The Empty Jar(27)

I link and unlink my fingers, fidgeting in the way I used to when I was a little girl. I haven’t done it in years. But then again, I haven’t rehashed the story about my mother in years either. The guilt over what I did is still fresh, as fresh as it was the day I made the call. And after all this time, the result of my actions still burns in my gut like a lifetime of swallowing battery acid.

“I was so bitter. I didn’t want harm to come to her; I just wanted someone else to take care of her,” I explain, the slow trickle of tears down my cheeks starting anew. It has been so long since I’ve cried over Momma, but I never stopped missing her, missing what could have been. What should have been, but never was. I felt grief, grief for the other parent I lost. I didn’t lose her physically, but I lost her emotionally.

Sniffing, I continue.

“After a series of medical and psych evaluations, she was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder and was sent to live in a mental institution. Until we came to Europe, I’d been to see her once a month every month since that day. I do it because she’s my mother and I feel obligated, but some part of me…” I admit, my voice breaking, “…some part of me needs her to be my mother. A mother who cares. I need her to be Momma. I just need her.”

My emotions swirl through me, angrily whipping at my heart. My throat is thickening with my increasing desperation.

“I…I need to tell her that I’m dying, and that I’m pregnant. I need to tell her that I’m dying and I’m pregnant, and that I might not be able to stay pregnant because I’m dying. I need to tell her that. And then, I need for her to tell me what to do, because I just don’t know anymore. I need to know how to make it through this, how to have hope. Because I’ve forgotten. I don’t know how to hope anymore.”

I sob quietly, covering my mouth with both of my hands and squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as I can, as if in doing so, I might be able to stop the pain, the hopelessness. After half a minute or so, when my throat has threatened to close up around my air, I take a deep breath and wipe my face. I wipe it hard, swiping at my skin as though I might scrub away the weakness I feel, too. I won’t ever have my momma back, not the way I want, the way I need. The way I should. And I need to move past that harsh, cold fact. “But none of that will happen because she’s never been my mother in the ways that count. That’s why I need someone else to tell me it’ll all be okay. I need that. Desperately. Can you tell me that? Can you please tell me it’ll all be okay?” I plead. “Please help me find hope.”

At that, I bow my head and let the tears run again, in earnest this time, without trying to staunch the flow. Maybe letting them out will exorcise some of my bitterness and anger and desolation. Maybe they’ll cleanse what ails me. Or at least some of it.

I’ve never been so honest with a stranger. Hell, I don’t think I’ve been this honest with anyone about my reasons for not taking treatment, about my fear and my lack of hope. I’m not even sure I’ve been able to admit it to myself. I wanted to be strong, even when I felt scared and weak and alone. But I’m not sure I can be strong enough.

Not for this.

When I manage to collect myself somewhat, I sniffle again and tilt my head back, garnering the last of my strength and courage to finish this confession.

I’ve confessed to the priest. I’ve confessed to myself. I’ve confessed through a throat that’s as raw and scratchy as my battered and bleeding heart.

But I did it.

I did it.

“I think I declined treatment because I was afraid. I was afraid of what it would do to me to hope. I was afraid of what it would do to my husband. I didn’t want to put him through that hell for nothing, so I didn’t. I opted for no treatment so that we could live out my last days together, doing things we’ve always wanted to do. And for the first time in years, I never once considered a baby. In all this time, I haven’t been able to get pregnant, I just didn’t even think...” I pause, anger suddenly welling inside me. It bubbles up and bubbles over, pouring through me like a squall, escalating. Escalating.

I’ve always known Fate is a cruel bitch, but I wouldn’t have guessed her capable of something like this.

Something so…punishing.

Turning my head, I stare into the blackness from whence the priest’s voice had come before I began my breakdown. I pin his invisible presence with furious eyes.

Anger rolls and tumbles.

“Why is this happening now? Why now when there is no hope for me? Why now when I need hope more than ever? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to get through this? How can I tell my husband that I’m carrying a baby that might die before I do? How can I tell him that I might make his loss even greater? How can I tell him that his dream finally came true and I might be the one to steal that away from him? And there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no way I can stop it. How am I supposed to deal with that? What am I supposed to do?” I wail in desperation.

Rage courses through me, a wildfire of crackling emotion. But like a wildfire succumbs to a heavy rain, my ire quickly succumbs to my anguish, the embers extinguished by tears that pour in watery rivulets down my cheeks.

I’m crying again. It seems I’m unable to stop the flood once I let it flow. My confession scraped off a scab, opened both old wounds and new, exposing my injuries to the elements. Leaving me more vulnerable than ever.