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“What are you afraid of?\u201d my psychiatrist asks, and I hate her a little.<\/p>\n
I breathe. \u201cWe\u2019ve looked at houses in Kennebunk for six months.\u201d I speak slowly, as if to a child. \u201cNothing is perfect. Or we can\u2019t afford it. Our current home is old, lots of character. It\u2019s our first house. We\u2019ve been there for 24 years. Our children were born there.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dr. K tucks gray hair behind her ear, waiting.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo, uh\u2026\u201d Her silence throws me. \u201cWe\u2019re thinking of building\u2026but, what if\u2026\u201d My hands flap weakly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if\u2026?\u201d<\/p>\n
I know. It\u2019s because my mother died, right? It\u2019s what everyone concluded. One bright bulb actually said my brother \u201cturned gay\u201d for that reason. Who knew?<\/p>\n
An endless mental ribbon of anxieties unfurls: What if we buy a house and I hate it? What if we build, and make all the wrong decisions? What if John loses his job? What if something terrible happens? And then it hits me.<\/p>\n
The last time I moved from one house to another, something terrible did happen. And damn it, Dr. K could be right.<\/p>\n
October 28th, 1978. Moving day. I was eleven, and my siblings and I would finally have our own rooms\u2014which meant sleeping alone for the first time. That night, I tiptoed downstairs.<\/p>\n
\u201cMum? I can\u2019t sleep.\u201d<\/p>\n
The television flickered blue around my parents\u2019 door. \u201cUp in a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n
I scampered up the steep stairway on all fours (seemed faster this way) and leapt into bed.<\/p>\n
My mother appeared, and I wriggled happily. Her footsteps crackled the old linoleum like bubble wrap. I counted steps: One-Two-Three-Four.<\/p>\n
She sat on my bed, chuckling. \u201cWhat\u2019s so funny?\u201d<\/p>\n
I squinted at her face in the dim light. \u201cThis house is so big,\u201d she said, her voice soothing. \u201cDad says I\u2019d go downstairs from our old bedroom, and my footsteps went, \u2018thump, thump, thump, thump\u2019 to the kitchen.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was already drifting.<\/p>\n
\u201cNow, it\u2019s \u2018thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
I fell asleep to the thumps.<\/p>\n
That weekend, my mother went on retreat with the church, and on Sunday evening when I heard our Suburban\u2019s burbling rumble, I ran outside. Moving far slower than her 32 years warranted, she climbed down from the driver\u2019s seat. I burrowed my face into her sweater, inhaling that signature mixture of scents: Jungle Gardenia cologne, Winston cigarettes, and Dial soap.<\/p>\n
\u201cBack to Bilbo?\u201d I asked; we were reading The Hobbit<\/i> again.<\/p>\n
She gave me a wan smile. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Deana. I have a headache.\u201d She rested her arm around my shoulders as we went inside.<\/p>\n
My father appeared and took her suitcase. They headed to their bedroom, and I headed to our china closet, which, inexplicably, was also our medicine cabinet. I grabbed the familiar bottle of pills and a glass of water and entered my parents\u2019 bedroom.<\/p>\n
My mother was speaking. \u201c\u2013worst I\u2019ve had.\u201d She turned, squinting like I was the sun, and accepted my offerings.<\/p>\n
Later, I went downstairs to say that I, too, had a headache\u2013a ruse to miss school. My father\u2019s anxious gaze never left the limp shape of my mother on the bed, a dishrag over her eyes. \u201cTake an aspirin and go to bed,\u201d he snapped.<\/p>\n
The next morning, we were greeted by Dad\u2019s sister, Sandy. As a rule, we only saw Aunt Sandy, Uncle Wayne, and my three cousins, Kelly, Kim and Koral (always spoken as one word: KellyKimandKoral) at their Christmas open house. We stopped short, agog.<\/p>\n
\u201cDad\u2019s at the hospital with Mum\u2013her headache got really bad.\u201d She spoke quickly, no slivers of silence for questions, and added that Mum\u2019s best friend Marilyn was on her way; she\u2019d be keeping us overnight. No school after all, I thought.<\/p>\n
I was lying on Marilyn\u2019s couch\u2013the result of a tag-induced asthma attack\u2013when my father came by later. Words drifted from the kitchen: \u201cMeningitis\u2026coma\u2026life support\u2026\u201d I understood none of this and lay quietly until he came in. \u201cMum\u2019s still sick,\u201d he said, looking elsewhere. \u201cYou\u2019re staying here again.\u201d<\/p>\n
Turning onto our street Wednesday, I knew something was happening. Familiar cars lined the street, announcing the presence of my mother\u2019s family; strange for a weekday, but I was always thrilled to see these beloved, lively people.<\/p>\n
The glowering sky expanded downward and clung to the windows like a wet, gray shroud as Marilyn\u2019s car rolled to a stop and we tumbled out into the mist. We trooped up the stairs, and Aunt Mary Ann emerged. Awaiting her boozy embrace, I smiled patiently, but my lips fell slack when I noticed the makeup running down her pale cheeks in black, tragic streaks. She leaned down to whisper, \u201cIt\u2019s okay to cry, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n
Aunt Sandy followed. Grasping my shoulders, she said, \u201cYou\u2019re the oldest\u2014be strong.\u201d<\/p>\n
Baffled, I entered the strangely subdued house. Forced, damp smiles loomed everywhere, each brittle gaze deflecting, ricocheting away.<\/p>\n
M<\/p>\n
y mother\u2019s teenaged sister made her way through the murmuring tide and with uncharacteristic gentleness offered to brush my hair. I sat on my father\u2019s mushroom footstool, a brown velour oddity permanently placed at the dining-room window, where a cracked mirror perched on the sill; I babbled incessantly about anything I deemed impressive.<\/p>\n
My father\u2019s voice: \u201cKids! Let\u2019s see what you\u2019ve done with your rooms.\u201d<\/p>\n
I raced my siblings to the staircase, barely noticing the sudden silence. We stampeded up, briefly bottle-necking on the dim, crooked landing at the top; a silent shoving match ensued before we popped like corks into the hallway.<\/p>\n
Upon reaching my room, my mouth dropped into a surprised \u201co.\u201d My grandmother was perched on the unmade bed, looking as incongruous as a painting in a Porta-Potty.<\/p>\n
\u201cKids,\u201d Dad\u2019s voice was strange, and he cleared his throat. \u201cMum\u2019s gone up to Jesus,\u201d he said, and then, \u201cAh, Christ, Ma.\u201d He put his thick, callused hand over his eyes, and for the first and only time in my life, I watched\u2013with a horror as deep as I have ever known\u2013as my father began to cry.<\/p>\n
Time stopped. Thoughts and feelings ceased for a few heartbeats\u2026but too soon, the numbness faded. The combined shock of the news, my father\u2019s choice of words (Dad and Jesus didn\u2019t see eye to eye), and seeing him cry knocked my world asunder. My response was visceral, violent; my grandmother hurried to the china cabinet for my asthma medicine.<\/p>\n
It was too much to bear. So, in those next few minutes, I flung that unimaginable, fledgling sorrow into a closet, locked the door, and threw away the key.<\/p>\n
\u201cA coping mechanism,\u201d Dr. K says. \u201cCommon with children. They avoid mourning the loss because facing it is unthinkable. And sometimes, it works. But,\u201d she pins me with her gaze, and I refrain from squirming. \u201cIt must be mourned eventually.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her words challenge me, but I hear an internal sentry: I\u2019m sorry, ma\u2019am\u2014those files are inaccessible. Nothing to see, lady. Move along.<\/i><\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019d like to try something,\u201d she continues, and my body tenses. \u201cIt has to do with appealing to your heart\u2013your inner child\u2013instead of your adult brain. May I?\u201d I nod, and she begins to speak. \u201cThat little girl inside is so sad.\u201d Her voice, gentle and soft, forces my eyes down and makes me grit my teeth. \u201cSo alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
I suddenly desperately want her to stop; I am caroming toward a yawning, immense, black-filled canyon.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe misses her mother so much.\u201d The emotion in Dr. K\u2019s voice draws my eyes upward, and I am shocked to see tears in her eyes. \u201cShe needs comfort, and she can\u2019t find it. That little girl is so sad, Deana\u2014but it\u2019s okay to be sad.\u201d<\/p>\n
Oh no.<\/p>\n
Dr. K\u2019s face doubles, triples through my tears. Ragged sobs rend out of my chest; my sorrow feels too large to be allowed.<\/p>\n
She continues after a while. \u201cYour home represents comfort and safety\u2013like a mother figure,\u201d she suggests. \u201cIf you are subconsciously equating this move to the one from your childhood, it stands to reason that you are equating it to the loss of your mother\u2013a loss you never mourned.\u201d<\/p>\n
The theory resonated.<\/p>\n
She said I needed to allow myself to cry\u2013and cry, I did: in the shower, on a jog, in the car. And on moving day, when all we had were the echoes of our footsteps in empty rooms, my husband and son patiently waited while my daughter and I walked through every room, weeping and holding hands.<\/p>\n
But we moved, and no tragedy struck. New memories are accumulating, and it feels like home. I feared being unable to remember our old house without pain, but the memories are fond, comfortable. They remind me that loss\u2013a door through which we all must pass\u2013is survivable; some of us just take longer to find the key and walk through it, for fear of what lies on the other side.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I breathe. \u201cWe\u2019ve looked at houses in Kennebunk for six months.\u201d I speak slowly, as if to a child. \u201cNothing is perfect. Or we can\u2019t afford it. Our current home is old, lots of character. It\u2019s our first house. We\u2019ve been there for 24 years. Our children were born there.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":12077,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[112],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-12075","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12075","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=12075"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12075\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":12087,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/12075\/revisions\/12087"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/12077"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=12075"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=12075"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.portlandmonthly.com\/portmag\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=12075"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}