"Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs."
- Proverbs 10:12 ESV
I thrusted the gear shift into park. The gravel dust floated in the spring air, mud streaks painted my passenger side doors. Papa's truck sat in between the two oak trees, the longer branches stretched out, the lighter brown new twigs and green buds perked. The wooden sign sat on the left of me, fresh black paint made the letters legible: Williamstown Cemetery. My hands clutched the soft-leather steering wheel. Too occupied with my thoughts to notice seven missed calls with my phone being squished in my back-jean pocket.
What is she planning? Why show up here? A year later after Mama's – ugh – why after nineteen years of absolute silence?!
My fingers ran through my caramel hair, pulling at the roots and dead ends.
I glanced in the rear-view mirror, a small jar-like air freshener dangled back and forth on the mirror from the abrupt stop. Off to the right side of Papa's truck, a used car rested in the side gravel. Black, blue, and red painted horizontal marks etched into the white vehicle's sidings. Dents bulged in and out around the edges where the doors opened.
I shook my head.
What do I say?
Dismissing the worn-out car, I flipped my visor down. I opened the small mirror, yellow lighting streamed on my face. My fingers grazed over my flushed cheeks, a small pimple tucked in my nostril crease, swollen from the additional touches, and wrinkles on my forehead.
Do I look like her? –
I groaned. I slammed the visor back into its place against the tan interior car frame. A short click matched my mood. From my memories . . . Mo – Cassidy had forest green eyes with a dash of gold speckles. She'd brush my hair, the end first then roots to bottom, similar to Cassidy's own hair, wavy curls. With dead ends -
Hell no. I look like Mama. Why is she here? Finally sending her condolences?
Papa called me earlier.
After arriving home from an eight-hour shift, I cuddled with Amadeus, he'd sit there in the palm of my hands. I knew he needed sunshine soon to stay warm. A timer was set for five minutes because I kept closing my eyes. Dottie observed from the carpet. Her piercing emerald eyes peaked above the couch seat's height. Ears faced forward. Whiskers poked at the couch's fabric.
My phone went off.
His soft whimpers pressed against my ear.
"Papa – what's happening?" I sat up straight, "Are you okay? Tell me or I'm sending a paramedic! Where's Mary? Let me talk to her-"
"Cassidy."
My hands shook. There was a moment of silence.
"She's here."
"Here?" I asked.
"Grave site," Papa hiccuped, "I came by to give Mama - her daisies. And – and."
He continued to cry.
I heard cooing, the voice was feminine, a whisper, "I'm here, Dad. I'm here."
I put Amadeus back into his tank, changed my PJ pants into jeans, and grabbed a gray hoodie to go over the top of my "llama drama" t- shirt. Endorphins activated and diminished the lack of sleep, my eyes widened. Sweat accumulated on above my eyebrow and in my armpits.
"I'll be there." Thirty minutes later, I arrived.
I prayed during the entire trip that there would be no police out on I-71 North because my numbers were getting high on my speed dominator.
I've ignored her calls. This is what it has come down to? She's desperate to contact us?
I hadn't had the time to call Papa to tell him.
Actually, I hoped to tell him in person. A call wouldn't suffice. With the long hours, I planned it in my mind to spend time with Papa. I'd pick up the phone and then stop.
What will Papa think? Say? Will he want to see Cassidy? Will he side with her?
I focused on studying state and federal laws, like the Good Samaritan law, and revisited pain measurement indicators for clients to best describe what they're experiencing. This was for my upcoming weekly quiz. I threw myself into the information, dismissing those nagging thoughts to communicate with Papa.
In the end, I wasn't the only one holding back on contacting.
Why did Papa keep . . . he could have told me he was coming to visit Mama. I licked my lips.
Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I cried.
The taste of salt on my lips. My warm breath fanned back into my face, ricocheting off the leather. The back of my dry hands wiped the hot tears. The harsh movement created stinks under my eyelids and cheeks.
How had I imagined seeing my mother again? Hugs? Apologies? She'd worship the ground I walked on and admit her mistake? The mistake of leaving me!?
I leaned my head back against the seat. My jawline locked.
I turned off the engine then I got out of my car. Leaning against the driver's door, I sighed. The air pushed out of my chest. My arms crossed in front of me with my hands gripped onto my biceps. Fingers digging into the gray hoodie's cotton and polyester.
What am I doing?
I breathed in. Out. In. Out.
The purr ceased, one cardinal sang on the oak tree branch hanging above Papa's truck. High pitch voice called out for another bird . . . possible mate. The ruby feathers were an enormous contrast to the greenery and brown nature scene.
Mama told stories of the cardinals. The messengers from the spiritual world. She'd whisper in my ear, "When you see a cardinal, it's a loved one who has passed away . . . they want to say hello. Reminding you, they're here."
A younger self asked, "Who's saying hi to us?"
"Your great-grandma," Mama would have a weak smile. "Virginia."
"Oh," I paused, "Hi!" I'd wave at the animal. Mama giggled.
This time, I knew who it was.
The cardinal twirled around, its tail moved up and down as it moved on the twig. Its black beak open, singing its melody – one tweet, then another. A pause between the two notes. Its talons held onto the branch. Black feathers covered its entire face, and its eyes stared down at me.
Hello Mama.
A tear escaped.
The cardinal looked away. Quickly as the bird appeared, it disappeared, and the flash of red was all I saw of its wings.
I stomped on the gravel stone towards my destination. The stones flowed and the path transformed into the fresh grass. The height came a little above my ankles, headstones in plain view. My arms swinging by my side. I took longer strides towards the north part of the cemetery.
How would she have even known this – wait, she got an invite. Did she keep it? The address? If so, why? Why keep it if you never intended to make an appearance?!
Theories and possibilities flowed in me. As I continued to walk, my steps became heavier. Pounding the poor new, full grass.
This is too much! To circumstantial?! I mean, what are the odds, they'll be here the same day –
I stopped.
Shit. It's Mama's birthday.
I closed my eyes. Whimpers and moans. All towards myself.
How could I have forgotten? March has gone by too fast. What's wrong with me?! Even MOM - SHE remembered!!
Fingers shook as I persisted.
Everything is fine. You're fine. You got this. Under control. Be loose. Like your job. Keep an open mind. Don't react.
I heard their voices before I saw them.
"Mom always tried to get me to cook," the soft voice declared. A small laugh followed, "I sucked at it. She'd say 'You have no patience, Cassidy! You must experiment, indulge in your work.' You remember what I'd say? 'Just give me something to eat. I'm hungry.' Gosh. I was pinheaded."
Papa laughed.
I came closer.
There they were. Sitting on the grass, in front of Mama's black and white headstone. Papa's back faced me.
I could see the other woman.
The woman leaned forward, hunching over the grass. Her fingers twirled around the plant and broke it off, the stems rotated and woven between her index and middle finger. The woman's gaze focused on the marble stone.
"How did you and Mom have patience for me?" the woman asked. Her tone went up, light hearted as the question ended.
"We didn't," Papa replied, laughing. He reached over and touched her shoulder. Like he would with me. "We loved you more than our patience."
"Indeed."
The woman focused on her fingers, moving the grass around and around. Her hair was the same as the past: blonde waves, dangled down like a waterfall. The ripples going in and out. Chaotic and soothing. Mine was caramel. Not blonde. There was a difference. Yes. Different.
The woman looked at Papa. And then her eyes gazed at me.
She sees me. My lips stayed in a thin line.
"Cass –" No, no. I'm nothing like you. "I mean," the woman got up from the ground, wiped the grass off of her jeans, "Sugar."
I dropped the grass stem that she broke off the ground. My hands hide within my jean pocket. "Dad... he told me Mom renamed you."
She said it with awkward pauses. A tone of endearment? She almost implied that I was renamed like a pet . . . or a rescue dog. The woman was wrong.
Mama did it out of love.
I kept silent.
The woman's eyes were like tree leaves in the golden hour, gold and light green. Wrinkles displayed around her eyes. Two moles were on her neck in a vertical line . . . I had one mole. The most makeup she wore was a peach foundation. I saw little hints of mascara, eyeliner, blush, highlighter . . . different from my memories.
What am I supposed to say?
Papa got up too, however, he had a couple more groans and slower speed than the woman.
"She's back, Sugar!" he exclaimed. His arms in the air. "I can't – I – I only wish Mama was here."
He choked up.
The woman rubbed small circles on his arm. Coming closer to Papa, she hugged him.
"Me too," she whispered, looking away from me. "Me too."
I shifted to one leg and then to the other.
How can he be happy? Allowing her to touch him?
He patted the woman on her back, ending the hug. He sniffled and pretended to not wipe his tears with his shirt's sleeve. "I mean – it's like the prodigal son – coming home. I was reading it this morning, bible verse for the day. I know – I know it's God. It's uncanny how similar this is."
The parable of the prodigal son.
Yes. The younger one who went and took his money early from his father. Then spent it on earthly things. Realized his mistake and came back home to become his father's servant since he was no longer associated with his family. His father and brother, who stayed by his father's side, were there when the prodigal son returned. His father welcomed him back as his lost son, ignoring the fact the son asked to be a servant.
Forgiveness.
I knew the story. I adored the love and forgiveness . . . now I wondered why the father could easily give it out like water. Free with no expectations. Welcomed back the son that hurt him so much.
How?
"Isn't it fantastic, Sugar?" Papa questioned.
I stared.
Neither nodding, pointing, moving, or saying anything.
What does she want? She doesn't care for us.
The woman came closer to me.
"I'm sorry for what I've done. The day I left you – your crying. I almost stopped my car. I saw you get on the gravel. In my side mirror, I saw Mom get close to you. I – I – I regretted leaving you. All of you. I have so much to tell you. And I don't really know where to begin," the woman commented.
Her hands came to her chest. Her fingers had short uneven nails and swollen redness on the skin around the cuticles.
"I have no excuses for my choice. All I can tell you is my side of the story. I-If I may." She reached out, "We can sit down and I can share it with you."
Her fingers grazed my arm.
"Don't touch me!" My voice screeched.
I hit the woman's hand.
"Why would I allow someone who left me, a five-year old – no communication in the past nineteen years to be near me? Let alone back into my life!"
I glared at the woman from top to bottom. "You hurt me. Questions have been instilled in my mind, ever since you made your decision. Am I enough? Why would she leave me? Am I not pretty enough for her? If I was, then she would still be here. Did I annoy her with my cries . . . as she dressed? Is that why she yelled when I made a sound?"
I leaned closer. "Would you like to hear more? The day you drove away, when you say, 'you almost stopped.' I pleaded for you to. You didn't listen. The dust was in my mouth! I even threw myself on the ground – my knees bled."
The woman's face turned scarlet, eyes squinted to hold something back.
"Still," I paused. "You kept going."
My eyesight became blurry.
Papa stepped up. "Now, Sugar, wait-"
"I changed my name. Mama called me Sugar. Do you want to know my reason? Something I haven't shared with anyone?" I hissed, coming closer to the woman. The woman who gave birth to me. The woman who'd sing me soft lullabies in the car to make me fall asleep. The woman who'd rub my tummy when I ate too much Oreo cookies. "I wanted no association with you. Cassidy."
Cassidy cried. She held her hand in front of her mouth.
Papa yelled on top of my words: "Listen, Sugar! Give her a chance. Sugar, stop being this way, stop this, right now!" His dark tone displayed his authority.
"Stop what Papa?!" I asked, shrugging my shoulders, "She did this to herself. You know it. I cried myself to sleep the first three months. I remember it – Mama remembered it. Do you?!"
Papa was silent.
I tasted salt water in my mouth, ignoring the stinging eyes.
"I want to let you know. I don't need you. All those years . . . without your presence there for me – us. You were telling me, 'I don't need you.' I'm here to tell you, I'm good. I have Papa, Lydia, and –
August.
"Other friends who care about me. Helped shape me into the woman I am today."
Cassidy shook her head.
My nostrils flared. "Say something!" I yelled.
"You're right."
My warmth stopped. The words in my mind stopped. The birds chirping in the trees, created the noise between the three of us.
Cassidy licked her lips. "You're completely right. I have no excuses. I'm sorry, Sugar."
What? Was it supposed to be that easy?
"You don't mean it," I hissed.
"I do," Cassidy replied. "I can't change your mind. That's your decision."
Cassidy wrapped her arms in front of her chest.
"I'll be heading out Dad. I'll talk to you later," she said, giving a kiss on his cheek. Her forest eyes landed on me. "Bye, Sugar," her voice faded.
Turning away, she walked towards where her used car was, and I watched her leave.
The slow movement through the grass, the wind picked up, bending the plants forwards and backwards.
Papa came to my elbow, and he put his arm around my shoulder.
"I never knew you felt this way," he mumbled. "I thought you'd be thrilled. You – you mentioned her. You asked questions. I thought..."
He stopped talking.
"I thought wrong," he sighed.
Me too, Papa.
Standing in the wind, with his warmth on my shoulders, all the events . . . realizing my actions and behaviors . . . I held my breath.
Crap. I'm the older brother in the parable.
I glanced back at the gravestone.
I'm sorry, Mama.
Welcome to the rollercoaster.
Anyone surprised?! Conflicts are surfacing now! It's been building up, now they have to confront them.
We've had some yelling. We haven't had that in awhile. Tons of tears. Hugs. All over the place.
Any theories as to why Cassidy left Sugar? I'm quite interested. 😉
You're the best readers ever. Thank you! 💞
P.S. Go check out Cardinals! They are gorgeous birds! Ohio's state bird is the cardinal. 😊