Esse; To Be

• Tara Blake, Grade 12, Karabar High School
• Short Story
• 2021

1st in the 'The Write Note 2021' competition

On the eve of my eighteenth birthday, I tell my mother I wish not to grow old. Sprawled across her expansive bedspread, we lay side by side, two disconnected puzzle pieces. Her gentle lips form a bittersweet smile; the image of a woman not yet lost in age, but whose scars map stories too harsh for youth. Delicate, motherly fingers intertwine themselves through strands of my tawny hair, whispers of reassurance lulling me slowly, gradually, carefully, into the eventual sanctuary of sleep.
The day I turn twelve, my mother wakes to tufts of shiny blonde hair adorning her silk pillowcase. Gifts from the illness, just for her. At breakfast, I gorge myself on scones and sweet cream and wild strawberry jam. I pretend I cannot see the baldness consuming her scalp. I pretend I am as innocent as my age should suggest, blissfully unaware of the fleetingness of youth. The meal concludes, and the angular, bony woman slinks shamefully into the bathroom, clutching a bottle of red wine and a sharp, metal sleeve of nondescript medication. I pretend I do not hear her retch. At dinner, we repeat our charade.
I am seven and I wait. Friends swept up by doting mothers are bundled into warm jackets and tucked away into the back seats of their family Jeeps. Their cars boast little cardboard trees, filling young lungs with vanilla and bubblegum. My own lungs harbour cigarettes and heartache, the scent lingering in the air. When my mother blows in to collect me from school, she does not know she is three hours late. Her eyes are stained red, and on her breath I identify a new, bitter scent to add to my own forest of little cardboard trees. She leads me from the gangling gates, her arm clutching mine, bottlecap wrists giving way to slender, bare fingers. We never discuss how the silver band went missing. I just know I don’t see my father anymore.
It’s my first Christmas day and I’m overcome with a wave of ambitious independence. I lift one chubby leg after the next, staggering forward like a newborn lamb. Yet the life of the swell is short and abrupt, crashing over my head and leaving me sprawled, once more, atop discarded gift wrap. But my parents, forever life’s encouragement, still cheer, outstretched arms encouraging infant legs to strengthen and to steadfastly proceed. My father catches me after each step taken, my mother puppeteers my squat arms. We are the picture of a perfect family, lips turned upwards in comfortable reverie, laughter born in the pits of our stomachs. Exhausted from my exercise, I sleep soundly that evening. For once, I don’t hear them fight. I don’t hear my mother cry, or my father threaten. And I am deaf to the impossibly thunderous silence that follows.
When I was born, and first laid upon my mother’s chest, I wonder if she’d hoped I’d be like my father. I wonder if she’d hoped I’d be like her.