Page 17 of Home Is Where the Bodies Are

TEN

LAURA

1999

The camcorder sits heavily on my shoulder. It weighs nearly twenty pounds, but the burden is worth it because I want to capture everything I can. After losing my sister and my father before the age of fifteen, I know that no matter how powerful the brain is, it still forgets things. My kids hate it, always groaning at me to put away the camcorder, to stop taking photos. But one day they’ll appreciate the time and effort I put into preserving our family memories. Whatever I don’t capture through video and photos, I write about in journals, key points of each day that I cherish and even those I don’t—it’s important to remember both the good and the bad because together they keep us grateful and grounded.

I readjust the camcorder and flick my long hair over my shoulder to stop it from being pulled. You’d think they could make these things smaller. Maybe one day, they’ll be as small as my hand. I press Record and walk slowly into the living room, panning from wall to wall so I can remember what it looks like. The white walls are adorned with family photos and the hanging shelves are filled with knickknacks I’ve picked up at resale shops and rummage sales. A tube television sits on a stand in the corner, playing a rerun ofThe Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. The drapes, couch, and chair are floral printed. I’ve always loved flowers. There’s something special about their existence. They’re how we greet the ones we love and say goodbye to the ones we’ve lost.

Nicole is seated on the couch dressed in wide-leg black jeans and a dragon graphic tee. She’s listening to music on her Sony Discman with a pair of over-the-ear headphones. She saved up her allowance for months to buy that portable music machine. Her shoulder-length hair is crimped, her lids are covered in a heavy blue eye shadow, and her brows are overplucked. She’s told me many times that it’s style, and I can’t really argue with her. I was born in the bra-burning decade, then sported bell-bottoms, crochet tops, and peasant blouses during my teen years.

“Nicole,” I say. She doesn’t respond because she’s absorbed in her notebook, writing down poems and thoughts. She got that from me. There are some things we can’t say out loud, and it’s just easier to write them down. I call her name again, but her music is far too noisy. I’ve told her a hundred times she’s going to blow her eardrums out, but it falls on deaf ears—perhaps my warning is already too late. Her head snaps up when she spots me in her peripheral view turning off the television she’s not watching anyway. I’m constantly having to remind my kids that money doesn’t grow on trees. She rolls her eyes so much I think they might pop out of her head.

“Mom, I was watching that,” Nicole groans.

“Higher” by Creed blares from her headphones as she slips them off and clicks pause on her Discman. I know the song by heart at this point because she’s listened to it so often. Her personality has always been all or nothing, which worries me sometimes. Zero or a hundred makes the middle, where everyday life exists, feel like a slump.

“Didn’t look like it,” I say, steadying the camcorder and keeping her in frame. “Now, how was your last day of freshman year?”

“Great,” she says in a monotone voice.

I tightly smile.

“Because it’s over,” she adds with a smirk.

I pull my eye from the viewfinder and give her a disapproving look. “One day, you’re gonna regret wishing your life away.”

She leans back into the cushion, placing the palms of her hands on the back of her head, elbows propped up. “As if. When I’m a famous writer living in New York City, I’ll be glad I wished high school away.”

I want to tell her to have a backup plan, to be more realistic. But I know there’s a fine line between keeping your children grounded and killing their dreams, so I smile a little wider instead. My own mother encouraged practicality to a fault. Get a job. Get married. Have kids. There was no room left in her plan for flights of fancy. I don’t regret my decisions or the life I’ve made, though if I could go back, I’d dream a little more. But I still would like Nicole to understand how fast life passes, even if you’re not wishing it away. That realization only sets in later in life, or in some cases, when it’s cut short. When the seemingly impossible becomes the possible. It came early for me, twelve to be exact, when my sister and my father were ripped from this earth, killed by a drunk driver. My life was never the same after that.Iwas never the same after that.

Placing my eye back in the viewfinder, I center it on her. “Read me something you wrote today, Nicole.”

Her cheeks flush. “Mom, no,” she says.

“How are you going to be a writer if you don’t want anyone to hear your words?”

She sighs, rolls her eyes again, and flips through a couple pages in her notebook. “Fine, just a small part,” she says, looking up at me. She doesn’t smile but her eyes do, and I’ll take that. She buries her nose back in her journal and clears her throat.

“If you’re afraid of falling, you’ll never fly.

If you’re afraid of failing, you’ll never try.

If you’re afraid of dying, you’ll never truly be alive.”

Closing up her journal, she shrugs. “It’s rough. Not really that good.”

“You don’t need to be first, honey,” I say, staring directly at her. I want my daughter to really hear me, to remember these words one day when she’s stopped believing in herself. That day will come. It comes for all of us. And I want her to have the tools to get past that day and any other day like it.

Her brow furrows. “First?”

“The first to stand in your way. Other people are going to tell you no. They’re going to tell you that you can’t do something, you’re not good enough, you’re not worthy. You don’t need to do that. Don’t add to the noise. Because that’s all it is... noise. You be a voice, a voice for yourself.”

“Have you been reading thoseChicken Soup for the Soulbooks, Mom?” Nicole teases.

She laughs but I see the seriousness in her eyes, so I hope my words stay with her. I’m not sure they will though. At fifteen, she sees me mostly as a buzzkill. I’m her drill instructor, her boss, an impediment to freedom, and a barrier to the life she wants to live. Everything cool, I am the opposite. This dynamic is a rite of passage for parents of teenagers. One day, she’ll grow out of it. When that day comes, I might even miss her sass.

The sound of a door closing grabs my attention, and I aim the camcorder toward the kitchen. My oldest, Beth, rounds the corner. She stops and picks up two Blockbuster VHS rentals from the kitchen table and eyes them. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and she’s dressed in a pair of Soffe shorts and an oversized Backstreet Boys T-shirt. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s gasping, still catching her breath.

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