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By the following Saturday—almost ten days since my mother had passed—I still hadn’t cried. It didn’t happen until I was in the checkout line at Target and sensed a hand on my back.
I’d woken up early and had had the whole morning to myself since Ethan was at Mark’s and my dad was at a client’s. I didn’t feel like going to the gym, so I went to Target to buy athletic gear to wear everywhere but the gym.
After an hour and a half of meditative strolling through the aisles, I had picked up one pair of Lycra pants, multivitamins, and breadcrumbs. I was going to make chicken cutlets. Even though our house was still filled with gift baskets with crackers, cookies, apples, and pears, we still had to eat regular food. And my father, our usual chef, hadn’t been feeling up to cooking. I would try to fill the void.
I finally got in line to check out when I found myself swaying back and forth. It’s a motherhood habit. Even when I wasn’t holding my child, I swayed. I caught myself this time and wondered when I would break the habit. That was when I felt the hand on me, the long nails, the pat at the top of my back, by my neck. Ma? I jerked around.
“Sorry, dear. Your tag was sticking out, and I tucked it.” The woman was in her sixties, with coiffed, dyed hair and long, fake red fingernails. “I don’t know why I did that. I’m not a crazy person. I usually keep my hands to myself.”
“Oh.” I reached for the back of my shirt. “It’s okay. Thank you.” I turned back. I didn’t know how long we stood there before the tears came. It couldn’t have been more than a few seconds.
I didn’t cry when the doctor said they’d tried everything. Or when my dad broke down when we first saw her in the coffin. Or when Orly, or Ethan, or Aunt Fran cried.
Did I really think that was my mother behind me? For a split second, maybe I did, even though my mother hadn’t been the tender kind. She hadn’t been the kind to give an extra pat after tucking in my tag. She would have given a hard pat and said, “How long were ya walking around like that? Like a ragamuffin.” Still, for some reason, for one second, while wide-awake in the middle of Target, I was fooled into believing it was her, that she was still there, and that for some reason, she was tender now.
And then I was crushed when I came back to reality. And that was what it took to make me cry—one second and one stranger. I reached for tissues in my bag, but I was fresh out. Friggin’ figures. I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
“Are you okay?” the lady asked.
“Yeah,” I croaked out.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me today. I usually mind my own business,” she said.
“It’s okay. My mom died ten days ago, and...” I couldn’t finish the rest of the sentence.
“Oh, dear,” she said as she pulled me into a hug.
That was when I really lost it. I cried into this woman’s navy-blue blouse. When I lifted my head, I was speechless. “I am so sorry. Oh my God. I am so sorry.” I waved my hand over her now soaking shoulder like I had an invisible blow dryer in my hand.
“I have to go to the cleaners today anyway,” she said.
“Let me pay for it.”
“Don’t be silly. I am so sorry about your mother, dear.”
A roll of paper towels seemed to fall from the sky onto the conveyer belt. I glanced behind me and saw a smiling cashier.
I thanked her, and as I wiped my face, I noticed the paper towels had leaves on them. Could it be? Maybe? I paid for my items, apologized to the lady behind me again, thanked the cashier, and bolted.
I got in the car and rolled down the windows to let the fall air cool my red face all the way home.
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THE NEXT DAY, CHARLIE and I took Ethan to the movies. We saw a matinee of an animated film starring dancing vegetables.
“Did you like it?” Charlie asked as we held each of Ethan’s hands while leaving the movie.
“Yeah.” Ethan said.
“I liked the broccoli that slipped on a turnip during the tango,” Charlie said. “He was funny.”
“Yeah,” Ethan agreed. “I liked the broccoli.”
“What about the carrot who uncovered the biased judges in the dance competition? She was my favorite,” I added.
“No. I liked the broccoli,” Ethan repeated.
After going for ice cream, we headed back to my parents’ house. I found myself concerned about leaving my father alone. Is he lonely?
I’d asked earlier if he wanted to go to the movies with us.
“A movie about vegetables? Nah. I have my own vegetables. I still have zucchini from the farmer’s market I have to fry up.”
“Okay. What else are you going to do besides fry zucchini?”
“Don’t worry about me, Jada. I have things to do around the house. I have work to do.”
“You have pipes to inspect?”
“I have pipes to inspect. Yes. Go.”
As we pulled up, I noticed the front lawn was strewn with leaves.
“Uh-oh,” Charlie said. “Meyerson strikes again?”
“Looks like it.” I wonder if my mother has forgiven the Meyersons now that she’s on the other side.
“I like leaves,” Ethan declared. “I want to play with them.”
“No, Ethan. They’re dirty.”
“We’ll wash them,” he said.
Charlie parked the car, and I got Ethan out. As soon as he was free, he ran to the leaves. He jumped in them, threw them, and made angels in them like they were snow. Soon, Charlie followed suit, picking them up and throwing them.
There was a time when I would have gone over to the Meyersons’ with a bag of leaves and dumped them on their lawn. That seemed like an unnecessary use of my energy now. I walked over to Ethan and Charlie. I kicked some leaves, threw some up in the air, and even lay down in them.
I looked up at the clear fall sky and thought, “Thank you.” Something told me they could read my heart.