Kory M. Shrum - Who Killed My Mother?

Happy reading,

Kory M. Shrum

A moment of silence

for the long-awaited death

of an uneasy mind. And the belt Ive worn

all my life, ever tight across my chest,

removed, put to bed.

But then I will pick up the phone. Ill dial

her number and find no one is waiting.

W hen I wake, the first thing I do is grab my cell phone, like everyone else, and see Ive missed a call.

Mom New Cell, it says.

I decide to listen to the voicemail first before returning her call. Its important to prepare myself for conversations with my mother. They are, in their own way, treacherous battles fought over deep ravines. Sudden drops abound.

The voicemail will give me a clear read on what Im walking into. A glimpse of the emotional landscape Im being asked to traverse.

Will it be another plea for money? Or an emotional whirlwind where she tells me how stuck she feels, how trapped and scared about her future? Maybe it will be more complaints about the no-good heroin addict brother who steals her cash and sometimes beats her.

Perhaps she just needs another good cry about her mother, my grandmother, who died just four months ago.

Listening to her, being there for her in these ways, is all that I can do now.

From the flat of my back, while dappled sunlight dances across the comforter, I play the message. But it isnt my mothers voice emitting through the speakers.

The call that comes through at 8:58 on the morning of July 4th, 2020, is from her brother. In the nineteen-second message, in the slow, Tennessean drawl Ive known all my life, he says:

Kory, this is your uncle Joe. I need you to call me right now. I need you to call me right now. If my voice is putting fear in you, thats good. Its about your momma.

Putting fear in methats good?

What the hell is he talking about?

I sit up in bed and play the message again. With each second, my heart climbs higher, from my ribcage up into my throat, and knocks wildly against my vocal cords.

My wife, whod been reading on her phone beside me, turns and asks, Whats wrong?

I cant answer her. Its impossible to speak.

Now its 9:41 a.m.

I call him back.

He doesnt answer.

Babe, whats happening? Kim asks again. Now shes the one sitting up. And the little pug sleeping on my feet, Charley, lifts his head, wondering if were really getting up, or if this is a false start.

Kim places a hand on my back. Are you okay?

Im shaking, and not from the chilly morning. In Michigan, mornings can be chilly even in July. No, Im shaking because Im afraid of whats coming. Because I absolutely know whats coming as my fist squeezes, relaxes, squeezes again, the phone in my hand.

I try to call Joe again at 10:01. But he doesnt answer for a second time.

Hes going to tell me shes dead. I refresh the home screen of my cell phone over and over and over as if this will conjure an answer.

It rings at 10:06.

I skip the polite greetings. Whats going on?

Your mommas gone, he says.

And the world stops.

The silence in the dark bedroom of my house stretches infinite.

Finally, I whisper, What?

Shes gone. Your mommas gone.

Here my mind divides itself. There is the Kory in bed wrapped in covers, listening to the words poured rapid fire from her uncles lips. Then there is the Kory who is outside of herself, watching it all, observing this moment as if from a great distance. This Kory is noting the apparent shock, the disbelief as if all of this is happening to someone else.

I manage to ask, How?

I dont know. I came into her room this morning and found her dead in her bed. Her face was blue. Dead blue.

Where is she now? I ask. And immediately think, As if she could move. What a stupid question.

In her room. I called the police and theyre on their way.

Im unsure if hes crying or if his voice is shaking with adrenaline. The three dogs, my mothers two mutt terriers and my uncles chihuahua, are yapping in the background. From the sound of it, theyre running circles around his feet.

My treacherous mind remembers dogs will eat a corpse. Didnt I read that somewhere?

I hope hes closed her bedroom door.

To tell you the truth, Id expected myself to be more prepared for this moment.

For most of my life, Ive lived in fear of this very conversation. My mother had so many near misses over the years. So many moments when she absolutely should have diedbut didnt.

There had been the drinking and driving, yes. But there was also the near-fatal assault. And once she was even shot.

As I grew up, a pattern formed and I began to believe that it was only a matter of time before I got the call. And in it, someone would tell me my mother had died in some tragic, heartbreaking way. The only thing left to do was to imagine all the possibilities.

These imaginings probably began when I was seven or eight and my mom disappeared for a few days. Her car was found in a ditch. Shed been drunk, had driven off the road, and left with the first man whod found her. It wouldnt be the last time this happened.