— Pablo Neruda
Hanna left her BlackBerry on the counter. I wanted to check the messages, but didn’t. It was hard enough raising a sixteen-year old without the drama of a shouting match. I added the phone to the basket I was carrying around.
Misplaced things—that was about the size of it.
Here I was walking around the house with this wicker basket, realizing there was a whole load of misplaced emotions I was also carrying inside. I glanced at the cherub smiling back at me from the photo on the dining room buffet—Hanna at ten. I shook my head. Only six years separated me from my little girl.
Walking around the house was like walking back through my life. The wall clock I bought when Hanna was six chimed from the front room. I remember that day at Macy’s. It was close to Christmas and I took Hanna to meet Santa. She howled like a banshee and wouldn’t let go. She didn’t have that problem now.
“Mommy, do you think I’m pretty?”
Then came private school. My little angel with her kilt hiked up, white blouse undone and tucked out—looking like a precocious Britney Spears. I fought it, but Brad caved—said she looked adorable. Fourteen years old and a fledgling Lolita.
There were boys—Oh, there were boys—lined up at the school bus and then later offering rides—spoiled, older rich kids with nothing denied and nothing inside. I wouldn’t let her go.
“You can’t treat me like a prisoner, Mom.”
Brad wanted the good life—the yacht, the private club—The Burning Spar. Jim Hennessey’s son, Garth, took a shining to Hanna—somehow entrance to the club was tied to Hanna dating him. Brad allowed it. I swallowed another bitter pill.
Sometimes, when Brad was at work or the club, Hanna would come home early and we’d sit with coffee and just talk. She’d giggle and sparkle and for a little while would once again be my little girl—and then, just when we’d repaired that bridge yet once more, a horn would sound and she’d be out the door.
The silence closed in. The rooms sounded hollow. Our house was suddenly too big and I very small.
“What do you think, Mom?”
It was a first—she invited me in.
I wanted to tell her dump Garth—get as far away as you can, but I didn’t. Instead, I listened and let her cry—let her lay her head on my lap while I stroked her long, shiny hair.
Later I noticed she put on her bunny slippers—the ones she wore when she was ten.
Again, she was mine for a while. That was before she left.
“It’s not all about you, Mom.”
The one line note she left. It made no sense. I tried over and over to wrap my mind around it—no sense—nonsense. It didn’t help.
Three years have passed. She’s out there somewhere.
Hanna’s girlfriend confided they had married and had a child—a little girl. She gave me a picture she found on Facebook. A little cherub smiled back at me. I cried myself to sleep every night for a month. Then I stopped. I felt dead.
Tonight, it’s her birthday and it’s raining.
She’s out there somewhere celebrating with her husband and friends—maybe the Hennessey’s as well. I sip at my wine and lean back, feet up, staring at her bunny slippers—the ones I now wear.