Page 97 of Snowballed

I hoped when I came in here today, that Lorraine would give me advice for how to deal with my mother. How I could make our relationship better. But instead, all she does is nudge me to find my own solutions.

After my last class, I head to the hospital. My mother looks a lot better. Her color is normal, and she’s sitting up in bed.

“Hey. How are you feeling?” I perch on the stool beside her.

“I actually feel fine,” she says. “But the doctors say I need to stay one more night. They’re waiting on some test results.”

“It’s better if you stay here and get rest.” I say.

“I’m rested enough. It’s boring just sitting here all day.”

This sounds exactly like something I would say. For all my denials, I am my mother’s daughter.

“Mom, I’m so sorry about all this.” I put my arms around her neck and try to hug her, but with the pillows, poles, and saline tube, it turns into an awkward embrace. But when I try to straighten, my mother is holding on tightly. I bury my face into her neck. Under the disinfectant smells, there’s her familiar honey-sweet scent. How long has it been since we’ve held each other?

I’ve spent so long resenting her that I’ve forgotten our past. When I was young, my mom was the one I ran to for comfort. She would gently clean my tiny injuries or listen to my complaints. Then after a hug and kiss, she’d send me back on my adventures. Even now, she’s been letting me push against her for so long.

I feel the wetness of her tears against my forearm. And I’m crying too, the release of tears dissolving my complex emotions. Finally we both sit back. I hand her the tissue box, and we wipe our faces. She reaches out and clutches my hand.

“I thought I’d lost you, darling.” Her voice is raw, and she starts crying again.

I feel so guilty about how I’ve acted. I’ve been pushing people away ever since my dad died. Lorraine’s right: all this anger has been misdirected. I’ve been hard on myself as well as everyone who tries to get close to me.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I repeat.

She shakes her head. “It was my fault too. I was so unhappy after your father’s death. I had no energy, and it was easier to let you take over so much of the house and farm work. But I shouldn’t have done that. It meant that you didn’t get time to process your own grief.”

I close my eyes and nod. She’s right. Keeping busy has always been the easiest way for me to avoid things. Congratulating myself on how much I do instead of questioning whether I should be doing everything at all.

My mom squeezes my hand again. “I want to be there for you now, Zoe. If you want that too.”

I nod. I’m tired too. For so long, I’ve been the strong one. Being able to lean on Noah had been such a relief, but other people have been offering me help too.

“You’ve always been strong, like your father. But that doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time. Your dad leaned on other people. Even me.”

“Do you still miss him?” It’s the question I’ve thought about ever since I found out about Carl.

She nods and looks out the window dreamily. “Only every day. Sometimes living on the farm is so difficult because I can picture him everywhere.”

“Me too.” I’m surprised to hear she has the same visions I do. “Is that why you want to sell the farm?”

My mother snaps back into clarity. “No, of course not. I’ll miss your father wherever I live. It’s about the finances, just as I showed you before Christmas. And of course, it’s about you too.”

“Why is it about me?” I ask.

She bites her lip, like she’s uncertain about saying more. Then she makes up her mind to go on. “I know that working on the farm is part of your grieving process, but it’s not helping you move on.”

And there it is, exactly what Noah wanted to know. Why is the farm more important to you than any relationship?

“I feel so guilty about not being able to bring Dad back to the farm, to live his last days there.” I haven’t talked about this subject for years, and now I can’t stop.

My mother shakes her head. “I know that was your dream, but it wasn’t possible. His doctor said so.”

“Really? You mean, you wanted him to come home too?”

“To be honest, no. I needed some time on my own, to recharge. But I asked the doctor. If it was manageable, I would have to consider it. We didn’t know how long your father would live.”

So I’ve been feeling guilty about something that was never possible. It’s not like I feel magically transformed, but everything that’s happened in the past two days has shifted something in me.

---