Sabra’s hands trembled as she held the letter. It wasn’t a motion of emotion. It was simply something that had been occurring often. The words lay upon the page like happy decorations, written by a distant mother. It was a letter Samantha Gibson had written a year before she shot a bullet into her own brain. Sabra stood in silence as her eyes absorbed the first line.
My Dearest Sabra,
Sabra’s fingers jerked and spread apart with an involuntary action. The white paper fell gently to the ground. The wind picked it up and lazily nudged it away. Sabra chased after it and knelt into the dirt. She commanded the breeze to stop. The little white paper reunited with her hands. She stood and continued to read the carefully written words.
I remember the day you were born. I was in labor for fourteen hours. Then, suddenly, you were in my arms and all of the pain went away. You were fat and pink and perfect. The first time I saw your eyes look into mine, I knew my world would never be the same. You were mine, and I was yours.
I just about lost my mind every time you fell ill. And you did, often. Each time, my heart shattered for you. I wanted to take away your pain. I stayed awake most nights, just holding you and praying. After your first birthday, you didn’t get sick anymore. You were happy, and so beautiful. I cherished your crooked-toothed grins.
You were two and a half when Nana passed away. She died from Huntington’s disease. I never told your father, and I couldn’t tell you until now—but I watched that woman dissolve away for years until she died. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And when I found out there was a fifty percent chance that I, too, would dissolve away one day, I just stopped. I stopped being a wife. I stopped being your mother.
I managed to convince myself that if I no longer showed my love, you would stop returning it. But hiding everything made me an angry person. It made me foolish and unkind. For that, I am sorry. I cannot expect you to forgive me. I can only hope that my cruelty had little impact on your soul.
The last word of that sentence had been long smudged by a drop of liquid. Sabra stared at it for a while. Then she slowly flipped the paper over and continued reading.
Your father died alone. At the time, I couldn't even remember the last time I had told him I loved him. To this day, I find it hard to forgive myself for what I did to that man. I abandoned him. I abandoned the first person I ever loved. I abandoned the man who gave me you. You both deserved so much better.
Although I warranted rotting in my own guilt, I met someone who saved me from myself. He will never be your father, but he is a good man. I am learning how to love again—without hiding. I am writing this letter, seven months pregnant, and hoping that I can do it all right this time around.
A few weeks ago it was confirmed that I inherited my mother’s Huntington’s disease. I expect I only have about ten more years on this earth. I am terrified, but I want to remain strong. I have faith that I can face my death with dignity. With the little time that I have, I want to do the best I can to be a better mother. There are things I need to say to you while I still can, things I should have said a long time ago.
You are gorgeous, Sabra. You are rich with spirit. Take that spirit and mold it into something that will shake this world to its core. You are a genius, Sabra. You have always been smarter than me. You have always been wiser. Take that wisdom and spin it into gold. And most importantly—you are full of love, my darling. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. If you feel even an ounce love in your heart for someone, share it. Don’t hide it away. Don’t be afraid of those three words. Say them, every day.
I love you.
Sabra shivered. She could almost hear her mother’s voice. It was the first time she would hear those words spoken by her mother. It was the last time. Sabra turned around like a spectral being. Her gaze caught a man’s lips as he spoke.
“She just couldn’t do it anymore,” Adam voice shook as he wiped a tear away. He shifted with the baby in his arms.
Sabra did not know much about the man her mother recently called “husband.” She knew that he was younger than her father. She knew that he was a doctor. But she didn’t know much else beyond the sadness she saw in his eyes.
“I’m sorry for what she did to you when you last visited,” he spoke softly as the baby cried, “her mind was crumbling.”
Sabra approached her half-sister and planted a kiss on the baby’s forehead. For a brief moment, the infant girl stopped crying. Perhaps breathless with confusion, perhaps somehow spiritually comforted by woman she barely knew.
“This is yours,” Adam announced, pulling a car key from his pocket. His hand reached out with a quiver.
Sabra’s palm waited beneath the metal and caught it with a dead suspension. Her fingers closed around it. She nodded to the man and the baby. She turned around and walked toward the ’71 Charger, a key in one hand and a wrinkled letter in the other.
It happened again. Sabra’s fingers jerked and spread apart with an involuntary action, dropping the key. She retrieved it from the mud and stood, calming herself. She unlocked the black door with the silver key. And like she and the car had never been apart, Sabra slid inside with the same fluid progression. She slapped the letter to the dashboard. She caught one of the final sentences again.
Don’t be afraid of those three words.
Sabra started the ignition. She adjusted her seat, the mirror. Quickly, she reversed and sped away. She had something she needed to say to someone.
It had been six years since she last sat behind the wheel of that gorgeous car. It had been six years since she drove it away from her father’s funeral. Then, it would be so ironic that she would drive it away from her mother’s. The same road spat dust at the wheels. The same road directed Sabra on toward the future her mother told her to make for herself.
The sun was setting with a coral hue. Sabra felt a kind of peace washing over her, baptizing her anew. She was about a day away from Manhattan. She was a day away from the one person she craved most. The highway was quiet. She was listening to a song she didn’t recognize.
And then it happened again. Her hands jerked and shifted with an involuntary action.
“No, not now,” Sabra thought before her body collided, head first, with the shattering glass of the windshield.
She had something she needed to say to someone.
No comments:
Post a Comment