I adopted my mother.
My grandmother was found by the side of a lake when winter loosened its grip on spring. Her body thawed while authorities asked questions they would never answer. An imprint in the cold earth, remembered by almost no one. She left behind a daughter who, years later, abandoned what remained of her own life for a romantic weekend with a European soldier.
That daughter was raised, but she never grew up. She is my mother. Or perhaps I am hers.
As a doll of sorts, my hair was brushed and pinned into perfect rollers. Outfits were chosen, layered, and starched, toile, tights, and shiny Mary Janes. I would tilt my head to the right, to offer wide doe eyes and the soft question, “Mommy, are you okay?”
She screamed at Christmas. Screamed as she wet herself on the floor. A warm puddle spreading across the tile, like a bitch. Another imprint almost no one will remember.
After the divorce, I went to work while still committing myself through school. At fifteen I paid my mother’s rent. At night I slept in her large bed, the one luxury the divorce settlement had bought her. I never knew whether I climbed in for my own comfort or for hers. Maybe both. A psychologist said it should stop. Looking back, I wish we didn’t listen. In that bed I could still feel the ghost of a family—mother and father, child and parent—all blurred together. I was grieving the life we had lost, and so was she.
Maybe it would have been easier if I had a doll. Something I could hold on to.
