/illustration by Rachel Wada
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Mom always got the last word. Even after she died.
Mom passed away seven months ago, and I’m still not used to this grief rollercoaster. So, the sound of Dad’s ringtone on my cellphone startles me.
“Morning,” I say.
He laughs.
Dad laughing at 8 a.m.? Did he take too many pills … or not enough?
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You’ll never guess what happened,” he shouts. “Your mother …”
Uh oh. He took too many.
“Dad, Mom’s not here any more,” I pause. “Remember?”
“Of course, I remember. I’m old. Not stupid.”
Scratch the too many pills theory.
“Okay,” I say. “So, what’s going on – with Mom?”
“She jumped off the damn shelf.”
“Pardon?”
“Last night. In the thunderstorm. It was a bad one. Your mother’s picture jumped off the box.”
In their tiny farmhouse, Mom’s ashes sit on a shelf in a decorative box with a framed, smiling picture of her glued to the front (in case Dad forgets what’s in the box). She’s been resting there in complete silence. Until now it seems.
“Poor Mom,” I say. “She hated thunderstorms.”
“Yup. And she always woke me up to make sure I knew it was thundering.” Dad laughs again. “I could sleep right through them. But they scared her to death.”
I want to say “too late for that” but I don’t. It’s so good to hear Dad laugh. Life without Mom has been a challenge.
After 62 years of taking care of each other, now that she’s gone, Dad’s days are long and quiet. Unless, of course, the cat complains about an empty dish or Mom’s favourite team has a game on TV. Dad tends to the cat as quick as he did Mom. And he feels obligated to coach from the couch in her absence. He never displays Mom’s enthusiasm for cursing at refs or shaking fists at the screen. In fact, quite often he naps through most of the game. But he always wakes up to catch the final score so he can tell Mom.
I ask Dad, “What’re you up to today?”
“I glued your mom back on the box. I’ll wait awhile. See if she has anything else to say. Then I’ll go to town.”
The visual of Dad watching Mom’s picture makes me smile. He’s often said he feels her eyes follow him when he walks across the room. Creepy to me. A comfort to him.
“Have a nice day, Dad.”
When I hang up, I mouth “I love you.”
My parents never wasted time on affection. There was always too much work to do. They came to Canada in the fifties. Arrived with nothing. Worked hard. Saved. Built a tiny house. Had three kids. Saved some more. Bought a small hay farm – they’re known throughout the Sundre area in central Alberta for their high-quality horse hay. Worked even harder. We went on holidays once in 1973, I think. Mom and Dad were frugal. Determined. Strong in stature and mind.
More than a decade ago, when my teens started to balk at hugs, I established our family’s trademark stiff-armed hug complete with a few thumps on the back. Affection … with the added benefit of dislodging food stuck in one’s trachea (if required). It’s the closest my parents ever got to validating “I love you.”
Mom was 86 when she died. For 13 days we watched her leave us behind. I remember the first time I walked into her hospital room and Dad was in his chair squeezing her hand – a sight I’d never seen. His head hung as he whispered, “Put down that bale of hay. You rest now.” His shoulders shook. “I’ll pick it up when it’s my turn.”
When he saw me, he let go of Mom’s hand, pulled out his hankie and swiped at his eyes. I squeezed his shoulders. After everything they’d been through, Mom wasn’t able to come back from this.
Memories filled those 13 days and so many still linger.
When Dad exaggerated a detail, Mom would shake her head. She’d never say a word, but he knew she knew. Mom never fooled around with the truth, especially to get a bigger laugh.
But when Mom told a story, like the one where she slipped in fresh cow dung and had to crawl through the forest to get Dad’s attention (he’d forgotten his hearing aids, again), she’d pause right before saying “He scraped the [poop] off my shoes, put me in the wheelbarrow and pushed me to the car.” The doctor shook his head at her X-ray. Her foot broke in six places. Mom would tell the story like a journalist. Without exaggeration. She never cracked a smile, but tears would roll down the listener’s face.
Last fall, Mom’s great grandchildren held her gnarled fingers all the way to the garden. Heads down, busy with chatter. Mom pressed the shovel into the ground, lifted it and held it still. The kids squealed and clawed through the weedless dirt to snatch up the potatoes. Carrots were equally exciting. I saw Mom smile.
Just the other day, our granddaughter bounced into the room and asked when great Gramma was coming back. I was speechless, which doesn’t happen often. But it didn’t matter. Her cheerful voice filled the silence with, “She’ll come back when the potatoes are ready.”
So many tears still fall. When least expected. And often.
I still have nights when I wake up and have to remember she’s gone. I don’t always believe it. Their contact info on my phone still says Mom and Dad. I doubt I’ll ever change it.
“She did it again,” Dad shouts as we come into his house.
I look around the tidy kitchen to see who she is and what she’s doing.
He points to Mom’s picture-less box on the shelf. “She jumped off again. Broke the frame this time.”
“Uh oh. Another thunderstorm?”
“Nope. I cut hay yesterday.”
“And? What happened?”
“Then it rained,” Dad said. “All night.”
“Oh, poor Mom,” I chuckle. “Between thunderstorms and haying, will she ever get any rest?”
“Not if she still has to get in the last word.” Dad squeezes the frame together and rubs his finger over her picture. “It’s probably too late for me to start listening.” He lets out a long sigh.
When we leave, I wave at Dad. He stands alone on their porch. It doesn’t look right, seeing him there without Mom. I wonder if it ever will.
Barbara Wackerle Baker lives in Calgary.