Assignment #1 Grudge

Grudge

 

The last time I saw my daughter alive, she was mad at me. She had called a few days earlier asking to invite her boyfriend to our Thanksgiving dinner at my sister’s house. It was our family tradition.

 

Now, Chelsea tended to overshare with me. She told me everything about her life; her boyfriends, old and new, her music, her likes and dislikes … and she had told me about her volatile relationship with this young man. They had started seeing each other a year earlier, but Chelsea ended it after six months. Obviously, she was involved again.

 

I gave her my best motherly advice: “You broke up for a reason. Until you resolve those issues, the problems will continue.”

 

Chelsea almost growled at me, “Well, if David can’t come, I’m not coming, either.”  This was a big deal. Thanksgiving was Chelsea’s favorite holiday. She loved that there were no presents or forced jolliness. Instead, it was focused on family and gratitude over a shared meal. She loved that.

 

I shook my head. “Of course, David is welcome. I just needed to speak my mind.”

 

The call continued for a few minutes, with Chelsea defending David.

 

On Thanksgiving Day, they arrived, but Chelsea was reserved. For her, this meant sitting primly on my sister’s white couch next to David with her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She had a slight smile on her lips.

 

This was a sharp contrast to her outgoing self. Usually, when Chelsea stepped into a room, all eyes turned. She made every person feel that she was there especially to see them. She asked questions about things they had talked about the last time they were together. She brought food and drinks to everyone, acting the hostess even in someone else’s home. The people around her were always laughing or talking in an animated fashion. She brought out the best in everyone.

 

Seeing Chelsea sitting quietly felt devastating. When dinner was served, Chelsea’s energy started to kick in again. Just like she did every year, she insisted, “And now we need to say what we’re all grateful for this past year.”

 

We had a funny kind of ritual. Everyone at the table moaned together, almost in harmony, “Do we have to?”

 

Chelsea turned to her uncle at the head of the table and said, “You go first, Uncle Neal.” We each took turns. It was a good year for all of us. As we spoke about our gratitude, I could see Chelsea softening. By the end of the evening, she was almost back to her old self.

 

I knew that Chelsea was still miffed at me, but she wasn’t one to hold a grudge. She was the most loving and forgiving person I’d ever known. I was sure that in the next week or two, she would call me and say in her fake baby voice, “Boo, hoo, hoo, I just want to talk to my mommy.” She always made me laugh.

 

As she headed out the door that night, Chelsea hugged me and said, “I love you, Mother.” I told her I loved her, too. And she left. 

 

I knew we would be all right soon. I just needed to give her a little room and respect. She was an adult, after all, and I may have overstepped my mommy role.  

 

A week later, I was standing in front of a burning building in Oakland, not knowing if Chelsea trapped inside or had escaped. My younger daughter, Sabrina, stood beside me. Flames shot out of windows, smoke mushroomed up into the sky. Firefighters milled around shouting, and emergency trucks and fire engines roared and clanged. The noise was deafening. I clung to Sabrina for support.

 

Then I heard Chelsea’s voice, soft and twinkling, whisper in my ear, “Mother, I see you and Sabrina here, but I have to leave. I have work to do elsewhere.” And then “Whoosh!” she was gone.

 

I knew my mind was playing tricks on me, trying to keep me sane in the chaos, and I dismissed the premise that she could be dead. A few days later, her body was identified. And I fell into a black hole of depression.

 

It took several years before I could face my grief. Writing helped pull me out of despair. I tried to recall everything that happened during the fire and beyond. And then it hit me, ‘That was my phone call!’  

 

Chelsea always told me what she was up to, and she did again the night of the fire. She didn’t die angry with me. She simply had work to do elsewhere. And now, so do I.