Page 5

ANASTASIA

Losing a parent at only twelve years old is tough, but losing two is heartbreaking. My mother isn’t dead, but she may as well be. The day my father died, she stopped living. I spend every weekend cleaning her trailer, because it has gotten disgusting. No human should live like this, but she simply doesn’t care about anything. Her condition has only gotten worse over time. It started with her eyes glued to the tv, devolving to this nearly catatonic state. I sit beside her bed and stare at her lifeless body, her gaze fixed on something across the room that I’m not sure even exists. Like I’m not here beside her.

“Mom. You can’t keep going on like this. I love you and miss you so much. Don’t you remember how things used to be? I wish I could even remember the last time I heard you speak to me. Remember how much I hated it when you yelled at me? I’d give anything for you to scream at me right now.”

There’s no response, like I could’ve predicted, because there never is. I have not heard my mom’s voice in years. Once I moved out, she went further inside herself, and I have no idea how to get her to come back to the land of the living. I have read every medical journal on severe depression, trying to find the answer. I’m no longer certain there is one.

“The doctor says you stopped taking your medication, and that it would probably be best if I put you in a facility.”

I draw in a long, steady breath attempting to control the pounding in my head. Her silence causes the frustration to build, and I do my best to not raise my voice. I know it has been hard on her, but I want to scream, ‘what about me?’ No child should be deserted the way I was, but I also know, she didn’t choose this.

“I know you miss him. I understand that, but I can’t comprehend why I don’t matter to you. When you gave up on living, you abandoned me. I was twelve, and lost everyone and everything that ever mattered to me, in one fell swoop.”

Her stillness continues to fill me with a rage that only leads to guilt, so I turn away from her, and stomp to the kitchen like a petulant child. Every cent left, after paying my own bills, goes to caring for my mom. There’s a cook that comes in several times a week, to make meals she rarely eats. It’s clearly time to hire someone to clean, because I don’t think my weekend cleaning sprees are enough anymore. The doctor’s bills are more than I can afford, yet I keep paying them in hopes that they can help her. If she’s going to refuse the medication she’s on for depression and anxiety, they can’t do anything. It’s a waste of money, but if I take that option from her, she won’t ever get better. How can you make someone want to live?

I grab a pot, and warm the soup the cook made for her. It has yesterday’s date on it, but doesn’t look like it’s been touched. I’m not surprised, because over the last several months, she only eats enough to survive. After pouring it into a bowl, I grab a spoon and head back to her bedroom, setting the soup on her worn black end table. There is no point in trying to get her to eat while I’m here, because I already know she won’t. I know she does get out of bed occasionally to eat a little, but never when anybody is here. And she is still going to the bathroom on her own, but whenever there are people around, she plays dead.

“I’m going to the graveyard to see Dad. As always, I’ll bring him red roses, because I know he’ll think of you when he sees them.”

She pulls her hand into a fist at the mention of my father. I’m happy to have gotten a reaction from her, even if it’s anger. It tells me she’s still in there somewhere. My dad loved my mom in a way I think is rare. It was as if he couldn’t continue to breathe, if she wasn’t near him. It was intense, and beautiful.

I pull up to my father’s graveyard, and park, before walking over to his grave, with the roses in my hand. When I was a small child, he sent my mother red roses every week. Thursdays were flower delivery days. I once asked him why he had them delivered, instead of bringing them home to her.

“It’s more special this way. Any man can buy a cheap bouquet at the grocery store, and bring them home. This is planned, and comes with a card.”

“Why every week?” I ask, as I stare at my father with confusion.

He chuckles and pats my head.

“It makes her smile, and that means it’s worth every cent I spend.”

Kneeling in front of his grave, I place the flowers in the metal holder, and sit back on my heels as I talk to him.

“Dad, I miss you. And mom does too. I’m sure she’d be here if she could manage it, but she’s trapped in grief. I thought, by now, she would’ve bounced back, but maybe she never will. It’s hard seeing her like this, and I don’t know how to help her. She won’t take her medication, and only eats barely enough to keep her heart beating.”

Talking to a dead man is slightly frustrating, because I need his help desperately, but of course, I won’t get it. I’ve been alone in this world since I was a girl. Had my dad been alive through my Carlo years, he would’ve saved me from that abusive shit. Yet he wasn’t, so I dealt with it alone, and did anything I could to keep my mother safe from him.

Kissing two fingers, and placing them against his headstone, I say my goodbyes.

“I love you. I’m going to see Michael. Please hug him for me, Daddy. I miss you both so much.”

Rising, I move to the next gravestone. I brush the dust off the angel carved into the stone, before kneeling beside it.

I don’t bother brushing the tears away, I just let them fall, as I speak low.

“I’m sorry, Michael. I tell you that every time I’m here, and I’m going to keep telling you. I miss you, angel. I’d give my life for one more day with you. I still dream about that day, and I have so many regrets. If I had done things differently, you’d still be here. I don’t know if I even believe in God anymore, but I hope he’s real. I desperately want to believe there’s a heaven, and you’re up there, enjoying every moment. Is there sunshine there? Remember how you loved sunny days? And soccer,” I say, through a teary laugh.

Taking a deep breath, I smile at the memory. Michael running through the grass, kicking the ball all over the place, screaming ‘goal’ as he kicked it into the play net. There was nobody else there, just the two of us, and it was perfect.

Kissing his grave, the way I did my father’s, my breaths come out hard, when talking to him nearly crushes my windpipe. It’s always like this, it never gets easier.

“I love you, angel. I’ll see you next weekend.”