Then/Now
Is the past truly ever buried?
Then.
Once upon a time, Travis, Sadie and I used to live in a room smaller than an average studio. Peach colored walls helped lighten an otherwise dark space in the back of a garage down a small road in Carpinteria. A koi pond was directly outside our entrance, and the trickling of water was an everlasting sound in a quiet space. We slept on a queen air mattress, and shooed mice with a broom, screaming in fits of laughter, as the bed would deflate when we all would stand on it- waving in surrender to the small white intruder. I remember thinking, men are useful for this sort of thing: catching mice. I would burn grilled cheese sandwiches, and remind them how lucky we were, while also promising to get them a real house one day. I would turn on a dime store nightlight to finish my school work once they were asleep, that glowing light illuminating my hopes and dreams through the writing of papers- a future I could touch. When my heart was broken for the first time Sadie caught me on the street as I fell to my knees, the phone dangling in my hand, the street lamp, a dull yellow illuminated her face, full of sadness, and support. I remember thinking, this isn’t her weight to carry, but I let her hold me anyways, because she was all I had. I saved up my student loan money so I could surprise them and take them to Disneyland. So one day, at sunrise, I woke them up. Kissing their morning faces, my heart thumping with pride, I loaded them into our $900 JEEP I bought from a retired cop who was using it as a ranch truck. You could see the bottom of the road through the clutch, but it was our baby. We named her Snowball. After a couple of years taking the bus, she felt like a dream. We made it to Disneyland, I took pictures on my mom’s Pentax from the 80’s- these grainy photos a quiet and tangible reminder that we once existed as three. On the way home I kept peeking in the seats behind me to see them draped across each other, mouse ears crooked, rainbow lollipops fallen to the floor. I had never felt so proud as I did that night. Cruising down the 101, the window rolled down, a warm breeze on my face. And now, all these years later I can’t help but to constantly think, to cry out loud, did I do okay, did I do the best I could, raising these two kids, while raising me too?
Now.
A few days ago I was in the kitchen making Piper a peanut and butter jelly sandwich when Sadie called from Australia. The dogs were at my feet, the sun was warming the air, and suddenly my child- this courageous, gorgeous, 22 year old who is so fragile, yet so strong says to me: “I need to start asking you questions. Like about the past. The divorce, when I was little, all that.” I felt the air leave the room, as visceral as if someone had opened a door and sucked all of the oxygen right out. I saw stars. No one prepares you for this. That one day this tiny thing you’ve made, pink as a rosebud, would grow to become a woman who would need to know why you left her dad when you were 24 years old. Why did you take her and her brother with nothing but the shirts on your backs and do what so many women have to do: leave. “I feel bad,” she says. “That you had to give up so much for me to be born.” And I fight against the searing of tears, and I speak into the receiver - “Nonsense. You’re all I ever wanted. This is my life,” I tell her. And I mean it. Later that night after we hang up I crawl into a hot shower and I lean against the cold tile and I sob. Not a small sound, but a wail. If I was a TikToker it might be one of those videos the attention seekers might take, because this was ugly. Like bad. The sort of crying that garners thousands of likes. But, I digress- in reality I was, and still am terrified. I shampoo my hair in slow motion and I wonder if either Travis or Sadie will find something I’ve done unforgivable and turn their backs on me. This thought alone steals my breath. I want to create a time machine and go back to 2004. When they were 4, and 3. I would change so much of what happened. If I could only have saved us better- maybe she wouldn’t be searching and he full of armor. I would have planned more, stashed the coins I found in the couch in a stowaway jar. I would have called a 1-800 number for mothers who need a mother in a time of crsis. I would have found God before I found the next abusive boyfriend. But, I didn’t. Dammit, I didn’t. And the past, well- for better or for worse, is it truly ever buried?
Thanks for reading my first post on my Substack. Your support is invaluable. I’m still learning this platform so go easy on me. Open to suggestions always. Cheers, mates
Gosh, please just always keep writing. It's amazing. I hope it's therapeutic for you; it's therapeutic for me just reading it.
The feels + it’s so raw. So good! I’ll read everything you write