Natalie May
Mississippi
My mother’s stepmother points her wine-drunk gaze at my brother and me. “Your mother,” she begins, slurred but scripted, “is the best mother I’ve ever known. I was a shitty mom. But you guys–you guys have seen the world.” She’s not wrong. We’ve seen Canada, England, Scotland, Germany, the Czech Republic, Spain, and Australia. We’ve also seen nineteen American states. This trip–this reluctant vacation to beachside Mississippi to visit Grandaddy, his wife, and his new condo–makes twenty. “I was a shitty dad,” adds Grandaddy. He’s not wrong either. That’s why we willingly visit Granny in suburban Texas, but this trip–this sunny beachside vacation–was reluctant.
He’s a far better grandfather than he was a dad. He gives hugs and nicknames and birthday cards. Granny begged him to stay, and he left. Now he begs us to visit. Maybe it’s because he’s changed. Or maybe it’s because it’s far easier to be a grandfather than it is to be a dad.
The Creature
The affectionate love that Grandaddy provides is not the kind I know best. In spite of her father, or more likely, because of him, Momma doesn’t see love as something gentle. She sees it as some involute creature–something filled with jelly but prickly to the touch. Love hurts, and if it doesn’t hurt, you’re probably not doing it right. If love doesn’t hurt, it’s not real love. It’s something temporary or counterfeit–something that dissolves in water or turns dark at the touch of a pen. Love is yelling in the evening and homemade breakfast the next morning. That is the creature I know.
I know the magic of Christmas. I know tea and burning s’mores and her burning hate for anyone who wrongs me. I know sighs and rolling eyes and slamming doors. I know crying and wishing someone was there to soothe me. I know crying into her arms, as she tries her best to soothe me, but even then, I knew I was crying because of her.
Trying
My mother and sister are yelling downstairs, and I’m trying to braid my hair. I want to help, but I can’t let go or I’ll lose my place. I want to tell them that they want the same thing from each other, that they’re both too stubborn to give it. But there’s a tangle to brush, a bump to smooth out. The braids have to be perfect or I will have failed, and they’ll never be perfect because they’re both too stubborn. I want to help, but I’ll lose my place. There are tangles to brush, bumps to smooth out, and I have to fix them because no one else will.
Jelly
I’ve seen eight countries and twenty states before turning eighteen. Not quite the world, but a solid start. In each new city, Momma and I wake up early to get lattes and pastries. The worst coffee was in Gulfport, Mississippi. The best was in Melbourne, Australia. I remember the smooth bitter taste, the kind we both like, complemented by the flaky, jelly-filled pastries. When I was younger, I used these outings to ask her questions about life: how to pay rent, how to apply for a job, and other things I’d been taught to worry about. Nowadays, we just tell stories or share little musings on life. I don’t care much what we say, as long as we’re saying something. For me, it’s about the words. For Momma, it’s about the time.
Failing
I tried to fix them. I find my mother sobbing in the armchair and I try to soothe her. She’s mad at my sister. And my dad. I should be glad she’s not mad at me, but I’m not. I can’t be glad because I failed. It’s all my fault and my heart is pounding and I’m underwater. I gasp for air but swallow the ocean instead. They want the same things, all of them, and I have to fix them because no one else will. My parents and I talk in an involute pattern, going everywhere and getting nowhere. I escape and cry and wish someone was there to soothe me. Eventually, she is. I’m crying into her arms and crying because of her and the creature has never felt softer or more prickly to the touch.
Vermont
The deck overlooks a vastness that my eyes can’t comprehend. Every morning, there’s a sunrise and coffee. Every evening, there’s a sunset and wine. One night, Momma wakes everyone up because she wants us to see the stars. We can’t see them in our hometown, but now we’re in Vermont, where there’s vastness. We lay on the wine-stained wooden deck and stare upwards for what feels like hours, pointing out brighter and brighter stars and misidentifying constellations. The sky is so big it could swallow me and I’m equal parts soothed and afraid. There’s a quiet contemplation as we all commit the moment to memory. When the world runs out, she shows us the stars.
Ink
It’s 9:56. I’m standing behind the register at work, waiting to go home. My sister sends me a picture of her new tattoo. It’s four ducks: a mom and three babies. She got it for a story she loves, one that Momma used to read at bedtime. Momma thinks it’s a waste of money, a waste of pain. Because the tattoo hurt. They all do, except for the temporary kind–the kind that dissolves in water, leaving no sediment or sentiment behind. But this one is real. Duck-shaped ink fossilized in the preservative of her skin. Cemented in sentiment, in love. Because a tattoo hurts. And if it doesn’t hurt, you’re probably not doing it right.
It’s 9:58, still waiting. I’m angry at Momma, and the more I think about it the angrier I get. I test the one-hundred dollar bills with the counterfeit pen. Counterfeit bills react to the pen’s chemicals, turning dark where the ink touches them. But these bills are real, so they maintain their hue; they’re unfazed, unwavering, unreactive. I’ve finished the task, and now I’m waiting again. I’m angry at her yet I yearn for the home she has made for me.
She would give her life for mine, no doubt. And she would do it freely and willingly and without a single regret. And her final thoughts would be selfless. They’d be for my brother and sister, and me, the one she died for. How could I ever be angry at someone who would give her life for mine? Who would chop down a forest to build me a house. Who would cut a vein in her arm to bleed me a future. How could I ever be angry? When she’s loved me more purely, strongly, enduringly than anyone else ever has. She gave me life; I don’t dare give her anger. So I swallow the ocean instead.
It’s finally 10 o’clock and it’s time to go home. Home, where there’s yelling in the evening, breakfast in the morning, and the love is prickly but it never turns dark.
Natalie May is a first-year studying Political Science and RTVF. When she’s not furiously typing, she enjoys running, comedy, and playing rugby with Northwestern’s club team.
