SC Alban - Playing Cupid: A Heartwarming Contemporary Debut

To Megan

For always, without hesitation, opening your door for me...even at 4 am.

To Jay

For always making sure the porch light is on.

T he moment Mom said her final goodbye, my young heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. In my childhood imaginings, Id pictured death taking her as an old woman. Shed be nearing a hundred years, maybe older, her white hair wispy and wild, her warm smile wrinkled deep and spilling over her cheeks as she passed peacefully in her sleep.

But it wasnt like that at all.

Fate caught me off-guard, plunging its silver-tipped sword deep into my heart and twisting before I could parry.

Those last days at the hospital were the worst. Shed just been through another round of chemotherapy and radiation. The treatments had taken a toll on her body, grey skin sagging from her bones like torn, dusty sails on a pirate ship. She was barely able to eatno more than a few bites at a timewithout fearing it might all come back up.

She motioned for me to sit on the bed. Not wanting to hurt her with the strength and awkwardness of my pudgy eleven-year-old arms and legs, I was afraid to get too close.

With a voice long since faded, she insisted I lie next to her. I crawled up onto the bed, moving carefully around the crinkles in the blankets, not knowing if it was her legs creating the thin, hard lumps underneath, or if it was just the folds of the stiff, over-bleached fabric.

Her immune system was so worn down, Dad and I had to wear masks to keep our germs contained.

That day, shed removed her oxygen tubes.

What are you doing, Beth? Dad reached forward to put the nasal cannula back on, his fingers like giant pink sausages against her ashen complexion.

She waved away his hand. I want to kiss my daughter. Her scratchy, dry voice was barely audible. I want to give her a real kiss, Steve. I want to feel my lips on her forehead. I want to taste her skin. She drew a labored breath. I want to kiss my husband. A real kiss, babe. Not around pieces of plastic. She closed her eyes and struggled to reopen them. I needsomething, Steve. Something I can remember and take with me

its time.

Bethy, no. Please, dont give Dads voice cut off, cracked through the center like the time a rock hit the windshield of our car. It fragmented and shot out into the corners of the room as he stood and stared out the window.

I had listened as my parents spoke. I knew what they were saying.

It was time for goodbye.

Come here, Meggo. Mom reached out for me, her arm no bigger than the skeleton model from Mrs. Turners science class. Pulling me close, she removed the mask covering my mouth. She smelled strange, not like the vanilla and orange scents she used to wear around the house. It was unnaturala mixture of plastic and peroxide. My nose crinkled at the unfamiliar scent. I was afraid to do what she asked.

I was more afraid not to do it.

She sucked in a labored breath as she lifted her hand to my cheek, wiping tears from my eyes with her thumbs. Her fingers were cold and poked at my flesh awkwardly. Long gone were the soft, skilled fingers that had tickled me breathless so many times before.

Im sorry, peanut, she said. I just dont think its gonna work out like we want.

She held me close in her weak embrace and nuzzled my forehead. She kissed my tears away. I still remember how her lips felt on my skin. They were soft, not dry and crusty like Id expected. Rose petals pressed against my cheeks.

Take care of Dad. He needs you, Meggo. Dont forget, youll still have each other.

If Id known my mother would be taken from me before I was a teenager, Id have hugged her more, listened to the music of her voice more, spent every spare moment with her.

Id have soaked up her memory like a sponge and never wrung it out.

In those early days following her passing, each sunrise tormented me. Dad would be downstairs, pacing a track in the woven wool carpet that lay before the hearth as if he were searching for something, his feet shuffling against the fabric. Round and round and round, and never up the stairs to find me. The track was sometimes the only evidence he was alive.

The once-warm house was emptied of laughter and smiles, hollowed like the tree trunk out back where rats and skunks nested in the winter. I thought I would surely die, my heart ripped open from the inside out, its blood spilling and pooling into my feet, making each step heavier than itd ever been.

It wasnt long before I understood my presence had become a burden to Dad. It was evident in each twist of his lip when he became short with me, every time he turned his head away, how he kept his eyes downcast to avoid seeing my facethe withholding of affection.

Dad loved me before Mom died. But Moms death changed him as much as it changed me. Like it mattered. What good was love if I couldnt hold onto it forever? If it couldnt keep me safe? What value was a hug if the warmth it brought would never again touch my skin? Those times were gone.

If I dig into the past, dive deep into its muddled center, I still remember my mothers embrace. So warm. So perfect. My eyes sting with tears. She cant hug me anymore.

She cant, and Dad wont.

Im torn, stuck between what was and what cannot be, two sides of a coin that will never land in my favor. Love, with its promise of joy and happiness and completeness, has left me full of sorrow and sadness and a big, dark, empty space where my soul used to live.

And now? Well, now theres nothing. No more smiles. No more hugs. No more unfulfilled promises.

Losing your mom is like losing a part of yourself. Except its the part that already knows the answers, that comforts you, picks you up when you fall, wipes your tears when youre sad, and cheers you on when you succeed. Its the really good part. A mother is supposed to be there.

But mine wasnt.

O ne final, and I could finally blow out of this school. One simple passing grade, and goodbye Mountain Valley High. So long. Peace out. I shifted my weight while standing in line and tugged on the bottom of my cotton t-shirt, every nerve in my body a tight bundle as I waited to pull the name of the partner who would help me with my escape.

When I signed up for Home Economics last spring, I thought itd be a no-brainer. After all, it was just an easy elective for the jocks to pass in order to keep up their G.P.A. Who knew students would be expected to do actual work?

I bit my lip, rehashing how horribly I did on the sewing midterm. My cheeks grew hot as I recalled sewing a skirt to my pant leg during the hemming demonstration. Thank God the semester was ending with cooking. Id been mastering the culinary arts since I was twelve. And by mastering, I mean making my own dinner and leaving leftovers for Dad. If I had any chance at all of passing this classany chance of graduating earlythis final was the key. It was my exit ticket out of high school. I just hoped chance favored me with a good partner.