more tuesday

My mother died when I was fifteen years old, and I hate that part of my life. Her death marks everything. I look at events from my past and automatically place them into one of two categories: “Pre-Mom-Dying” or “Post-Mom-Dying.” I loved my mom. My life is completely different now, and has been ever since her death.

Immediately after the accident, my life was a living nightmare. When I finally was able to return to school, I had to go in early every day at 7:00 in the morning to meet with a grief counselor they brought in. I didn’t buy into her. Everything about her was fake. She had too much make-up on her face, too much hairspray in her hair, and too many pounds squeezed into one dress.

Her name was Jemimah – yes, like the syrup – which I found to be completely ridiculous. At the time, it was really hard for me to believe that someone would actually name their child that, which made me think she made up her name herself, which is even more ridiculous. Why would you name yourself that? What on earth would possess you to associate yourself with a bottle of syrup shaped like a woman? Don’t get me wrong, I like pancakes. But when it came to Jemimah, everything she said, every movement she made, was just like her name – like syrup. She was too sweet, too thick, too over-the-top for me. She’d lean back in her chair and say things like: “But how does that make you feel, Tuesday?” or “Tuesday, we need to get your feelings out in the open on this issue,” or “Tuesday, sugar, your feelings on this are important to me.” And every time she said the word feel or feeling she would grope her chest like she was having a heart attack. I wished she would have a heart attack. To this day, she's one person I could punch in the face without any regret. I wouldn’t even feel bad if I broke her nose and she had to have plastic surgery. In fact, I’d probably feel good about it because it would be improving her looks in the long run. It was obvious to me that woman needed some serious help. And she was the one trying to counsel me.

None of my friends could relate at all. I remember one day in particular when I was sitting at the lunch table with a couple of my friends. They started talking about how much they hate all of their parent’s rules. The conversation began because my friend Gary had missed his curfew the night before, and he was grounded for two weeks because of it. He then proceeded to talk about his mother because she’s the enforcer of the rules in their family. Then Amy said that her dad was the enforcer; her mother was the relaxed one. In my family, my mother had been the only one. My father lived with us, but most of the time, we didn’t feel like he cared about us at all, much less loved us enough to actually enforce rules. So when we got the call one night that my mother had been in a car accident, I was left with no one. My friends didn’t know what they had. I would've died to have a curfew.

“Seriously. I just wish she’d get it – that I want her to leave me alone,” I remember my friend Gary saying. “I want to live my life how I want to live it, and if I want to stay out past 10:30 on a school night, then I want it to be my choice. I just don’t understand why she doesn’t trust me. I’ve never even done anything…”

Gary’s voice became progressively more distant as my eyes began to well up. I stared down at the lines in the fake marble of the cafeteria table as they became blurred from the spots of water pooling together from my tears.

“Tuesday, what’s wrong?”

Did he seriously just ask that?

“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” It clicked. They looked around awkwardly, no one knowing what to do. I understand, though. If I were them, I would’ve felt uncomfortable too.

“Look, Tuesday…” Amy began. I didn’t stick around to hear anymore. I headed upstairs and sat in the library directly above the cafeteria, hoping they wouldn’t come after me. They didn’t. Why would they? What could they say? It’s not like their condolences would bring my mother back.

After school that day, I jetted off towards my car. When I was halfway there, I felt someone grab my arm to stop me. I jumped a little, startled.

“Oh, Gary, it’s only you.”

“Tues, about lunch today,” he began.

I interrupted. “It’s fine, really. It’s not a big deal.”

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” I gave him a half-smile.

“Can I do anything for you?”

What an idiot. Could he do anything? Sure, invent a time machine, travel back to the second before my mother died, and shove that beam that sliced her in half the other way so that it would slice the passenger’s seat instead of her body.

“No, Gary, thank you, though.” I turned and walked towards my car.

I was being a jerk. I knew it. Gary was just trying to be nice, but I didn’t know how to react to anyone anymore. It wasn’t their fault that their mothers were all still alive. But that didn’t change the fact that they didn’t understand.

I got in the car and started driving. I was going to the same place I went every afternoon that year – to visit my mother’s grave. I pulled up to the graveyard gate and read the sign just as I had every day before: “Alexander H. White Memorial Graveyard. Began in 1847.” I still wonder who Alexander H. White was. I know why the graveyard was named after him, though – the very first 1847 grave was his.

I drove my car through the gate and wound around the curvy path that took you past some of the oldest oak trees in Drigs, all surrounded by graves at their bases. I was headed to the very back left of the graveyard. My mother had been one of the last; the graveyard was almost full.

When I arrived at my normal spot, I parked my car, took my shoes off, and got out. I never wear my shoes in graveyards. One time I heard that you’re not supposed to wear shoes in a graveyard because it’s bad luck. I don’t think that it’s fear of bad luck for me, though. I just love being barefoot. And when I have bare feet I feel more natural, closer to the earth, closer to my mother.

I walked over to her grave with light steps. Before I arrived, I mentally prepared myself to have a good attitude. I never wanted my mother to sense that I wasn’t okay without her.

“Hey, Mama.” I knelt down beside her grave and read her tombstone, probably for the 200th time at least.

“Margaret ‘Margie’ Grant Johnson. Born March 26, 1968. Died September 7, 2008. Loving Mother, Devoted Wife. Psalm 23.” Our family wasn’t very religious, but my mother had a picture of Psalm 23 hanging over one of the door frames in our house because she said that if all that religious stuff turned out to be true, at least we’d have something going for us.

I lay down on the grass on my stomach and pressed my ear to the ground. My mother had been my best friend. There were times that I could promise I could hear her breathing down there, in the earth. I wanted so badly to rip up the ground, claw through the dirt, and rescue her. However, even if my heart couldn’t grasp it, I knew in my mind she was dead. We had a closed-casket funeral, but they let me see the body before. She was so cut-up it looked like she was some sort of cadaver that medical students had been hacking away on. Her face was still beautiful, though; it was funny. It looked like it hadn’t even really been touched, and she had a pleasant smile on her face. When I think back on that face now, it makes me think that she’s happier wherever she is now. It also really makes me wish I could be there with her, instead of existing alone with my dad in a hell-hole we’re supposed to call a family.

That afternoon, I fell asleep trying to listen to my mother’s breathing under the earth. I woke up to a chilly wind blowing across my bare arms – fall was definitely arriving fast. I remember that I didn’t want it to come, though, because when it did, that would mean the change of seasons. And a change of seasons would mean that everyone would expect me to change and move on, get over my mom’s death, and be normal. I wasn’t ready for that, yet, though.

I flipped open my cell phone to see what time it was. 5:47.

“Damn it,” I whispered under my breath. I was late to fix dinner once again. My dad would be expecting it on the table in ten minutes. I decided it would be best just to pick something up to go and tell him I had to stay after school for something. He’d never know the difference. I hoisted myself up to my knees.

“Bye, mom.” My arms ached to embrace her, and my eyes burned with exhausted tears. I made myself get up to my feet and walk away so I wouldn’t start missing her even more.

And my body still aches for her. Twelve years later, it still aches.