I Liked My Life(62)

I can’t remember what I got her the year before that, but my father was out of town. I heard her crying that night. She’d told him the business trip was no big deal; work is work. But when the day came, she was bummed. Paige took her out to lunch because her twins share the same birthday, so that night it was just Mom and me. She made a simple soup, nothing fancy, and immediately after we ate she retreated to her room with a glass of wine. The next morning I noticed the bottle was gone. I didn’t think to make a cake or anything. I never told my dad how sad she was, and he never asked. I wonder if he’s as angry with himself for taking the business trip as I am for giving her a thoughtless card and crappy present, but we’re avoiding each other. This is a day we’ll suffer through alone.

As I think about everything I didn’t do for her birthday, I’m reminded of everything she did do for mine. I had celebrations that took place everywhere from hibachi restaurants to amusement parks, and ended in slumber parties with like ten girls running around the house. I don’t remember my dad being there, although I’m sure he was, but my mom is in every birthday memory I have. Taking pictures, cooking, cleaning, doing my hair, carrying presents, making gift lists for thank-you notes, picking up wrapping paper, finding batteries, driving kids home, ordering cakes, lighting candles, singing “Happy Birthday” …

And every year, on the day after my birthday, when all evidence of chaos was magically cleared away except for one or two helium balloons floating around the house, my mother would ask what I wished for. Once, I think after I turned ten, I said I wouldn’t tell her because I wanted it to come true. “Whispering it only to me,” she replied, “is your best chance.” She winked as she said it, but I didn’t get the joke until I recalled the conversation today. She was right; she made my wishes come true. And I got her a shitty peach extreme gift basket.

I’ve been making stupid mistakes all day, like squeezing body lotion onto my toothbrush and shutting off the car while it’s still in drive. If I weren’t so totally depressed I’d find it funny how your brain can completely shut down. When the phone rings, I stupidly answer without checking caller ID or processing the fact that I have no desire to talk to anyone. It’s Aunt Meg. Of course. Our chats have been strained since my birthday, but she sounds grateful when I answer. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, sweetie. How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know what to feel. I’m thinking about her death more than her life, and I hate myself for it.”

I wait for a serving of unhelpful advice. Take a run. Get a manicure. Have a friend over. Something positive. Instead, she says, “I owe you an apology, Eve. Before, on the other calls and even when I was in town for the funeral, I wanted to make this better for you. Your mother could always do that for me. No matter what it was, she fixed it. I figured you’d be used to someone in that role, and I thought that someone could be me. I see now that I can’t solve this for you, or me for that matter.” She lets out a disturbed laugh. “You know what I did last week? I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but whatever, something inside tells me you need to hear it … I intentionally rear-ended the car in front of me.”

I can’t believe she’s telling me either. I ask the obvious question of why.

“It’s not what I told the police—I said something about leaning to stretch my back and my foot slipping—but the truth is, I had an overwhelming urge to hit the damn thing. It looked at me like a target, like something that’d be great to smash.” She sighs. “The horrible part is that it did feel great, for a couple seconds. I was in control, and you know how I love to be in control. And afterward, when the crazies wore off, I realized something: We all have to forge our own path in dealing with your mother’s death. The path you take isn’t, and probably shouldn’t be, the same as mine. I mean, I certainly don’t want you out there instigating traffic accidents.” Her voice cracks. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”

I recall what Rory said the other night. On any given day the loss feels different. “I’m sorry too, for my birthday. I know how close you guys were, and I had no right to say my pain was worse or whatever. It’s just such a nightmare.”

“It truly is.”

Her confession and apology give me courage to ask a bold question. “Aunt Meg, do you feel appreciated?”

“Appreciated how?”

“By Uncle Dan and Lucy.”

“Sure I do. We all love each other. You know that.”

“Yeah, but knowing someone loves you and feeling appreciated are two different things, right? I’ve been thinking about it. My mom knew she was loved. I know it. So why’d she do it? That’s the big, impossible question. But I’m beginning to think it had something to do with, like, the gap between being loved versus feeling appreciated, and I’m wondering if it’s different for you since you have a job?”

The line goes so quiet I think she hung up. “Aunt Meg?”

She clears her throat. “These are tough questions, Eve, and my answer probably isn’t as clear-cut as you’re hoping for. First off, your mom had a bigger job than I have in a lot of ways. When things don’t go perfectly in our house, I’m more forgiving of myself because I can hide behind the to-do list of my career. Your mom … well … she didn’t feel like she had an excuse for her household to be anything short of perfect.