Tears of Fear

I’ve seen my mother cry many times in my life.  

I have seen her weep in amazement at everyday joys. Sunsets, sunrises, the morning glow of dew on leaves. The first breath of her first grandson. 

I have seen her cry in anger. Of fighting with me as a teenager, fighting with her friends, and being angry at the world in bouts of rage. 

I have seen my mother cry in grief more than I wanted to. She cried when our cat passed away. She cried over the loss of her father and even wept as she was ordered to place my grandmother in assisted living. Grief and shame tinged that one. 

As I had said, I have seen my mother cry at dozens of things and events. 

But I had only seen her cry once in fear. And that instant was for me. 

17 years ago, my aunt gave me a baggy hoodie. I love oversized hoodies and sweaters. That hasn’t changed, even now when I am 32. There is comfort to them. I was depressed, and my mother reached out to my aunt for something I could use as a calm, safe method of self-comfort. 

My Aunt Mella gave me a camouflaged hoodie she bought from one of her friends. I loved that thing. It was washed beforehand and dried, so the inside of the hoodie was warm and fluffy. The color faded slightly, but the pattern was still the same. 

“How do you like it, bug?” My mother asked, smiling, since very few things were giving me any type of joy at the time. But the warmth of the jacket was soothing, which is just what I needed. We were sitting in our living room, on a blue and white couch, with a pale glass coffee table holding a cola and a worn-out Anita Blake novel.  

Placing my hands into my new pockets, my smile faded as something pricked my fingers. 

“Ow!” I exclaimed. Pulling out the object, I saw my mother's face lose its warm tan and turn ashen. 

Because what I had in my hand...was a dull grey syringe. 

My mother jumped out of her seat, pale-faced and livid. 

“Take it off... Take off that jacket!” she ordered. Flinching, I did as told, gently placing the dirty needle on the coffee table.  

My mother all but ripped the hoodie from my body. I stood confused, staring at the syringe. She grabbed her phone, slammed her fingers on the small keyboard, and dialed a number. I could tell from my mother’s face that she was going to explode. 

“Boys, let's go watch TV in my room.” I corralled my brothers back to my room, placating their curiosity with anime. 

“Jenna, why did Mom freak out?” my youngest brother asked. 

“I don’t know.” We sat in the back room, not really watching the show, but still on edge because of our mother’s reaction. 

“Where did the needle come from?” Nanos asked. 

“I don’t know. But the coat was from Aunty Mella. Maybe she knows?” I replied. We sat in silence, just waiting in confusion. 

“Jenna? Can you come in here?” I heard my mother ask, her voice shaky. Leaving my brothers to watch the anime, I went into the living room. 

My mother sat on the couch, her eyes red and puffy from crying. She held her hands clasped together, shaking. 

“Please, bug. Tell me it didn’t draw blood,” she demanded in a quiet voice. 

“It just pricked my finger. No blood.” I replied. She grabbed my hands, ever-so-gently, looking over where the needle pricked me. There was nothing. Not even a red mark. 

My mother, still crying, pulled me into a hug. 

“Thank God. Thank God,” she muttered. 

I didn’t know why the needle scared her. But I think I actually did.  

My aunt had HIV.