Page 35 of The Next Person You Meet in Heaven
Annie did. Her mother’s skin was flawless. Her lips were full, her thick auburn hair dark at the roots. Annie had nearly forgotten how beautiful her mother once was.
“Why are you so big?” Annie whispered.
“That’s how you saw me on earth. But it’s time you see me as I saw myself.”
Her giant hand lifted, then tilted down towards her face. Annie stumbled forward, into her mother’s eyes, which opened like a deep well, swallowing her whole.
***
Children begin by needing their parents. Over time, they reject them. Eventually, they become them.
Annie would go through all those stages with Lorraine. But, like many children, she never knew the backstory of her mother’s sacrifice.
Lorraine was only nineteen when she met Jerry, who was twenty-six. She worked in a bakery; he drove a bread truck. Lorraine had never traveled more than thirty miles from her small town, and she dreamed of escaping its boredom and the stiff, high-cut uniform she wore every day. One evening, Jerry showed up in a suede jacket and engineer boots and suggested they go for a ride. They drove through the night, and didn’t stop until they reached the East Coast. They drank. They laughed. They splashed barefoot in ocean waves. They used Jerry’s jacket as a blanket on the sand.
Three weeks later, they were wed, in a civil ceremony in a downtown courthouse. Lorraine wore a paisley dress. Jerry wore a maroon sports jacket. They toasted each other with champagne and spent the weekend in a beachside motel, going for swims and drinking wine in bed. Their passion was strong, but like most passions, it burned fast. It was already waning when, a year later, Annie was born.
Jerry was not present for the birth. He was out of town on an overnight truck run that somehow turned into fivedays of absence. Lorraine’s brother, Dennis, drove her home from the hospital.
“I can’t believe he’s not here,” Dennis grumbled.
“He’ll come,” Lorraine said.
But as the days passed, he did not. Lorraine was getting calls, friends wanting to visit, asking the baby’s name. Lorraine knew the name she wanted. It was inspired by a woman her grandmother used to talk about, Annie Edson Taylor, who, in 1901, when she was sixty-three, climbed into a barrel and became the first person to go over Niagara Falls and survive.
“Now that old gal hadcourage,” her grandmother marveled. She said “courage” like it was something rare and precious. Lorraine wanted that for her child. She wished she had more of it herself.
When Jerry finally did come home, it was a Tuesday night and he reeked of alcohol. Lorraine cradled the baby. She forced a smile.
“This is our new daughter, Jerry. Isn’t she beautiful?”
He tilted his head.
“What’re we gonna call her?”
“Annie.”
Jerry snorted.
“Like the movie? What for?”
***
From that moment on, Lorraine felt as if she were raising Annie by herself. Jerry took longer truck runs. He’d be gone for weeks. When he was home, he wanted his sleep undisturbed, his food on time, and his wife’s full attention when he was ready to pay some to her. If Lorraine looked up at her daughter’s crying, Jerry would grip her jaw and turn her face back towards him, saying, “Hey, I’m talking now.”
His anger increased as the months passed. So did his physical force. Lorraine was ashamed at how afraid she’d become of him, and how quickly she responded to his demands, hoping to avoid his grabbing or pushing. They never went out. She was constantly washing clothes and dishes. There were times when she wondered how, in just a few years, her life had gone from so open to so shut. She often thought about a different path, if she hadn’t worked at that bakery, hadn’t met Jerry, hadn’t gotten in his truck that night, hadn’t been in such an impetuous rush to get married.
But then she’d scold herself for imagining a world without her daughter in it, and she would lift Annie and feel her small bulk lying against her and Annie’s butterycheeks and the way she slid her arms around Lorraine’s neck, and it erased any thought of another life.
This is the disarming power of children: their need makes you forget your own.
***
By Annie’s third birthday, Lorraine sensed her marriage would not last. By Annie’s fourth birthday she was sure of it. Jerry’s absences were no longer just about work, and when she confronted him over other women, his violence erupted. Lorraine tolerated him out of misguided guilt and the belief that her little girl needed a father, no matter how bad he was.
But when Jerry took his anger out on Annie, slapping her again and again after Annie opened the freezer against his wishes, Lorraine found a strength she hadn’t known. She threw him out. She changed the locks. She held Annie that night and cried into her curly hair, and Annie cried, too, although she didn’t know why.
The divorce dragged on. Jerry claimed he wasn’t working. Money became a struggle. Lorraine took on typing jobs from home. Knowing Annie was confused about her father’s absence, Lorraine tried to create a happy world for her. She encouraged Annie to dance freely, to sing loudly;they ran through sprinklers together and played board games for hours. Lorraine let Annie try pink lipstick in front of the mirror and choose her favorite superhero as a Halloween costume. For many months, mother and daughter shared the same bed, and Lorraine put Annie to sleep at night with a lullaby.
