanctuary. Ben holds my hand and looks over the order of service. I feel strangely calm. I squeeze his fingers; he squeezes back. The organ’s sighs fill the open space.

When we rise for the opening hymn, apprehension crowds my throat. His hand settles in the small of my back, steadying me. We sit back in the rigid pews and the minister reads a poem on the difficulty of a mother relating to her daughter but loving her all the same. My heart trembles again and he knows; his hand caresses the top of mine with his thumb in time to the metered cadence.

A hush follows. My fingers relax from his grip and he cocks his head at me, surprised when I join the choir at the front of the sanctuary. The hymnal shivers in my hands. It is time. Can I do this? Can I? I’ve practiced this for weeks. The director clears her throat and lifts her eyebrows, questioning. I nod and she signals with her right hand. I breathe.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
Sometimes I feel like a motherless child,
A long way from home,
A long, long way from home.

My voice quavers, then steadies and strengthens. Ben’s intent eyes glisten in the stippled light. I look away; I can’t break down, not now. I focus on the music, staying on pitch, and when the choir joins in on the second verse, the tension leaves. My eyes fill and the faces in the pews smudge into my mother’s.

My life has accelerated towards this moment for months, maybe even years. The heaviness persists – perhaps it always will – but here, now, it seems thinner, more a bittersweet ribbon flowing through me. Shadows dance over Ben. He gently smiles at me. For the first time in what seems forever, I feel a little less alone.



For my mother and all mothers.


(Excerpted from BRIGHTER THAN BRIGHT, a love story). Peace, Linda