by Sandra Cunha
I need to read another one of my mom’s diary entries.
So the moment I’m settled back at the condo, that’s exactly what I do.
CHAPTER TEN
> Diary Entry <
JANUARY 4, 1998
Dearest Elizabeth,
My apologies for my absence. It’s been a very confusing and emotional few weeks. I wasn’t ready to write about it until now, but now may be the only chance I get.
It turns out, I have—I can’t believe I’m writing this—I have cancer. Ovarian cancer, if you want to be specific, and I’m finding cancer is quite specific. I found out just before Christmas.
And, of course, I couldn’t tell the girls. How would that go? “Merry Christmas, darlings! Looks like mommy’s been naughty this year because she got cancer. Let’s open your presents and see what you got!”
No, I couldn’t do that to them. But it was so hard watching them open those presents, wondering if this would be my last Christmas with them.
Tomorrow, I’m having a hysterectomy. There was a scheduling mix-up, and now I have to go in earlier than I’d planned for, making me have to rearrange so many things in such a short period of time. Period. I guess that’s the one good thing to come out of this. I won’t have to deal with that anymore.
Honestly, I haven’t had time to process any of this. I’m just following the steps I’ve been told to follow, doing my best to cope, and trying not to be bitter.
When I’d found out I had cancer, I’d asked the doctors if I’d need chemotherapy. But they’d said they caught it early enough that it could likely be avoided by having the surgery and, if necessary, a few rounds of radiation. So I’d chosen the surgery.
It’s not for vanity purposes that I don’t want chemo. I’m not worried about losing my hair. It’s that I don’t want Erin and Betty to know I’m sick. I don’t want to place that burden on them or for them to see me suffering like that, especially as everything will probably be okay.
But I had to explain why I’d be away for weeks, so I told them I was going on a holiday because I needed a little rest. Even telling them that I know has made them anxious, given that their father went on a “holiday” and never came back. I promised to call every day. I hope that puts them somewhat at ease.
Gloria has agreed to watch them. She’s my saviour. I’ll be staying with Victor while I recover from the surgery. Things have been tense between us. My getting cancer has tested the strength of our relationship.
Everything is being tested by this.
I hate to admit it, but a small part of me wouldn’t mind not waking up from the operation. It’s just that I’m always so tired. It’d be nice to get to sleep for an eternity. But that part is minuscule in comparison to the part that wants to live and see my children grow up. They’re not even teenagers, yet. They need me. They don’t have anyone else to look after them.
If only I’d planned ahead for the possibility of something like this happening. I don’t even have a will! Or life insurance. And now the chances of me getting life insurance are slim. I’ve failed my girls in that regard.
Oh, I know my mother would take them if the worst was to happen. But that’s the last thing I’d want. They don’t even know she exists. I’ve talked to Gloria, and she said she’d watch over them. I know it’s too much to ask of a friend, but I’m desperate, and Gloria is a good person. Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that.
Pray. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I’m not a big believer in religion anymore, but God, if you’re out there, please let me live. Please let me live for my girls.
Love you always,
Lizzie
***
I’m dumbfounded. This doesn’t make any sense. Our mom had cancer—in 1998? She never told us, not even after what must have been a relapse. Betty and I thought she was finding out she had cancer for the first time.
And that holiday she took, I do remember that. I was so worried she wouldn’t make it back for my twelfth birthday. How selfish of me.
But how was I to know? She made it back in time, but she was really skinny and didn’t look like herself. I thought her break must not have been very restful.
What I’d forgotten was Gloria taking care of us. How could I have forgotten that? We stayed at her house for weeks. It was such a weird, confusing time. Maybe I’d blocked it out because I was scared our mom wasn’t coming back for us.
And who was Victor? I never knew my mother dated after my father. She never introduced us to anyone. It’s strange, but the idea of my mom having a boyfriend, makes me think of her—and this should be obvious—but it makes me think of her as . . . a woman. I know, I know. But to me, my mom was always just my mom. My everything. But I’m beginning to realize she was more than that. She still had a separate, private life of her own.
Apparently, Victor wasn’t the only one she didn’t introduce us to. I have a grandmother! Not a very nice one it seems, but somewhere out there, I have a grandmother!
Tomorrow, when Gloria comes to work at the condo, I’m asking her a bunch of questions. She can’t deny Betty and I lived with her. That will be my “in.” She has to know more. And this time, I’m getting it out of her.
The next morning, I get a message from Gloria saying she’s working from home because she has an appointment. Now I have to wait a whole day more before I can get answers to my many questions.
But there’s one other person who might remember something from that time: Betty.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FIVE MINUTES. That’s how long I force myself to wait after I’ve settled into Betty’s bedroom. She’s propped up with her pillows, and I’m sitting beside her on top of the bed covers.
“Hey, remember when we were kids and mom went away on vacation?” I say, trying to sound casual.
“Vacation? I don’t remember mom ever taking a vacation,” Betty says, flipping through a parenting magazine.
“When we were eleven or so. We stayed with Gloria while she was away.”
She puts down the magazine and turns towards me. “Oh, yeah. I’d completely forgotten about that.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange she went away without us? That wasn’t like her.”
“Didn’t she go to Florida or something? She probably needed a break. What made you think of that?”
“Because I found mom’s diary, and she wrote about it. That’s what made me think of that. Except, she wasn’t on vacation, she was recovering from cancer. Isn’t that crazy?” But instead, I say, “Um, it just popped into my head. Maybe because of working with Gloria. I don’t know.” I shrug my shoulders to support my fake confusion.
It doesn’t seem Betty remembers anything more from that time than I do. It’s almost as though the both of us have blocked it out. Which is normal for me, but not so normal for Betty. Maybe she was afraid our mom wouldn’t come back, either.
But there’s another reason why I wanted to visit her today. “Guess what?” I say excitedly.
“What?”
“I’m buying the vintage shop!”
Her eyes light up at my news. “Awesome, Erin!”
“Okay, not officially, but I want to try to get it. The owner is away on business for a few days, so there’s still time to come up with a plan before he puts it on the market. Oh, and Lizzie gave me the numbers that have been batted around.”
“And?”
I go over to my bag and pull out a pen and a scrap piece of paper.
“What are you doing?” Betty asks.
“I’m writing down the number,” I say, scribbling it on the paper.
“But I’m right here. Just tell me.”
“It’s more fun this way.” I fold up the paper and hand it to her.
She rolls her eyes at me. She has to stop doing that. But as she unfolds the paper, instead of her eyes rolling, they’re practically bulging out of her head.
“Wow. That’s more than I thought. Erin, I don’t think . . .”
“I know, I know. I
mpossible.”
“What if you looked at some other locations? What about Queen Street West? Lady Bettencourt would totally fit-in there.”
“But I don’t feel like I fit there. Not that I feel like I fit in Yorkville, either, but it’s the vintage shop, itself, that I want. I have a connection to it. I need to at least try to get it before I look for something else. Plus, I have an idea. I need to do a little more research before I tell you, but when I do, I was hoping you could go over the numbers with me.”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Betty. You’re the best.”
“So much secrecy,” she says, laughing in a conspiratorial manner.
But her words hit me hard. She doesn’t realize their double-meaning. I laugh, too, but I know my face reveals everything. Luckily, she’s turned away from me in time to keep my cover.
We re-assume our positions. Whenever I stay for a longer visit, I lie down next to Betty and we read magazines or books (or, in my case, surf the web on my phone) together for a couple of hours. We used to do this when we were kids. We’d choose one of our twin beds and spend entire afternoons lying there, reading (Betty) and day dreaming (me). Or sometimes in our mom’s bed, and she would come and join us in the middle.
Betty’s right. There is so much secrecy. Too much secrecy.
I have to tell her. This has gotten out of hand.
For the next ten minutes, I lie there thinking about how I’ll do it, until finally I say, “Betty, I have something to tell you, but please don’t say anything until I’m done.” I’m looking up at the white ceiling. It’s easier to admit my sins without having to face her. (I understand now why they have those dark confession closets in churches.)
And then, I tell her.
I tell her about the painting and the package. I tell her how I was only planning to read one, but then, I read another one and another one. How I couldn’t stop myself because it was like getting a piece of our mom back. And how I kept coming up with justifications as to why it was okay I was doing what I was doing. Then, I apologize for not telling her sooner. How I shouldn’t have been so selfish, keeping this last gift from our mom all to myself. I should have shared it with her. Or, at least, given her the chance to refuse it. But I tell her I was afraid of what she would say. That maybe she wouldn’t want me to read them, either.
When I’ve finished, I turn my head towards her. “I’m so sorry, Betty. I’ve messed up . . . again.”
Her face is turned away from me.
She must be really mad.
I sit up in bed. “Betty, please, you have to understand!” I say, pleading.
She still doesn’t say anything.
Her hair is covering part of her face, so I gently pull it back.
Dammit! She’s asleep.
I finally told her the truth, after all of that agonizing over what I should do, and she slept through it.
But as I gaze down at her again and see how peaceful she looks as she sleeps, how innocent, I realize another stronger truth: I don’t want to take that away from her.
Maybe the universe didn’t want me to tell Betty; didn’t want her to know what I’ve learned.
Every time I’ve tried to tell someone about my mom’s diary (excluding Coco), something always stops it from happening.
Maybe my mom’s diary is meant just for me. And I’m the only one who’s supposed to read it.
So when I get back home, I take the package out of the hall closet and go into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Then, I sit in the bathtub with the shower curtain drawn around me, shutting me off from the rest of the world. Well, except for Coco, who I can hear whimpering on the other side of the door.
“Sorry, Coco. But I need some alone time. Go play!” I yell from the tub.
She whimpers a bit more before going off to do whatever she does when I’m not watching.
There are two diary entries left to read. Only two. I want to read them slowly, to savour them. But it’s not in my nature. And some things never seem to change.
CHAPTER TWELVE
> Diary Entry <
FEBRUARY 13, 2002
Dearest Elizabeth,
Today was the strangest day of my life. In the morning, I went to my maman’s funeral. And then, in the afternoon, I celebrated Erin’s sweet sixteen.
When my father died, I was overcome with grief; grief that has never fully gone away. Grief that’s always waiting in the shadows to make an appearance when I least expect it to. But that was my father, who I idolized and adored and never got the chance to truly learn his faults.
With my mother now gone, the situation is completely different. I hadn’t spoken to her in years, but even before that, things were always strained between us, always so hard. In my mind, I had convinced myself that her passing wouldn’t be difficult for me. It’d be more like attending the funeral of an acquaintance.
Silly me. There’s so much I still don’t understand about this life. These things never hit us the way we imagine.
At least, with my father, I was certain of his love for me. Our time together was short, but it was full of so many wonderful memories. Memories, I don’t have with my mother. With my mother, there are so many unanswered questions. Where had we gone wrong? Why couldn’t we ever fix it? Why hadn’t either one of us tried harder?
Perhaps we were too similar. Too stubborn to let the other get her way. It all seems so pointless now. So stupid.
We spent four years in silence, not speaking to one another, and now that silence is permanent.
But at that time, I’d been so angry with her reaction when I’d told her I had cancer. I should have expected it, but I couldn’t take it anymore. So I told her I wanted her out of my life, once and for all. That getting cancer made me realize I was being reborned, and I wanted to be reborned motherless. I said some other dramatic nonsense in the heat of the moment that I didn’t really mean. But my pride stopped me from reaching out to her again. Likely, hers as well.
We have cost my daughters the chance to have a grandmother, to have a part of their history. And for what? I’ll never get the answer to that question, to any of the many questions I have.
So at the funeral, I found myself shedding the tears I’d bottled up all these years. They came pouring out of me. My step-father was kind, but I think he was suspicious of my reaction, given our estrangement . . . and so were his adult children. Perhaps they thought I was hoping to get something from her will, out of her death. I wanted to yell at them: “I don’t want money! I don’t want anything from any of you! What I want is another chance with my mother!” But, of course, I didn’t say any of that.
And then, I had to put a cap on my bottle of tears and reapply my “happy face.” The girls had no idea any of this was going on. I’d told them I was only able to get the afternoon off from work. But I’d promised Erin the three of us would go to the Royal York Hotel for afternoon tea, our birthday tradition.
I got that tradition from my own mother. That’s how we’d celebrated my birthdays after my father died, in those few short years before she remarried, when it’d been just the two of us. So, I guess, we did have some wonderful memories of our own. That’s what I’ll cherish.
As I write this, I’m shedding a few more tears. I don’t think I tightened the bottle cap tight enough. Tears for both the mother I’ve lost and for my daughters, who will never have the chance to meet her. No matter what her wrongs, she was still my mother. The only one I’ll ever have.
Love you always,
Lizzie
***
That isn’t how I remember my sixteen birthday.
The way I remember my sixteen birthday is as being one of the best birthdays of my life. Both Betty and I got to skip class. (Betty wasn’t as excited about that as I was.) Ever since we began school, the deal was I wouldn’t have to go to class on my birthday if it fell on a weekday because Betty always got her birthday off. Did I ever mention she was born on Christmas Day? (She was the best Christm
as present I don’t remember receiving.) My own birthday was almost on Valentine’s Day, but alas, I was a few hours away from being born on the day of love.
Back to my sixteen birthday. I’d made myself a dress, my first one ever, to replicate a design I’d seen in Seventeen magazine. I loved that dress. (I wonder if I still have it.) And I’d taken the time to straightened my naturally wavy hair. There were no kinks, a rarity. I’d felt so grown-up.
At the Royal York Hotel, I remember us getting my favourite table, eating the delicious tiny sandwiches and scones, and having some sips of our mom’s mimosa. I even remember the presents I got. Betty gave me Clinique Happy perfume and my mom gave me a necklace I still wear sometimes.
What I don’t remember was our mom being sad. But I do know I wasn’t looking for her to be sad, either. If she had been, I would’ve assumed it was because her daughter was growing up. I was just so excited to be sixteen. After so many years of waiting, it was here. I was sixteen! My life would finally start! Or, at least, that’s what I thought. I was very, very wrong about that.
But maybe kids, especially teenagers, don’t really want to know what their parents are going through because they’re so self-absorbed in their own lives. Looking back now, that day must have been so hard for her. And she had to go through it all on her own.
Her mother had just died. My grandmother had just died.
Now I’ll never have the chance to meet her, either. To see what she was like for myself. To ask her my own unanswered questions.
There’s no one left in our mom’s family who knew her, except for Betty and I.
I lie back and close my eyes. It’s all too sad to think about, but I can already feel the tears falling down my face.
