Watch Over Me (3 page)

As I use my keys to unlock the backdoor of the shop, I think about the love/hate relationship
I have with the place. On one hand, I love that everything about this place reminds
me of my mother, from the smell to the snowman décor that decorates the walls and
counter tops year-round to tie in the "snow" part of the store name. On the other
hand, I hate that everything about this place reminds me of my mother. I hate that
everywhere I look I can't escape the memories.

"You're seriously going to put all of your snowmen decorations up at the bakery?"
I asked my mom in shock as she pulled another blue tote off of the shelves in the
basement where she had stored all of her holiday decorations. The snowmen always made
an appearance as soon as Christmas was over. The tree and stockings would come down
and the snow globes, crystal snowflakes, and Snowbabies figurines would come out.

"Of course I'm going to put the snowmen up. They're adorable," she stated as she popped
the lid off a tote and looked inside. Satisfied with what she found, she slid the
tote next to the ten others currently taking up most of the floor space in the back
corner of the basement.

"But it's July. In Ohio. Don't you think that's a little weird?"

My mom pulled a stuffed snowman out of a tote who, when a button was pushed on its
hand, would dance to the tune of Ice Ice Baby that blasted out of a speaker in its
ass.

"Who in their right mind would think snowmen are weird?" she asked as she bobbed her
head and shuffled her feet to Vanilla Ice.

"Um, me," I stated.

"Well, you're a teenager. You think everything is weird. And you dress funny, so really,
you have no say in the matter. I blame you anyway. You're the one who started buying
snowmen for me."

"Hey, it's not my fault the Secret Santa shop at school sucks. And I was nine. You
can't hold that against me," I complained as I got down on my knees and started looking
through one of the open totes.

"Oh yes I can. That's the joy of being a mother. I can blame you for whatever I want
because I'm the adult," she said with a laugh.

"I can't wait to have my own kids so I can torture them like you do me," I told her
as I pulled a snow globe out and held it up in front of me, watching the snow swirl
gently around the snowman inside.

"Oh believe me, I can't wait until you have kids either. I curse you with a daughter
just like you so you can feel my pain and I can sit back, point, and laugh."

A sharp pain shoots through my chest when I remember how many times my mother and
I had that same conversation about children. According to her, I was a monster as
a baby. I never slept through the night, I had colic, and I was just an all-around
pain in the ass. This of course only intensified when I became a teenager with PMS.
She delighted in the fact that one day she would get to watch me live through the
same hell with my own children. But that would never be. She would never coach me
through childbirth or give me advice on what type of food to serve at a first birthday
party. None of that matters now since I'm never going to have children. It's hard
enough living day in and day out without her; I can't even imagine the pain of doing
it with children who will never meet their grandmother.

I immediately shut off my mind from the memories. I can't think about her. If I do,
I'll fall back down the rabbit hole and never be able to surface. I know it's not
healthy to use this on/off switch as much as I do, but it's the only way I know how
to survive. The only way I can wake up each day, put one foot in front of the other,
and keep going.

With a sigh, I flip on the light switch in the kitchen and get to work preparing the
dough for the next day's cookies and the batter for the cupcakes. While I mix and
stir, I think about the holiday coming up next month and wonder if my dad, on his
fifth trip to rehab, will still be sober when that date rolls around. I feel a moment
of shame when I remember that day at the cemetery. After ten months of therapy, I
still can't say the words out loud to anyone. My therapist tries over and over to
get me to relive that day's events, but I refuse. Instead, we talk about coping, living
your life to the fullest, and how to overcome the grief that can swallow you whole.
I put on a good show of acting like I'm "cured" and that I'm ready to join the land
of the living. I prove to her that I'm better and that thoughts of death and darkness
don't consume my every thought anymore.

She will never be privy to my dreams at night, though, and she will never know how
many times I still wonder if I would be happier away from this place, away from the
pain and despair of trying to go on with my life when the most important person in
my world is no longer there to help me.

As I crack an egg into the big mixing bowl, the faint, jagged scar on the inside of
my left wrist gives me pause and brings the memories I hate to think about, but ones
that will never leave me alone, swirling to the surface.

"Hi-ya mmo-om," I slurred as I plopped down on top of the dirt below her headstone
and crisscrossed my legs. The handful of pills I swallowed with a sip of coffee on
the drive over were starting to work their magic. I felt like I was floating on a
cloud, and the thoughts in my head were fuzzy.

I stared at the small, oval circle below her name that held a picture of her at my
cousin's wedding the previous October. I hated headstones that had pictures on them.
I hated that this was the one we picked out. And of course by "we" I meant me. My
father was too busy taste-testing different flavors of vodka that day to pick out
anything, and two hours after the funeral, our extended families all went back to
the comfort of their own homes and forgot about the grieving people they left behind
to suffer and struggle. They went back to their happy homes and their happy lives,
and life just went on for them. The moment they walked out of the church, the cloud
of death lifted from their shoulders, and they were able to fold up the sadness and
put it in a back pocket and never think about it again while we were stuck trying
to figure out how to cope and breathe again.

"Happy Mother'sssssday," I mumbled as I popped the lid off of her cup of hazelnut
coffee and poured it slowly into the dirt in front of me, watching it quickly disappear
into the dry ground.

When the cup was empty, I put the lid back on and set it down next to me, reaching
for the bag with the bagel in it. I had to widen my eyes and blink a few times to
get the bag to come into focus so I could open it and remove the cinnamon crunch bagel.
I set it down right on top of the headstone and let out a huge sigh.

"I can't do this without you. I hate that you're not here. I hate it so much," I said
to the picture on the headstone, trying in vain to keep the tears at bay. They rolled
down my cheeks on their own volition and dropped onto my knees.

I picked at a few stray blades of grass that had popped up around the disturbed earth
and began breaking little pieces off while the tears continued to fall.

"What am I supposed to do without you? How the hell am I supposed to do this?" I cried
angrily.

I fiddled with a few more pieces of grass and wiped my nose on the back of my hand,
the words on the headstone and my mother's picture beginning to blur and swirl in
front of my eyes.

"I don't want to be here without you. I don't know how…I don't know how to live without
you here."

A soft breeze blew through the trees, and I lifted my face up toward the sky and let
it caress me, hoping that maybe it was a sign from her that she wanted me to do this,
that she wanted me with her. With my eyes still closed, I reached into the front pocket
of my shorts and removed the razor, lightly running my thumb back and forth over the
top, thinking about how sleepy I was and how easy it would be to just curl up on top
of the dirt and take a nap.

Without opening my eyes, I brought the razor to the inside of my wrist and made the
first cut.

"
How are things with your father?" Dr. Thompson asks.

Her office is bright and airy, and at the start of every meeting, she apologizes and
then gets up to shut the blinds, covering the window above her desk so the sun doesn't
blind either of us. She always makes a joke about wanting to blind me so I'll forget
I'm in a doctor's office and it will trick me into opening up to her more. Every time
she says it I wonder if she knew my mother in another life and stole all of her best
lines.

I always sit on the buttery soft, white leather couch with my shoes off and my legs
curled up underneath me, and Dr. Thompson sits directly across from me in a dark blue
recliner. She says it's more comfortable and inviting to talk this way, and she hopes
it makes people feel like they're just chatting in her living room. Her office is
warm and inviting, which I guess is typical of a therapist's office. I wouldn't know
since she's the only one I've ever been to. I always find myself staring at a Thomas
Kinkaid painting of a snowy cottage scene on Christmas Eve that hangs on the wall.
My parents used to have the exact same painting above their fireplace until my dad
removed all traces of my mother the day after she died. I wonder where that painting
is now.

"Okay I guess. He always manages to call at the most inopportune times and then gets
frustrated when I don't have time to talk. He has no clue how busy I am or that everything
doesn't revolve around his stupid drinking problem."