Life On the Refrigerator Door (5 page)

Thanks for bringing me to the group last night. I feel less alone—do you know what I mean?

Love and hugs,
Claire              

I had so much fun, Claire. I wish I could be sitting at the kitchen table with you cutting out photographs forever. I’m looking forward to tonight.

Should we put some of your poems among the photographs?

Dishwasher needs emptying.

Love,
Mom.

Hi Mom!

I’m still laughing at the photograph of Peter sitting on your head. I wish I could remember that day!

I know that you might not get better, Mom—although it’s incredibly hard to write, I do understand that and I know why we had to talk about it last night. It would be the hardest thing in the world, but I don’t want you to worry about me. You’ve given me strength to face the future.

I will hope for the best while preparing for the worst, Mom. Does that seem like a good compromise?

Love, strength, light, and
hugs,                             
Claire                            

I just wish I hadn’t left it so long before I went to the doctor in the first place. I keep thinking maybe none of it would be so bad if I’d gone straight away. I wish I’d been more responsible, Claire, more like I would have been if I’d been a better mother.

Even the doctor says it’s unusual. It’s not your fault. And I don’t want a “better mother.” I have you.

I’m making a list for Gina, Mom. What else do we need?

Eggs
Peanut butter
Fruit
Soy milk
Orange juice
Bread
Cheese

We’re out of olive oil and vinegar. Some salad greens would be nice.

How are you today? Thinking of you, Mommy.

See you later.
xxx               

Last night was fun, Mom! It was nice to see you smiling!

xxxxx

Claire, darling,

I’m feeling a little out of breath. I’m going to see the doctor again tomorrow.

James called. He asked how I was. I had to hold back tears. He seems very sweet.

Mom.

Claire, darling,

I’m spending the night at the hospital. I told your Dad. He’ll bring you to see me later.

I love you,
Mom.       

Claire,

I’ll be spending another couple of nights at the hospital. Gina brought me here to collect a couple of things. Could you clean Peter’s cage before you come tonight? He’s looking a bit forgotten.

I don’t know where the future will take us, but I know you’ll be OK.

I couldn’t have a more fabulous daughter.

I love you,
Mom.       

I couldn’t have a more fabulous Mom.

Love,
Claire

P.S.: I’ve made your room really nice for you. If I’m not here when you get here, I’m just getting Peter some carrots.

Dearest Mom,

I went to the support group today and Mary suggested I write to you even though you won’t be able to read it. She said it might make me feel closer to you and there might be things I wished I could say to you.

I came to our house to write it and I’m sitting at the kitchen table. The house is going to be sold soon but right now I can almost pretend that you’re lying in your room, or you’re out at work and I’m waiting for you to get back so you can tell me about the babies you delivered, or just give me a hug. The worst part about coming here was that I looked on the fridge door for a note from you, and there wasn’t one. The door was white and empty. I cried for ages.

I miss you, Mom. I wish you were still here with us. I like living with Dad but I wish that you were still here. I don’t understand why you had to be taken from me, or why you got sick, or how you died so quickly when other women survive this all the time. How could it happen like this? How could you just leave? How could you leave me? It’s like I’m mad at you, Mom. How dumb is that?

Do you remember how pretty fall was, how we looked out your bedroom window as you got sicker and watched the yellows and reds brighten the sky? You tried so hard to fight it, Mom. I hate that it was so hard for you.

Winter was long and cold. I’ve been going to school but I feel like I’m in a fog most of the time. Emma’s been sweet, so has James, and Gina has been great, Mom, you wouldn’t believe. But they’re not you. Christmas was awful.

Mary’s right. I do feel better writing to you, although it’s making me cry more than I have in months. She says it’s OK to be sad, and angry, and confused. It doesn’t feel OK. Not at all.

I suppose I should tell you that Peter’s fine. I’ve set up his cage at Dad’s and when I sit and stroke him, I remember our summer and fall together, making those photograph albums, eating dinners that Gina cooked, getting to know each other better. I can try and make myself forget about how hard it was for you at the end, but I’ll never forget how strong you were and how brave. I have a picture of you in a wheelchair at the hospital. Your eyes are so big and beautiful. You look surprised, Mom, like you were caught out. I feel like we were both caught out.

I wish we’d had more time, Mom. I guess that’s all I have to say really. I wish I’d had more time with you. But I’m glad of the time we did have. So glad. When I get back to Dad’s, I’m going to look at the albums and remember it all.

I think I’ll leave this letter for you here. In this empty kitchen. So you’ll know if you come home that I love you and I miss you. Please don’t worry about me.

Your daughter,
Claire              

Dearest Mom,

It’s my birthday tomorrow. I can’t believe I’m going to be 17 already! Dad and James (he’s my boyfriend now—you remember James from school?) have got some sort of surprise planned, but I have to pretend I don’t know what’s going on. I’ll act surprised.

I kept the key from our house with me, waiting for the right moment. Today I was sitting by the river where we used to walk and I suddenly knew what to do with it. I threw it as hard as I could. It glinted in the sun, then it tumbled into the water and was gone. I felt good, Mom, for the first time in a long time, I felt good. Sitting by the water, I thought I could hear your voice in the wind, telling me you were OK.

One day, I’m going to fold this note up and put it in the river. For now I’ll keep it close to me.

I love you,
Claire       

Thank you to Marguerite Buckmaster,
whom I never had time to meet.