Free Or Not to Be by Laura Lanni Page B

the house, muttering something about needing help.
    In
the kitchen, he turned to me and wrapped me in his arms. I rested my head on
his chest and let him pretend he was holding me when really I was holding him
up. Bethany was her dad’s girl. He would miss her, despite all of what he
called “her drama.”
    “She’ll
be fine, Eddie,” I said. “She’s strong and smart. We did a good job with her.”
    He
rested his chin on the top of my head and said, “I know. I just can’t imagine
leaving her there. All alone. It feels like we’re taking her into the woods and
leaving her for the wolves.”
    “This
is what kids do: they grow up and they leave. We fought so hard to get her to
apply to college, and all those hours you spent with her shadowing you at work,
helping her find her own way to nursing—it’ll all be worth it. She’ll be
stronger for it.”
    He
was quiet for a minute and then said, “She’s going to cry.”
    “No
way. It takes a lot to make Bethany cry.”
    “This
isn’t a lot? You watch. I’m right. It’s going to be a hard day.”
    “We’ll
see. Let’s get that coffee and pack up some Pop-Tarts for a treat.” I
unclenched his arms from around me and found some snacks.
    At
the end of the day, Eddie was right. After we hugged her and she walked us to
the van, our daughter, the new college freshman, looked stricken. When we got
in the van and closed the doors and Joey suddenly understood what was
happening, he started his hiccup crying and howled, “No, Bethy! Come home with
us!”
    That
set her off, and she stood there weeping and looking simply pathetic. Eddie
opened his window and reached to her. She took his hand and said, “Just go,
Daddy. I’m going to cry whether you go now or later. It doesn’t matter. Just
go. I’ll be fine.”
    We
pulled away with both of our children in broken pieces, Joey wailing and
Bethany dripping silent tears. Eddie was strong. He laid his big hand on my
thigh and left it there while I joined in and cried all the way home.
    Less than a week
after we abandoned our daughter at college, Eddie entered his yearly funk and
deserted me. I lived the last two months of my life without my daughter or my
best friend.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    13
Mom, Again
     
    Eddie holds the full glass of milk and spoon while
Joey pours in a pile of chocolate syrup. The bottom inch of the glass turns
brown, and still Eddie doesn’t make him stop squeezing the bottle. Joey eyes
his dad, who is oblivious and staring over Joey’s head out the window.
    Still holding the syrup bottle, Joey says,
“Mommy wouldn’t let me have that much chocolate,” and walks away.
    Eddie hands the glass and spoon to Bethany
and then trudges to the garage to stare at his rakes and shovels. Bethany
clanks the spoon in slow circles, watching the brown swirls dissolve. In one
gulp, she drinks all of the dark chocolate milk down.
    I always let her put in as much syrup as
she wanted.
    When she finishes drinking, she wipes away her mustache,
and I see that my daughter, my firstborn, is once again crying. Mom? Where are you? I miss you.
    I know, Bethany. I miss you too. I’m right
here, honey.
    She still doesn’t hear me. This is the
most frustrating aspect of death: the absolute isolation from communication
with my family. I am no longer a mom for my children.
    “Give her time,” my mother answers out of
nowhere, or perhaps everywhere. “Bethany’s pain shields her ability to detect
your presence.” Our constant friction and head-butting had the same effect when
I lived. I never could breach that towering wall.
    Together we watch my daughter wander
through the quiet house. She picks up the fat cat and sits in her dad’s blue
chair to continue her crying.
    I can’t watch anymore. I decide it’s time
to find some answers. “I have a lot of questions,” I tell my mother.
    “Of course you do. I can answer some of
them, if you like,” she offers. “But most of the answers will come to you on
their