“The service here is so slow! I’ve been coming here for over forty years and you people don’t know my bank information?! Terrible, absolutely terrible!”
At the age of seventeen, I was ready to die.
My mother, Rita, had just walked in and cut another woman in line. She went straight to the teller because she didn’t see anyone else. That other woman was ahead because she came in before us, but Rita just didn’t see her. I get the whole retinitis pigmentosa issue, but it shouldn’t be used as an excuse to be rude. The other woman asked my mother to get back in line.
“What line? You were there and I’m already at the teller.”
Our teller, a young black woman, was probably thinking, “Oh god, another snobby rich white lady.” She wasn’t wrong. I didn’t say anything to compensate for my mother. I was too embarrassed and enraged. I wanted to apologize to the teller, but I was scared to. Scared to go against my mother like that. I can handle a situation when it’s just us, but never in public. I already don’t have the best relationship with Rita. More times than not, I get angry with her or extremely annoyed for how petty she can be. She worries me. I worry that she’ll become this old decrepit lady with dementia. I’m worried that I’ll be stuck in the apartment taking care of her.
***
When I was twelve, my mother explained to me that she needed a cane for the blind. She had me sit down on her office couch. I plopped myself in between the plush green cushions as she took her leather chair.
“My illness, as you know, takes away my peripheral vision. If I turn my head this way, I cannot see you.” She looked to her bookshelves that reached the ceiling.
I could tell she was hesitant to get the long bleached pole with the red tip and rolling ball. Her face scrunched as if she imagined what she would look like: an old lady who wouldn’t be able to cross the street. I didn’t know how to comfort her, but I knew I had to try. I thought about all of my moments of weakness and how she helped me through them. I told her to call it something different, to not see it as a cane, to see it as a staff or magical wand.
“The Staff of Awesomeness,” she repeated after me and smiled, “I like that name.”
***
I was old enough and independent enough to cut a bagel. If I could walk the dog by myself at nine years old, I could cut it myself. My mother was in her office. I didn’t need her for this. I grabbed the sharp, serrated bread knife and a cutting board and untangled my bagel from the plastic bag mess. My hand gripped around the ring of dough as I set the teeth of the knife into the top. I looked down to see my progress, but I was surprised by red blotches. I dropped both the knife and my lunch. Blood and sweat dripped onto the cutting board as I began panicking. I didn’t know where she was. Where was my mother? All of my determination to cut my bagel by myself drained from my body and the blood drained from my finger. I cried out to my mother and dashed to her office. I burst through the door and held up my blood-covered hand.
“How did this happen Sweetie? Here, let’s clean it up.”
My head was spinning, and I couldn’t see her clearly. She started to comfort me as she took me to the master bathroom. I fell onto the bed as the room warped around me. Mama came back with practically an entire drug store. She told me it wasn’t a deep cut, that fingers bleed a lot. I sat quietly in tears as she cleaned the wound. After Mama finished healing me, she gave my booboo a kiss.
***
Trees tapped at our glass windows. It was pitch black outside as snow heavily fell. The wind scraped across the shingles as Mama gathered newspaper from the house. I was six years old when I watched her from under many layers of blankets. Staring quietly as a pile of pine cones, sticks, and logs piled up next to the fireplace, Mama placed the logs into a triangle shape then added pine cones and sticks. It looked just like a tiny fort! She tore and crumpled the papers to fit inside the little fort.
“Sit farther back on the couch. I don’t want a spark to catch you and take you away from me.”
Mama took out a small yellow box and opened it to show the neatly lined matches. They looked like little people tucked into bed. She took out a matchstick and struck it across the striker. Phoomph! Mama made fire with her hands! She guided the light to the little fort and gently lit each pine cone. The light spread, enveloping the house with yellow embers. I marveled at her powers.