An Artificial Sun

by Shafer, Gina

  Mom isn’t hooked up to monitors anymore, so the room is quiet.

  It’s early morning. I raise the blinds so the room doesn’t feel so stuffy. Dad is dozing in a chair in the corner. I go to Mom’s bed and sit down in the chair next to her. I hold her hand.

  Have you ever been so completely shattered that you felt physically sick? I’ve had this gnawing feeling in my gut since the moment we arrived here. At this point I’m basically surviving on coffee and sheer will power.

  I haven’t cried, and I don’t know why. I’ve stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to muster up emotion, but nothing works. I gave up yesterday on trying to feel anything.

  I lift my head when the sun rises, reminding me another day has passed while Mama suffers.

  Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is more labored. It reminds me of the sound the straw makes on the bottom of an empty cup.

  I brush the hair from her face, and suddenly that noise stops. I count to thirty, and then I do it once more to be sure.

  She’s gone.

  People always say that when loved ones die, they never leave you. But I don’t feel anything at all. Not her presence, not her love or guidance—I feel nothing. Only an emptiness in me that I’m afraid will never be full again.

  The tears flow. “Dad….” I say past the lump in my throat.

  His eyes pop open, and he looks at me. We look at each other. After a moment, he moves forward to give me a hug. I weep as the sun fills the room in a golden glow.

  It’s a blur after that. Dad calls in a nurse, who confirms that Mama is gone, and Dad sobs, kissing her cheek. I step out of the room, giving him space to say goodbye. He was strong up until the confirmation of her death, and I can’t bear to watch the toughest man I’ve known cry over his wife’s empty body. I slump into one of the chairs near the door and let my head drop back against the wall.

  * * *

  The hospital transfers Mama’s body into another area of the hospital so we can have uninterrupted time with her. I don’t have the heart to tell Dad that I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t see the point in saying goodbye to her lifeless body when she doesn’t occupy it anymore. But Dad does, so I stay with him for as long as he needs me. The staff is understanding and sweet, and I shoot them thankful glances every chance I get.

  I fill out paperwork and give our information to the hospital staff. I choose which funeral home we’d like her sent to, and then I go back and sit with Dad while he gathers strength the leave her.

  “I think it’s time to go, honey,” he finally says. “Are you ready?”

  I nod, and with one final goodbye, we walk out of the room, leaving with an ache we didn’t have before. We walk past the cafeteria, the front office, and through the waiting room.

  “Whitley?”

  Nick’s voice stops me in my tracks. He is still here. Oh fuck, I’m not strong enough to handle this right now. I can’t see him. I stand with my back to him as Dad turns around. I hear the two of them hug, and it hurts so fucking deeply.

  I feel his hand on my back. “I can’t face you right now.”

  “Whitley, don’t be like that,” Dad says.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Hadfield. You two shouldn’t have any more stress right now. If you need anything, please let me know.” Then he’s gone, dull footsteps retreating across cheap carpet. It’s another sound I won’t forget soon.

  “I’m sorry.” I turn to Dad, but he shakes his head.

  “We’ll get through this.”

  I don’t know if I believe him, but I follow him home like I do.

  Three days pass. On day one, I get frustrated and take the locks off the cabinets and doors, throwing them in the trash. Rose brings Coconut back, and my skin crawls when she hugs me. I feel angry and sick to my stomach all day. I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling, coming to terms with the vast blankness that takes has taken over my life. I spent almost every minute of the day, worrying over and caring for Mama, and now that she’s gone, I don’t know what to do with myself.

  On day two, I get one of Mom’s old sweaters and put it on. She hadn’t worn it in years, but I always liked the way it looked on her. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and rip it off. I look like a younger, healthier version of her. I can’t stand it.

  Day three, I plan her funeral with Dad. We go over the proceedings, and I let him choose anything and everything he wants. I even offer to say a few words. I don’t actually want to say anything, but the way his face lights up when I offer makes me feel like I have to.

  We’ve scheduled it for Saturday, two days from now. I circle the date on my calendar and then scratch it out. Like I need a reminder.

  I ask Dad if he minds if I pack some of her stuff into boxes and he says no. It’s too soon to be thinking about stuff like this, but I need something to do. Organizing gets me focused on something else, and I think he understands.

  In Mom’s closet I run my hand over her clothes, feeling the beads on top of one her favorite pairs of heels. She loved anything jewel toned, from her collection of cardigans to the pile of silk carves neatly folded in this corner of her closet for years.

  I wonder if I can turn these into something? I pull down the pile and drop one on the carpet. I sink to the floor, setting the stack into a cardboard box. I reach for the fallen scarf, which is emerald green and has little leaves stitched on it in rose gold. A square ivory envelope falls from its tangled folds.

  I suck in a breath when I see my name beautifully written on it in mother’s handwriting. Oh god, did she write me a letter? I don’t know if I can handle this.

  I pick myself up and clutch the letter to my chest tightly. I want to rip it open and devour the words written there. But part of me never wants to open it. Part of me wants it to stay sealed forever, because Mama isn’t here anymore. What good can her words do after I know how it ends?

  I skirt my Dad, who is in the living room, talking on the phone with a family member. It’s been ringing non-stop since the news of Mama’s funeral went out. People have offered their condolences and asked if we need anything, which is nice, I guess, but I’d be willing to bet those people have no idea that all we want is to be left alone in our grief.

  Well, that’s all I want anyway.

  It’s almost sunset. I almost turn around and go back inside, but I want the space to sit and think about the letter. I glance at Nick’s house to make sure he isn’t outside.

  I walk down the beach to that spot between the dunes where I broke Nick’s heart and my own in one fell swoop. This place knows heartbreak. It’s only fitting I give it another taste.

  I sink down in the sand and look at the envelope again. I pass my fingers over my inked name, feeling the ridges the pen made in the paper. It takes me thirty minutes to finally decide to read it.

  Because even though it won’t change anything, I want to know what she thought of me before I came back to stay with her and Dad. I have to know if she ever forgave me.

  I tear open the envelope, careful to open it only enough to slip out the paper inside. I take a deep breath before reading the words my mother saved for me.

  My daughter,

  If you are reading this letter, I’ve either succumbed to my disease, or I’ve lost the ability to remember to keep this hidden from you. Either way, there are a few things I want to tell you.

  I worry for you, my sweet daughter. You are beautiful, intelligent, and wise beyond your years, but I failed in one thing as your mother. I didn’t show you how to be brave. My girl, you run so far away from your fears, I’m worried your feet won’t be strong enough to carry you much farther.

  After your father and I told you about my diagnosis, we didn’t hear from you for four months. I wanted to tell you, before I forget, that I understand. I understand you, my Whitley-bean. I will never fault you for your wrongdoings or mistakes, because if I did, it would be a condition of my love. And I will love you unconditionally until I can no longer remember the meaning
of being your mother.

  There isn’t anything in this world or the next that you could do to make me stop loving you. There is no disappointment, anger, or regret strong enough to come between us. I want you to understand that, first and foremost.

  The doctors are telling us that my disease is progressing more quickly than we expected, and I have a fear I didn’t have before my time became limited.

  The fear is not whether or not we will see you soon, Whitley. I have no doubt you will come around. I wouldn’t be writing this letter if I didn’t believe that. No, my girl, it’s the guilt you will bury yourself in when you finally do. And I’m here to tell you: don’t.

  Don’t do it. When I’m gone, don’t run anymore. You don’t have to. You never had to.

  You have to learn to allow yourself to be happy.

  There is strength inside of you that you don’t see, and I hope you’ll be able to recognize it one day. Your father and I have already forgiven you for anything and everything you could do. We did so on the day you were born.

  I’ll leave you with three of the things I wish for most.

  I pray you find your courage to feel.

  I pray you find bravery to face your fears.

  And I pray you find peace within yourself.

  I love you, my girl. Don’t be afraid to let some light into your darkness. And whatever happens, know that I would have moved mountains for you, dear.

  Love, Mama.

  I fold the letter neatly and weep. She knew… of course she knew. She understood that I ran, that I couldn’t face her illness, but she still believed in me even when I didn’t.

  I lie on the cooling sand and watch the setting sun through my tears. Don’t be afraid to let some light into your darkness.

  I cry until I run out of tears. As night falls, I sink into a deep exhausted sleep.

  * * *

  “Whitley?”

  A whisper pulls me from my dream. I don’t want to go. I like it in this dream. I’m running through a field in a rainstorm, running through the mud.

  “Wake up pretty girl.”

  I open my eyes. It’s Nick, and in an instant, I’m reminded of my waking reality.

  “I knew you’d be here,” he says, and my face crumbles.

  I’ve somehow produced more tears while sleep, because they fall freely, like they have a never-ending replenishment. He lies down next to me, pulling my head into his chest. I lean against him as sobs reverberate through me.

  I remember something. “Thank you for my sunflowers. They’re beautiful,” I tell him.

  “Nothing compared to your beauty, love.”

  I lean back far enough to connect my lips with his. He tenses in shock, but he doesn’t deny me. He lets me lead, kissing me back.

  I’m kissing Nick in the spot where we made love… right before I broke up with him. I flinch.

  “I’m sorry,” I force out. “I don’t want to confuse things. You don’t deserve this.”

  When I start to move away, he stops me with a hand on my leg. “I don’t care about all of that. You know how I feel and where I stand. That hasn’t changed. I came to look for you. Your father was worried about you.”

  “What did you tell him?” I ask, looking up. The light of the moon illuminates his face enough that I can see him.

  “The second I saw you lying in the sand, I sent him a text and told him you were safe with me.”

  “I shouldn’t be worrying Dad right now.” I sit up.

  ”Tell me what you’re feeling,” he says.

  “I—” I recall Mama’s letter. You have to learn to allow yourself to be happy. Oh my god. What am I doing? Nick is the love of my life. Real, true love. Unconditional. All this time I thought it was me syphoning his strength, leeching his power so I could get through the hardest time of my life.

  She wished I would find courage, bravery, and peace. Only she knew that I already had those things. Nick just helped bring them to the surface. Now that I can see it clearly, how can I possibly run away from that? I need to find a better way to fix this. And I must get myself into a better state of mind to do so.

  I have to go,” I tell him, standing and brushing sand from my legs. “Mama’s funeral is tomorrow, and I’ve got to find a dress.”

  “Rose might have something you can wear.” He stands up too.

  I nod. I probably owe her an apology too. I have quite a few of those to dole out. “I’ll see you both there, right?” I have so much to say to him, but this isn’t the time.

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Can you walk me back?”

  We walk silently home, and all the while, I keep thinking how the sun will rise in a few hours.

  For the first time in my life, I really don’t mind.

  * * *

  When you lose someone, their lives aren’t wrapped up nice and tidy, like you see in the movies. It’s quicker and much more messy than that. One minute they’re here, and then they’re not. All that’s left is their complete absence and the things you wish you’d said while you still had the chance.

  Pieces of them still surround you. The clothes they wore the day before, their toothbrush, their hair still caught in the fabric of your clothes—those things don’t just go away because they did. You have to deal with it. You have to see the imprint of their lips on the glass of water by their nightstand and realize that damn glass isn’t going to move until you move it. They’re not coming back. They won’t ever be thirsty again.

  You find yourself thinking about them, missing them. You wonder if it was all a dream, then pinch yourself to make sure you’re awake. Yes, they’re really gone; yes, it happened; yes, you’re still here. What would they want you to do about that?

  I try hard to remember the times before mama got sick, but many of those memories fall short. I didn’t visit enough, but that didn’t matter. She knew I loved her. I didn’t get to know her as an adult, as I would have liked to. I knew her as the woman who took care of me when I was sick, made sure my life was everything it could be, and for that I’m grateful. But I never got to know the real her, the person she was when she wasn’t being my mama. What were her favorite books? Her likes and dislikes? Did she get into trouble as a kid? Who was her first love? What it as epic as first loves sometimes are?

  Dad has some of this information, but I will always wonder about her, and I’m becoming more okay with that as time passes.

  I have my memories.

  The first thought I had when we returned home after she died was that my life would never be the same. There’s something very powerful and almost mournful in a moment like that, to know your life is being shaped and molded into something different and realizing it as it’s happening. It’s profound. And in a lot of the moments in my life, especially profound ones, I thought about calling my mom. I want to call her now, tell her about it. I want my mom. And knowing that no matter what I do, how I beg or plead, she’ll never be on the other side of that phone call again, it breaks me like I never knew a human could be broken.

  I’m burying my mom in her lovely white and brushed nickel casket, surrounded by her favorite flowers, while Dad looks on, holding in his tears. Music plays softly over the speakers as people arrive. I touch the black dress Rose lent me. It has deep amethyst velvet on the bottom border, cut in a fluted design. I took one look at it and knew my mother would love it.

  Maggie sits beside me with the twins and her husband, Steve. She offers me silent support. Dad is on the other side, and I don’t think he’ll let go of my hand during the entire funeral.

  A sea of people fills the church. Nick and Rose sit together near the back, and I almost invite them up to the front. They’ve helped our family more than anyone else in the room. The music stops.

  What would she say about Uncle Mark bringing his girlfriend to her funeral? What would she say about the takeout Dad and I have been eating this past week? Would she hate my hair if I decided to cut it short? What if I forget how much flour goes into her
banana nut bread recipe?

  I clench the piece of paper in my fist as I stand. It’s time for me to speak.

  “My mother wasn’t the most eloquent woman, a trait she passed down to me. But she was incredibly smart, hardworking, and persistent. She never gave up, and I like to think that’s a trait she passed to me as well. I remember once when I was six, she decided it was time to master her banana nut bread recipe. She had almost perfected it, but there was something about the moisture and density of crust she just couldn’t get right. She hoisted me up on the counter, and we spent the day making batch after batch until our hands were sore, and I’m pretty sure banana had cemented itself into my hair. Finally, she took a bite when it was still warm from the oven, looked over at me with a wink, and said, “I think we’ve got it, Whitley.” When Dad came home from work that day, he helped us scrape dried batter from the ceiling. How it got there, I’ll never know.” I laugh at the memory.

  “My mother tackled everything in life the same way she tackled that banana bread—with love and persistence. Now more than ever, we could all use some of that. She’s the reason I fell in love with cooking. She’s the reason I’m standing here today, telling you this story. She may not be here”—I motion around the room—“but, a piece of her still lives in here,” I say, holding a hand to my heart. I pause to gather myself. I feel her presence and love when I didn’t before.

  “I invite you all to take a recipe card before you leave today. Think of her while you make it.” I force down the lump in my throat. “She would be so happy to know that every one of you cared for her enough to pass on this legacy. I know I am”