Mom's Little Book

Mom’s Little Black Book

life within the pages

by:

Elizabeth Montaño

It was impeccable timing, that roaring clap of thunder as the casket lid came down. That awful, heart-cleaving sound of finality, muffled by Mother Nature. It was a blessing in disguise. I had so dreaded that gentle thud, knowing how much you would’ve hated it.

You’d despised the thought of a coffin; a hatred born from fear of entombment. Much to my surprise, you’d even considered cremation. Always claustrophobic, you were terrified of being sealed-in, not once but twice. The six-feet of dark, cold, hard earth the final lid of terror. To be reduced to ash, though, was a spiritual dilemma. Too tired to decide, you wanted to put off the discussion. That way, you reasoned, you could also talk with the pastor. I imagined you’d hoped he would allay your Biblical concerns; by reassuring you there was nothing in the Holy Book against incineration.

Perhaps the three of us could meet about it the next day.

However, the next day, other pressing issues took precedence. You called me early in the morning, asking me to stop and pick up your little black book on my way to the hospital. The Moleskine; the book I’d given you for your birthday last year, 364 days ago. The one that had your multitude of lists. Things to do, appointments to keep, bills to pay, cards to send. You’d joked more than once your life was in that book.

In the end, you were right. That was where it remained, your life. There, in that little black book – and in our hearts, for the next day was too late for discussion.

You must have known your fight was nearing its end. There wasn’t time left to worry about what would happen to you after death staked its claim. It was more important to take care of the living. We’d spent hours, during your short bursts of flickering energy, going over what you wanted and needed me to do. Most important of all, you’d reminded me repeatedly, was the care of my younger brother and sister.

They were all but grown, physically. Mentally was a different story. Twins, Denny and Dani had been a surprise gift later in life. You’d been appropriately parental when I was a child, but by the time they came along, you’d become far more tolerant. Too tolerant, I had accused. Then, once Dad had passed, especially, you’d given in to nearly everything they’d demanded. Any problem they had, you had.

So many times, I’d pleaded with you to help them learn to be adults, to teach them how to solve their own issues. At the end of the day, I knew you wanted what was best for them. The thing was, you were terrified of being alone. Keeping them dependent was your way of making sure you weren’t abandoned.

Suffice it to say, they’d both developed a sense of entitlement. Also suffice it to say, they were in for a rude awakening. I would love them, of course. They were my siblings. I would do my best to help them. I would not coddle them. They’d have to learn how to stand on their own feet for I was not going to walk in your shoes.

Neither did I promise to get Dani’s prom dress from the cleaners. Her prom dress, her problem. I did promise to remind her it was there. I also promised to settle the bills, close your bank account and set the meager sum aside for the twins. It would be used for their care, not for their whims. I even promised to keep up your tradition of sending out cards: birthday, Christmas, congratulatory, whatever the occasion demanded, to your long list of faraway friends and distant family. I told you I would sign your name. That made you happy.

I did not remind you of my intent for the twins on that final day. I’d told you often enough in the past and that day wasn’t the time to be confrontational. Would it have worried you? Or would it have been a relief? I wonder. I hope it was at least a relief to know you’d helped me grow up to be strong and self-sufficient so, without you to lean on, I could try to help the twins learn to be the same.

What we didn’t talk about, was what to do with your earthly shell. Once you’d breathed your final, ragged breath, I finally broke down and wept. I’d managed to keep them dammed all these weeks, but there was no longer a need to shield you from my pain. It was only when the hand I held began to grow cold that I bent over and kissed your gaunt, weathered cheek one last time. The tears trailing down my face watered your papery skin.

I sucked in the air of my grief, intensified by the knowledge you’d never breathe again. But, there was much to do … too much to fall apart. I tried to move; there were calls and arrangements to be made. My legs decided otherwise. They wouldn’t carry me to the door. Just a few more minutes, I told myself. Even though you had left, I needed that few extra minutes alone with my mom.

Forcing myself to dry my eyes, I gently unwound the fingers from your other hand, the one still clutching your little black book. Sitting back with it, still by your side, glaring at the nurse expecting me to leave, I began thumbing through the pages we didn’t have time to get to before your time ran out. I noted appointments that needed canceled and whose birthday had to be remembered next. A smile came to my lips reading your quirky little remarks, such as: Never wear that flowered jacket again. Wish I’d seen myself in the mirror first. Can we say beached whale? Gah! Rail thin, Mom, you were far from that.

As I read, I realized I’d gotten to know my mother better in an hour than I had in my entire 30 years. My heart fragmented as I read about her hopes and dreams, things she’d never been able to realize. That little book was more than a day-minder. It had also been a diary of sorts, rich with her personality, the one we knew, and the one which had remained imprisoned. It truly had been her life … the one she’d lived, and the one she’d only dreamt about.

A fresh round of tears threatened to fall.

That time, when the nurse came in to tell me, sympathetically, they really had to take care of the body, I got up to leave, snarling. “Her name is Joan. She isn’t a toe tag, she isn’t just a body. She’s my mother and her name is Joan.”

The nurse’s face colored to a dusky shade of rose, the apology on her lips profuse. “Of course it is.” Quickly, she amended what she’d said. “She is. I’m so very sorry and so sorry for your loss. But, honey, it’s time. We really do need to take care of your mom.”

I nodded, willing my legs to work this time, and gave one last look at the woman on the bed. No more pain. COPD had won; she didn’t have to fight for breath any longer. Peaceful at last and content in knowing I’d take care of things. Mom had even written it in the little black book I now clutched tightly in my own hand. Thank God I don’t have to worry. My dear little Beth will take care of it.

My mind was in a tangle. I couldn’t make a decision that day. That day was spent consoling my siblings; alternately crying and laughing as we all ‘remembered when’. The next day, though, Mom’s 60th birthday, I picked out her casket, praying she’d forgive me if I made the wrong choice. She’d been so very afraid of interment, but she’d been as equally petrified about having no body for the resurrection promised by the Bible. Torn, I ultimately went with the safer eternal bet.

So, there I stood, my arms around my brother and sister, saying a final farewell to the woman who’d birthed us and loved us in exchange for a different life than she’d once envisioned. It was fitting that nature, too, wept for our mother. Her little black book was tucked safely in my shoulder bag – where I’d always carried my life. Her method was infinitely more poignant. I decided then to follow her example so that someday, my own children would have the means to really learn who their mother had been. The one they knew, and the one whose dreams had been happily sacrificed for them. I’d make sure to write in my own little black book how much they were loved.