A Mother's Tears • Ch. 6 of 16

Both Parents

It was an average day when Marcel was taking the trash out. My mom sat at the windowsill and watched him from the apartment. His coughing had never been so bad and he began spitting droplets of blood onto the pavement. Gabriela knew right then that something was wrong. My dad made it half a decade in his new country before being diagnosed with lung cancer, not two months after Gabriela’s own cancer was discovered. Though he’d have to miss many days of work due to his eventual surgery, he still asked his employers to hold his position in place for the day he’d be able to come back.

“I always admired him for that,” my mom would tell me. They opened and sowed him back up, knowing there was little they could do. Over the next few months, his health slowly deteriorated to the point where my mom and I were at a dollar store and she bought a tension ball for him to exercise with. What good will that do?, I thought to myself. It didn’t seem to matter—, it was so sad and depressive and final; a little stuffed ball of plastic. As if a person who’s sick could magically squeeze themselves back to health.

My mom began doing radiation for her second bout with the disease—, at eleven, nightly. She’d get home well after midnight. I’ve tried to imagine what that drive was like—, for her to be wandering through those streets alone. When she’d finally get home, she’d crawl into bed and pull the covers over her tired head, just to begin uncontrollably sobbing.

“I’d implore God to at least save one of us, either Marcel or I, for your sake,” she’d tell me years later, thankful that He’d heard her plea. Some of the neighborhood kids would climb the big oak tree in the front yard to reach our windows, stare at my dad laying in his bed, point and laugh. They’d cross out his name on our mailbox down in the lobby and write ‘dead’ underneath it—, even after my mom replaced it multiple times. Those were his last days —, and there he laid, nearly lifeless.

The Last Conversation

Good friends of my mom’s came by to pick me up one evening to spend the night at their house. I thought it was just another sleepover, but it was really so my parents would have one final chance to figure things out in regards to where I’d end up and who would take me if neither of them should beat their individual battles with the disease. Since it was so late, I was rushed into getting ready to leave my apartment when I realized I didn’t have a prized possession with my belongings.

“Wait!—,” I said, hurrying over to the living-room cabinet and opening the drawer. I rummaged around for a few seconds until finally finding a picture of my mom to bring with me. “Okay—, now I’m ready.”

“You don’t want that picture,” Gabriela said, “it’s of me in my work clothes, let me find another better picture you can take.”

“No, this is perfect,” I insisted, happy that I’d found any photograph at all. With that, I left with the friends, content and at peace that I’d see my mom and dad again soon.

While I drifted off to sleep in another home, Gabriela was pulling up a chair by Marcel’s bedside and slowly taking a seat, knowing important matters needed to be discussed. The weight of the situation was too heavy to handle. My mom sat there in silence, as did my dad. Neither of them said a word —, they both just stared at the floor and wondered what would happen. The hours passed by like they once had so many years ago in Romania on the last night they thought they’d have together—, now, it was under much different circumstances. Everything was definitely quiet and the mood was more than somber. Eventually, sunlight came calling once more when they’d realized that their last night alone had been spent in deep contemplation with no solution being reached. I came home later that day, completely unaware of all the emotions swirling around the room from the past few hours. I remained in my blissful ignorance while my parents returned to acting like everything was really going to be okay.

Drab Tones

The hospital had sent a hospice to take care of my father’s final needs. She was a nice lady who was soft-spoken but was thorough in her job. The pills were always taken on time, the coughing was always seen to, and my father’s body would be comfortably taken care of as he laid on his back, labored breathing and all. A few days into her visiting us, she quietly asked my mom if they could go outside in the hallway to talk.

“Of course,” Gabriela replied. They walked into a gray surrounding; dull carpets and old windows colored the stairway in drab tones. It set the stage quite nicely.

“Things...,” the hospice started with a pause, “...happen. You have to be prepared for the worst.” My mom shook her head that she understood.

“Is there anything we can do?,” she asked.

“No—,” the hospice replied. “There’s no hope.” Those words traced themselves on my mother’s heart—, already etched there from her father’s situation so long ago. Two days later, my own father’s spirit left his embattled body. On the morning he passed away, before ever knowing so, my mom put on her favorite dress she owned—, a long, flowing piece with a soft yellow fabric stitched throughout. He’d left us in his sleep. Gabriela’s sister who’d been visiting from Romania heard him take his last big gasp of air before exhaling for good. I don’t remember what his last words to me were—, I just hope they were somehow symbolic of his character. I’ll never know for sure.

Even Then, I Knew

Walking into class at elementary school that day, I sat for a few minutes in my chair before the teacher went to answer a knock at the door. Through the glass I could see it was the principle and once they exchanged a few words, I saw her look over in my direction with the saddest expression on her face. Even before she called my name, I knew. They brought me out of class as my aunt and the church’s pastor were already there at the school waiting for me.

“Something bad’s happened,” my mom’s sister said, gasping through heavy breaths. Looking back, I think she was more nervous of my reaction to the whole situation than I ever was myself. I got into the car and quietly rode home with them. Upon entering my apartment, there were a dozen or so people I’d never seen before surrounding the fold-out couch that my dad had slept on and was now laying lifelessly atop.

“Andrei!,” my mom’s voice called out. I finally saw her sitting up in a chair in the corner of the room, tears streaming down her face. She too, was more worried about me than I was about myself. I could tell. I walked over to my dad’s body and let the back of my hand extend out just enough to graze his own cold arm. My reaction time was quicker than expected—, I staggered backward just as my mom began telling me to go into my room which was just a few feet away down the hall. Once inside, I sat on my floor just like Ioana must’ve done so many years prior back in Romania when she too felt beaten and bruised, but unlike the poor battered woman, I let out no whimper, no groan, nothing. I just stayed in silence, listening to the painful bustle right outside my bedroom door.

I never got the chance to make too many memories with the man I’d called my dad for just a short period of my life, though my mom would often tell me, “you two would’ve been best friends.” I wonder how we could’ve talked about writing—, if my personal style emulated his at all and in what ways. Again, I’ll never know for sure.

The Fine Art of Mourning

His funeral went as one would imagine; lots of mourning, crying, and an open casket that didn’t make sense to me at all. Gabriela wore only black for the next few months. She didn’t need to say a single word—, I could see the desperation on her face. How am I going to survive in this foreign country now that I’m by myself with a nine-year old son to raise? Thoughts kept telling her things were going to get harder before they’d turn around for the better. On top of leaving her with a single child to take care of, my dad also accumulated a couple tens of thousands of dollars in debt. This of course got passed onto my mom and her stress level increased that much more.

In a particularly desperate moment, my mom found herself at a friend of my father’s house. Though they didn’t have much in common other than Marcel, they still spoke from time to time about topical things, but on this specific day, Gabriela needed a shoulder she could cry on and someone who could give her some much-needed heartfelt-advice.

“What am I going to do with Andrei if I don’t make it?—,” she began, trembling with sorrow at the thought. The reply was quick and without warning;

“Put him in the newspaper.” My mom’s heart sank. Just thinking of such a thing brought her to tears—, as if she was giving away a piece of furniture, she should let go of her son to anyone who came along. With that, my mom left the friend’s home never to return and with those words echoing in her ears for years to come.

The grief was getting out of hand, Gabriela needed some solitude.

“You’re going to live with your cousin for a while,” my aunt eventually said to me.
“Your mom needs some time to recuperate.” I packed my little luggage and was off to Queens, New York.

Unmatched Happiness

My cousin and her husband drove the entire way there with me in the backseat. They were a nice married couple who I’d be staying with for the next few months. Finally getting to their house in the suburbs, I became more excited about living there. We stayed in a small home on an average street. There was a bookshelf that I’d poke around, seeing what interests they had and trying to figure out why. We’d go outside every few days and I’d take in all there was around me with enthusiasm. As we rode the subways, I stared out their windows at all the graffiti written on the sides of buildings. We emerged from the underground and walked toward the intersections filled with cars and people. There was honking, loud chatter, sounds coming from every direction. With so much mayhem aimed at me, I suddenly felt at peace with everything that’d happened back home. I didn’t have time to think about it anymore—, I was in the city, the Big Apple, I quickly became accustomed to my surroundings.

My cousin wanted to stop by a local pop-up shop in a place that was on a lower floor somewhere. We climbed down into a den of confusing commerce one only finds in cities like New York. There were cheap sunglasses that came in neon greens and bright yellows on the folding tables in the center of the room, knockoff purses hanging from the walls—, it seemed that someone could get just about anything they wanted at a very discounted price. My cousin took her time looking around at all the knickknacks on the glass shelves but I was quickly getting bored. There was more commotion outside —, I wanted to be apart of it. Slowly, I backed away from my adult chaperone and started to climb the stairs toward freedom. I exited the shop and was back on the street. I looked around me and took in the atmosphere. There were so many skyscrapers—, each towering higher up than the last. The sun’s rays reflected off the upper windows and blinded me from fully seeing the buildings’ peaks. The cars two feet away weaved through the traffic like fluid. People passed by in large groups and they all seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere fast. I knew I was at home here—, not just in this specific city, but any city. I needed it; the beautiful frenzy which can only be found in downtowns the world over. Suddenly I felt a tug at my arm and was spun around to come face-to-face with my cousin, who looked a bit distraught and very annoyed.

“Don’t ever do that again!,” she berated me.

Wandering and Wondering

My mother and aunt came three months later to take me back home. We left the city on a train; the first of many experiences I’d have like it throughout my life. As the bright lights faded away into the background, I wondered if I’d ever see New York again, or if I’d ever be lucky enough to feel like I did out on those streets in the future. It hadn’t been a full hour and I was already missing the environment of my three month stay there.

I’d put all the experiences of my dad’s passing to rest and I was only moving forward from that point on. My mom and I were together and that’s all I needed at that age. I knew we’d be okay, I felt it, even then. What she’d just been through and survived was enough to know that Someone up in the heavens had our names carved onto the palms of Their hands. I laid my head on my mom’s shoulder and slowly let the thoughts of tomorrow take over. What would we do? Where would we live? How would our lives play out? I couldn’t let those things pass through my head without careful examination. In four short years, my mom went from escaping communism, battling two cancers, and watching her husband’s health decline until his untimely death. I was still too young to fully grasp everything she’d gone through, but I knew I loved her and that was enough for me. Scenes from our eventual fates and destinies subconsciously played in my mind’s eye; hundreds of long-stemmed roses, new skyscrapers whose rooftops I’d finally conquer, and holding my mother’s hand as we’d walk down city streets and hospital hallways filled with similar types of shimmering lights. I twisted and turned each image over and around again; the what had been, what was, and what would still be all overlapped at the same time. Everything looped into itself and I knew my dad would be watching all of it from above. Things too heavy for me to comprehend kept coming back as the train continued rolling along its tracks until I finally drifted off into a gentle sleep.