Over the next few days, we managed to hide some of our antagonism—for mother's sake. But it was only a matter of time before my mother found out about our inability to get along.
"You think I wouldn't know," she said, the disappointment in her voice cut through me like a cheese grater.
"I was hoping it was a passing phase," she said.
I sighed.
"You have to promise, you'll try harder to get along—both of you," She looked at the two of us.
We nodded our heads at the same time, and replied in unison, "Yes, mom."
This was going to be difficult, I thought. But I'll try if she does.
As the years passed by, growing up together, we interacted but there was never any real closeness; at least that's how I felt...more like acquaintances than sisters or friends. We never discussed the elephant in the room—early on, I had mom, and she didn't. She didn't say it in words, but I could see it in the dark pools of her eyes. I had it better. Or at least that's probably what she thought.
We kept to ourselves as much as possible, at home and in high school. With the exception of one friend we both shared, Tom, our neighbor. He was in some of Clarissa's classes, but I would talk with him whenever I would go outside (and wasn't reading a Sweet Valley High book) and sit on the slightly cracked cement steps that decorated the front of our apartment.
I remember staying home from school one day (I had to go to the doctor for a check-up) and seeing my sister walking up the block with him.
"Hi," he said, his dark brown eyes sparkling like wet ebony in the gleaming sun. "Watcha' doin'?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just sitting here, reading a book." I showed him the cover, hoping he wouldn't make fun of me for my selection of supposed literature.
"Cool," he said.
Clarissa didn't seem to notice my slightly flushed cheeks.
If anything, she looked a little excited herself, as she pulled on his sleeve, "Tom, I'm gonna go show my mom how I did on my English paper. I'll be right back, okay?"
"Sure," he said, without even looking at her.
She ran inside as he sat down next to me on the steps. He continued to stare at me.
"What?" I asked in mock exasperation.
"I just think you're so cute when your cheeks turn red.
I looked down at my dirty black and white converse shoes. At this point, I'd known Tom for about a year and a half, but was always too shy to tell him how I really felt about him. I always thought he favored my sister.
He touched my chin with his right hand and turned my face toward his, bending down and kissed me on the lips. It was over almost as quick as it started. I could feel it all the way down my body, traveling like a current of water, all the way to my toes. I smiled. But it was short lived as soon as I heard that familiar abrasive voice behind me.
"You stupid, bitch!"
I turned around. Clarissa's face was redder than a Roma tomato on a Sunday sale. As much as we've argued in the past, it was mainly passive aggressive. I don't recall ever seeing anger like this emanating from her...ever.
She snatched the book out of my hands, and started to tear out a few of the pages, before flinging the book down the steps.
Before I could say anything, she ran up the steps—no doubt to complain to mom. It happened so fast. I apologized to Tom, and went after her, leaving him standing there alone and speechless. Or at least if he did say anything, I didn't hear him.
Once I opened the door into the apartment, I said, "You never told me you liked him like that."
She didn't respond. So I continued, "You always said you were 'just friends'"
"Well, I do like him," she shouted. "And, anyway, it's none of your business If I do or don't."
Sigh.
I can never talk to her. Not really.
"What about Angelo"? He was another kid in her class. She kissed him a couple of weeks ago.
"I was only using him to get Tom jealous. I don't really like him." Her arms were folded in front of her black cotton shirt, as though she were a bouncer at a night club, making sure no one sneaked in without permission.
"Well, how was I supposed to know that?"
She didn't answer.
"And anyway, he kissed me!"
She looked at me, but still didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings—but we both like each other." I tried to soften my tone, hoping she'd understand.
I sighed.
"I'm sorry," I said, again.
"Are you?" She said. Then she turned and walked away.
I was left standing there, forgetting that my mom wasn't in the house. The note was on the fridge door:
There's rice and beans in the blue topper ware container and some left over grilled chicken. Sorry, I won't be home until ten P.M. I am working a late shift today.
I love you,
Mom.
The next day, it was Saturday. I could hear voices coming from the living room. I could hear my mother's soft soothing voice.
"Honey, it's just a boy."
"But it's not fair!" Clarissa's raspy voice cut through my sleepy stupor, bringing me back to reality.
"You're always trying to defend her," she screamed. She stormed off to the bathroom, slamming the door. Since we both still shared a room, I supposed that was the logical choice.
After speaking with my mom for a few minutes—explaining myself, as if I'd committed the worse crime known to man—I went for a walk.
When I came back, I heard my mom still talking to Clarissa.
"You know, I love you, honey. Right?" She was rubbing the top of her head, softly. "I just couldn't bring you with me at the time. It was just too difficult. But I never stopped loving you."
My sister was older than me, but in many ways she behaved like she was ten years my junior. Her therapist would later say she was simply regressing. Maybe, he was right.
I didn't interrupt. I just stood by the door, looking in, until my vision became somewhat blurred, and my cheeks were damp.
The following year, Clarissa left to study college upstate. She got accepted into Binghamton University. She always got great grades in school, and her hard work panned. She won a couple of scholarships, and awards. Mom was proud—and so was I, despite our fractured relationship.
Unlike her, though, I went to school in the city, Hunter College. I wanted to stay close to home. I didn't care much for sharing bathrooms with strangers, and so forth—at least that's what I told myself.
Now, at age thirty-one, I stand here, alone in my cold, dark room, filled only with memories. The only comfort are my thoughts of her; her syrupy honey sweet voice, her tender touch, her loving chocolate brown eyes staring at me with concern, making sure I was always okay.
Gone.
Why did she die?
Silly question.
What I mean to say is: Why did she die so soon? My mother—the center of my life is now and forever gone.
I think of moments when she held me in her arms until I felt asleep, before and after Clarissa showed up, and my whole world was turned upside down. Before my uncle John died. But those days are a distant memory like a cloud of smoke that is now dissipated.
Now, the only thing left is my whirlwind mind.
After taking my evening shower and getting dressed, I stand in front of the mahogany framed mirror. I extend my right hand to touch my face. It is surreal. The face in front of me appears older than I remember. My eyes are red, a tell-tale sign of my lack of sleep. Little lines mark the side of my eyes, and for a split second I think I see my mother looking at me.
I continue to stare at the mirror, and as I do its presence captures me in its very frame, outlining the essence of my world; an empty world without my mother, since I still cannot talk with my sister. We are too different, or maybe too much alike.
We both live on our own. She has a dog, I have a cat. We do not speak much, only around the holidays, and few times in-between. We are both busy with our careers. At least that is what we often told mom.
I remember that painful moment when she was on her death bed at LIJ hospital. Clarissa held her pale, thin, hand, as I sat on the other side of the large mechanical bed. She had trouble breathing but managed to get a few words out, "I want you girls...to know...know [cough] that...I love...love you...never one more...than the...other. I-I always have... [cough, cough] always...will." She breathed heavily, with a little raspy undertone.
"We know that, mom," I said, smoothing a couple of sweaty brown strands off her face.
I lifted her free hand and clutched it toward my chest.
Clarissa looked over at me. For a moment I thought she was going to say something, but she didn't.
Cough.
"Promise me that...you will-will...take care of...each-each other..." She licked her dry, chapped lips, before continuing, "When I'm gone."
We looked at each other.
"Promise," she repeated, in a breathy voice like the remnants of a fading storm.
"I promise," I said.
"I promise, mom," Clarissa conceded.
"Diana..." mom said, but before she could finish the sentence, a gurgling, raspy sound wheezed out of her mouth, and she stopped breathing. She was gone.
"Mom?" Clarissa shook mom's hand, and touched her face.
The heart line on the monitor beeping that all too familiar echo of desolation.
I lowered my head on her chest and cried harder than I've ever cried before.
A nurse came over and checked for a pulse.
We moved over to the side, hoping perhaps, in vain that it was just a mistake. Just a few more minutes—but that wasn't a possibility. I knew this.
I felt awkward and helpless; I didn't know what to do. I looked at Clarissa. She just stared at the white-tiled hospital floor.
I could hear the ringing of the phones, and the wheels of gurneys as patients were being transferred from one room to another.
"Hey, we'll be all right," I said.
Clarissa glared at me. "Look at you. You're so calm. Miss Perfect." Then she turned, teary eyes, wide, and flashing, "You might have fooled mom, but you never did me!"
I couldn't believe she lied to our mom—on her death bed. She wasn't willing to change at all, was she?
When I didn't respond, she continued, "Who are you to say 'It'll be okay'?" She mocked. "You don't know shit," she seethed. Some spit coming out of the corner of her mouth like some ragged injured crazed feral animal.
I knew she was upset, so I didn't say anything. I can't reason with her when she gets like this; it's a losing battle.
We both stood in silence for a while, listening to the doctor call the time of death.
I buried my face in my hands, sliding against the hard sheet-rocked yellowed wall of the hospital.
I slid my hands from my face and looked at Clarissa, almost imploring her. For a brief millisecond I thought she would come over to where I slouched against the wall, almost touching the floor.
But instead she shook her head and said, "You know what? I can't stand here anymore. I'm outta' here." She turned and left.
I wrapped my arms around myself, wondering what to do next, and feeling more empty and alone than the driest desert.
After thinking about the day my mother died, I look away from the mirror, and lean my head against the cold hard surface of the wall. I stay there for a few minutes, or has it been an hour already?
I then lean forward, forcing myself away from the plaster-colored white walls. I take a few silent steps, as my naked feet hug the carpet, and climb into bed. I reach over and pull the cotton covers under my chin. It is cold. My lids blanket my vision as I try to fall asleep.
I wake up the next day. It is a Saturday morning; the sunlight partially filtering through the wooden blinds of my apartment window. I never thought this day would come so soon. She was still young—sixty-two. After an hour of drinking a cup of black coffee, no sugar, and staring into space, I head over to the Michelson's Funeral Home. I think I ran a red light. I have to be careful. Pay attention, I tell myself, silently.
I ring the bell. The funeral director opens the door, and says he's sorry for my loss. Maybe he means it, or maybe they are just empty words. Said so often that the meaning is just lost. Regardless, I don't care. Not now, anyway. Not while I drift through a nebulous nimbus cloud.