Give Me A Reason

by Jennifer Miller

  “No, thank you,” I smile and shake my head no to emphasize my words.

  “Your hands will be very soft!”

  “What makes you think they aren’t already?” I ask and he stutters for a moment and I laugh and keep going. They can be pushy, but I get it, sales jobs like that must be tough.

  Just as I see the lights of all the food eateries and momentarily pause, deciding which to choose, a voice distracts me and causes me to look into the shop on my right. I’m not sure why I do, I didn’t even think about it, but what I see inside has me stopping in my tracks. Realizing that I’ll be obvious standing here and gaping inside, I take the few steps needed to allow me to slip inside the store. I shouldn’t, it’s wrong of me to eavesdrop, but I find myself standing purposefully behind a display to eye a little girl over the top.

  “How about that one, mommy?” The little girl, no more than ten or eleven points and her mother spins around facing my direction. She’s not looking at me; she’s looking at a wig her daughter is pointing at. The store is full of them: wigs, hair extensions and hairpieces that you can clip into your hair. The child section of the store is enough to break your heart.

  “Oh, I like that one too.” The mother takes the wig off the mannequin head for her daughter. The little girl anxiously reaches for it so she can try it on. She ooh’s and aah’s at the curls the blonde wig gives her, even spins in a circle and shakes her head to see the curls bounce then laughs.

  “Now I can have curly hair! I really like this one.”

  “Me too. You look beautiful, but you know I think that you look beautiful with or without the wig, honey. Are you sure you want one?”

  I don’t hear her reply; I’m too busy being sucked back into a time my own mother and I were in a store just like this one. It was before this mall was built and we had to drive an hour outside of our town to the closest mall to find a wig store. Wearing a pretty blue scarf over her newly baldhead my mom teasingly told me how she had no idea not having hair could make a person so cold. She tried on wig after wig that day fretting in the mirror, tears of frustration in her eyes.

  “None of these look right. I look ridiculous.”

  “You look beautiful in all of them, mom.”

  She sighs heavily and puts another on her head to try. She moves it this way and that, her frustration becoming more palpable by the second. “I don’t want to do this.” Her voice is so soft I almost don’t hear her. “I don’t want to have to do this.”

  Taking the wig from her hands, I place it back on the mannequin then take her hands in mine. “Let’s go.”

  “But I should-”

  “Not today, mom.” A single tear falls from the corner of her eye and it takes every single piece of strength I have within me not to crumble at the sight. But I can’t. She needs me to be strong right now so she can break. She’s so strong all the damn time. It’s my turn. “Not today and maybe not ever, but definitely not today, okay? We can look again another time if you want.” I had put emphasis on the word ‘you,’ in an attempt to give her a bit of power in this otherwise powerless feeling situation.

  She nods her head and we leave without another word. That night I shave my head to match my mom’s. When I walk out and she sees me, her mouth falls open and then she begins to cry. “Remy! What have you done to your beautiful hair? You did not have to do that for me.”

  “I’m an adult, I can do whatever I want,” I wipe the tears from her face, but it’s fruitless; they continue to fall. We end up crying together, but it turns into laughter when I confess how damn cold my baldhead is.

  Looking down I blink rapidly trying to clear the vision and the water that’s in my eyes. Doing my best not to sniffle and reveal my presence, I turn intending to leave the store. I’ve been intrusive enough and feel ashamed. I have no right to be snooping on such a personal moment. I don’t know that I even understand why I walked in here to begin with.

  “Hi!” Surprised I stop and stare down at the child I was watching. Her bright smile and blue eyes immediately capture my attention.

  “Hello,” I try to return her smile.

  “My name is Makayla, what’s yours?”

  “My name is Remy, Makayla, it’s nice to meet you.”

  “Do you have cancer too?” Her question is blunt and makes my throat tighten.

  “Makayla! You are certainly old enough to know better than to ask someone a question like that,” her mother looks at me, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I clear my throat and open my mouth and then close it before finally blurting, “Yes. Yes, I do,” I nod my head as if it emphasizes the words. It feels strange to answer her honestly, but I’m not about to lie to a little girl. There’s also something oddly liberating about admitting it – even to a stranger.

  “You know what my daddy says?”

  “What does he say?”

  “He says I’m a warrior because I’m fighting cancer. One time he even said I’m going to ‘kick cancer’s ass’, but I’m not allowed to say ‘ass’.”

  “Makayla!” Her mother admonishes, but I can tell she’s trying to hide a smile. I am too.

  “Well you are a warrior. I just met you and even I can tell.”

  “Well that means that since you have cancer, you’re a warrior too.”

  I swallow thickly, “Well that’s a nice thought.” I reach out and touch her blonde curls, “You look beautiful. I love the curls.”

  “Thank you! I’m going to get this one.”

  “Alright, Makayla, let’s go pay for the wig, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye, Remy. I’m going to pray for you tonight when I say my bedtime prayers, okay?”

  “Well that’s… that’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  I’m surprised further when she gives me a tight hug around my waist before waving at me, “Bye. I have to go!” She squints at me for a moment then points in the direction of a wig, “That’s the one for you. When you need it,” she tells me. “But, I bet you’d be beautiful with a bald head. My head is all funny looking. I think my mom dropped me when I was a baby or something because one side is all flat.”

  “Makayla!” her mother’s eyes are wide and her mouth is open. I can’t help it this time - a laugh bubbles up and escapes me.

  “It was nice to meet you, Makayla.”

  “You too.”

  Before leaving, I watch them go back around the corner with a smile on my face. It falls a little when I walk outside the store. It’s unfair that such a young child should be battling something so horrific.

  Right then and there, perhaps inspired by that sweet little girl, for the first time since before my mother died, I whisper a prayer… for Makayla.

  My alarm goes off and I awaken easily, spring from my bed and practically skip to the bathroom to shower and get ready. As feelings of excitement and anticipation run through me, I realize something. I’ve been ridiculously happy and carefree while getting prepared for this trip. I feel more energized than I have in months and it feels really great. Clearly having a change in routine and something to look forward to is exactly what I’ve needed.

  As I wheel my suitcase from my room an hour later, Oliver knocks on the door, turns the unlocked knob and opens the door. “Good morning, sunshine.” He sees the suitcase to my right and after handing me a coffee from our favorite java café, takes it, “Let me get that.”

  I’d respond to him but I’m already taking a sip of my coffee. He smiles as I do so and I murmur my thanks. While he takes my suitcase out to the car, I stop and take one last look around my place. Meatball went to my neighbor Melissa’s house last night. I have no doubt he’s already soaking up and adoring the affection he’s receiving from her ten-year-old daughter, Audrey. Sometimes Audrey comes and knocks on my door just to ask if she can pet him so she was thrilled to get to keep him for a few days.

  Other than that, my refrigerator has been cleaned, my garbage taken out and my thermostat turned off. Shutting my door and locking it, I meet a smili
ng Oliver at his car.

  “Thanks for agreeing to pick me up a little early.” He opens the passenger side door for me.

  “No problem. I’m glad you mentioned it.”

  Once I’m seated he hurries to the driver’s side and we take off. Running silently through my packing and to-do list and unable to identify a single thing I’ve forgotten, I settle in a bit and sigh.

  Oliver turns to me with a large smile, “Are you excited?”

  “I’m really excited, actually.”

  “What do you mean by ‘actually’? Like you doubted it?”

  Shrugging I don’t answer him.

  “Well I for one know we are going to have a great time. I have the trip well planned. It includes plenty of down time of course because I know you’ll want a lot of beach time, but I’ve also got some activities thrown in there too.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ll have to see,” he laughs when I roll my eyes. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

  We talk about menial things like the weather we’re supposed to have in Hawaii, my hope that the ocean water is warm and how it’s crazy for me to think that this time tomorrow we’ll be at the beach for the whole day. Before long we’re pulling through iron gates and driving down a long road that twists and turns until we reach our destination. Grabbing the notebook I brought with me from my bag, I take it with a pen as I exit the car. Walking along a trail up a short hill, I admire the lush green trees, the green grass and enjoy the breeze on the air while Oliver walks silently at my side.

  She’s easy to find, I know the path by heart. I stop before her stone and my eyes run over the engraving there. Pamela Renee Sinclair – Beloved Mother. The dates on either side of the line brings an ache inside of me so intense it makes it hard to breathe each and every time I see them. She didn’t have enough time. Forty-five years is not enough time. It seems ridiculous that all of the things she’s managed to accomplish in those years, all of the life that she lived is represented by nothing other than a line. A small line.

  “I’m sorry, Remy.” Oliver’s voice sounds loud on the wind and startles me.

  “Sorry? Why?” I’m not sure what he has to be sorry about.

  “I haven’t been here since the funeral. I always meant to visit, it’s just…”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not.” He steps forward and lays a bouquet of carnations next to her headstone - her favorite. I always thought it strange to like carnations. To me they appear odd – almost damaged and broken looking with the petals all crooked and crazed. Mom always said that was partly why she loved them – because they’re so different from other flowers. They stand tall, are long lasting, and beautiful in their wildness.

  “Yes, it is. You were there for me when I really needed you,” looking Oliver in the eyes I want to make sure he sees my sincerity. “When mom passed… I was… lost, broken and alone.” Oliver was away from college at the end and I don’t think I’d ever missed him more than during that time. When my mother passed I was with her at home. Hospice had started coming and had just assumed her care. The day didn’t seem significant at the time, in fact that morning she had just told me that for some reason she was really craving French fries. We laughed and wished we could share them together reminiscing about the last time we had done so and how I had giggled watching her lick the salt off her fingers. But within a couple hours, everything took a turn for the worse.

  “When you found out, you came home, stepped in and stood by me the whole time. You helped me make funeral arrangements, write her obituary, helped me through the worst of my grief. That’s what matters, Oliver. Not that you haven’t been here to bring flowers to her grave. My mom would have been just fine with that trade off as well.”

  He reaches for my hand and squeezes, “Well, I’m not. I promise to do better,” he kisses the tips of his index and middle fingers and touches them to my mother’s headstone. “I’ll give you some privacy. Take your time, okay? We have plenty of it to spare until we need to be at the airport for our flight.”

  Once I nod, he leaves and I’m left standing there with a breeze pushing back my hair. Potpourri from the flowers at the graves all around me travels on the wind reaching my nose, a bird sings a song in a tree nearby.

  Sighing deeply I sink to my knees, “Hi, mama,” I whisper and tears immediately come to my eyes.

  Each time I come here our last moments enter my mind. I wonder how long it will be before that stops? How long before it quits haunting me? Watching her leave me, leave this world, being helpless to do anything about it, telling her that it was okay, that I understood, that I’d be alright, even though my heart and soul was screaming for her not to go. I pushed past that emotion and told her that I was incredibly lucky that God chose her for me. I told her that my love for her was deep and vast and that she was always my greatest reason. My reason for sunshine when clouds were gray, just like the song she used to sing to me. And then she was simply gone. I’m not sure what I expected exactly, but my grandma had always told me how my mom came into this world screaming her lungs out. That she wanted everyone and anyone to know that she was here, that she was alive, and that she was going to leave a mark on this world. Her exit couldn’t have been more different. Here one moment and gone on the next breath.

  I didn’t expect the world to feel so incredibly empty the second I knew she was no longer in it. I didn’t expect the ache in my chest to hurt so much that I felt like I too was dying. I never knew I could cry and wail and scream and feel such devastation and anger at the same time. I knew with absolute certainty that I would miss her every minute, of every day, for the rest of my life.

  “I’m sorry it’s been a little bit since I’ve been here. I don’t really have an excuse, I just haven’t gotten here like I meant to.” Picking a blade of grass I twirl it between my fingers and tell her all about the trip Oliver and I are going on. “The truth is mom, if I wasn’t leaving town today I’m not really sure when I would have gotten here. Not because I don’t think about you every day, but because, I received some bad news and I knew coming here would mean my telling you about it. And it’s stupid, I know you aren’t really here, but the act of speaking it, well… it’s still hard.”

  Throwing the blade of grass down I look at her headstone, then down again and pull another blade of grass from the ground and stare at it for a moment, “I have breast cancer, mom,” I say quietly, as if saying it loud would make it even more true which is silly. “I have it too.”

  Brushing my hands on my jeans I tuck my hair behind my ear, “I guess I didn’t want to tell you because I don’t want you to think it’s your fault or something – it isn’t. It is what it is. But more than that - prepare yourself to hear this mom - I’m considering not doing treatment and I’m pretty sure you’d disagree with that choice,” I pause then laugh. It’s like I was waiting for her to start in on me about all the reasons she thinks that’s a dumb idea.

  “I think part of me was expecting a big boom of thunder or for a bird to poop on me or something to showcase your disagreement. I’m surprised it remains quiet.” Scooting closer I trace the letters of her name with my finger, “You can try to understand, right mom? I’d like to point out to you every thought, every reason I have for considering this decision, but in my mind I can see you shaking your head to each and every item just waiting for me to pause so you can provide an alternative perspective, but I will ask you to try to understand. To know that one good thing comes from this… my getting to see you sooner than later. I think that’s the only good thing about this if I’m being honest. Getting to wrap my arms around you again. Seeing your smile and hearing your laugh – I really miss your laugh. Feeling your fingers as they tuck my hair behind my ear and linger on my face. It’s been hard without you,” I confess. “I’ve been very lonely. It’s not your fault - it’s mine. I’ve tried to be better – to jump back into my life like before, but I guess while most of me healed, part of me has just stayed brok
en and I haven’t cared enough to try to fix it. Don’t be angry with me. Maybe I haven’t tried because on some level I knew I would end up right here in this place no matter what and it will be easier for me to let go without anything to hold onto, you know?”

  Opening my notebook, I turn to a blank page and take the cap off of my pen. At the top I write, ‘My Reasons’ and the date. Normally I only do this on her birthday when I visit, it’s always been our thing and I’ve kept it going, but today I’m making an exception – or at least I had wanted to.

  “Mom… I’m afraid. I know I’m a grown woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want my mom. I doubt that a person probably ever stops wanting their mom. I wish you were here to hold my hand, to whisper words of love and encouragement and to tell me that it will all be okay. To take my fears away in the only way a mother can. Imagining you here and doing that… it isn’t the same. Please forgive me, but I can’t make a list today. I can’t… I just can’t find a reason right now.”

  Looking away feeling ashamed I see Oliver leaning against the fence to my right. He’s watching me and blesses me with a smile when he finds me looking at him, I give him a wave and then turn back. “I should go. Oliver’s being kind waiting for me, but we need to get to the airport. I’m looking forward to spending some time with him – just us – for more than an hour at a time. It’s been a while. I’ve missed him. I love you, mama. I promise to be back as soon as I can, okay?” Leaning down I press a kiss to the top arch of her tombstone before walking away.

  When I reach Oliver, he puts an arm around my shoulders and kisses me on the top of my head. “You sure you’re ready?”

  With one last look over my shoulder back the way I came, I nod, “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” I smile trying to give him actions to support my words. He nods and once again opens the car door for me to get inside.

  I’m quiet on our drive to the airport my mind still back at the cemetery with my mom. It isn’t until we’re at a stoplight close to the airport that I realize Oliver has been just as quiet. Turning to him eager to break the silence the words get lost in my throat when I find he’s staring at the open and empty notebook page on my lap. The sadness in his eyes when they collide with mine makes the breath catch in my throat.