My mother wasn’t conveniently dead, like in so many stories about children, whether they jarred dead bats or were attracted to beasts in woodland castles. She didn’t die to help me overcome some obstacle by myself or to make me a more sympathetic character.
She haunted me—and not in some run-of-the-mill Hollywood way. There were no floating bedsheets or chains clanking in the night as I tiptoed to the bathroom to pee.
My mother, Darla O’Brien, was a photographer. She haunted the walls of our house with pictures. She was always there and never there. We could never see her, but every day, I saw her pictures. She was a great photographer, but she never became famous because we didn’t live in New York City. Or that’s what I’ve heard she said.
Getting dead didn’t make her famous either.
Regardless, having a dead mother isn’t convenient, especially when she died because she stuck her head in an oven and turned on the gas.
That is not convenient.
Although, I’d argue that there is some convenience in having a death machine right there in your kitchen waiting for the moment you finally get the nerve to do it. I’d argue that’s more convenient than a fast-food drive-thru. You don’t even have to leave your house to stick your head in the oven.
You don’t even have to change out of your bathrobe.
You don’t even have to take your kid to preschool where it was Letter N Day and she was ready to show off her acorn collection. You don’t have to remember to do anything but breathe in and breathe out.
That’s about as convenient as it gets.
What’s inconvenient is: Living in a world where no one wants to talk to you about your dead mother because it makes them uncomfortable.
What’s inconvenient is: Not having a mother at middle school graduation. Not having a mother when I tried to figure out how to shave under my arms. Not having a mother when I got my period. My dad was helpful; but he’s a feminist, not an actual woman.
I always knew that one day, it would be inconvenient as hell not having a mother at high school graduation. The last few weeks of senior year were filled with all the girls in my homeroom talking about buying dresses and shoes and all I could think about was how small those things seemed.
I sat in homeroom thinking Shoes. Dresses. Disposable bullshit.
I sat in homeroom thinking Where am I really going, anyway?
Though my yearbook photographer duties were over because the year’s book was done, I still carried my camera with me everywhere. I took candid shots of those girls talking about their dresses and shoes. I took pictures of my teachers trying to teach near-empty classrooms. I took pictures of the people who thought they were my friends, but who I’d never let all the way in.
I didn’t let anyone sign my yearbook. I decided: Why fake it?