My mom is forty-one years old. She does not necessarily look older than that, but the fact is that forty-one is usually people’s second or third guess after two higher numbers. Not substantially higher—they guess forty-three, maybe, then wince at the flicker in her eyes that says too high and drop to forty-one.
When people get older, they develop fine crenellations around their eyes, typically called crow’s feet or, more popularly, smile lines.
In my mother’s case, I don’t believe they were caused by smiling.
She conceals her sadness as well as could be expected, ten years later. She laughs at silly sitcoms and she grins at funny comments her friends leave on Facebook, but there is always a veil between her mirth and the world, a sheer scrim that mutes her reaction. It is as though she is a half second behind the world and can never catch up. And has given up trying.
I try to stay out of her way. This is just something I do. I avoid her. I began doing this early on. Some of my earliest memories. Six or seven years old and I was trying not to spend time around my own mother.
I don’t want her to see me too often, to encounter me, to deal with me. Me, this walking, talking, living, breathing, eating, shitting, farting reminder of what she’s had and what she’s lost. During the school year, it’s easy—I’m out the door after she leaves for work and most days I’ve eaten dinner and ensconced myself in my bedroom by the time she’s home.
Summer, it’s harder. With no ready-made excuse for being absent, I look for ways to get out. I don’t linger in the house. I sleep in late, stay out late, keep my bedroom door closed when I’m home.
I make myself invisible, intangible.
It’s easier for her, easier for me, just easier, period.
According to Dr. Kennedy, my mother is the surviving member of the family dealing with my sister’s death the best. Let that tell you something.