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amnportfolio · 7 years

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Shopping with Mom - Memoir

At first, the video is unintelligible, rendered grainy from the years.

But then, the film focuses on a door and the nymph-like singing of a child can be heard. A strikingly pale hand presses against the grey wood of the door, and once again the camera has to refocus. Now, a white tile bathroom with seashell pink walls comes into view. I’m sitting in the tub, four years old, swaddled with nothing but baby fat like a child in the Garden of Eden. My tiny voice swells and fills the bathroom with a shameless yet gentle melody. My grandma always told me that babies only sing when they’re happy, so I’m assuming in that moment, I am happy, content with the thin, warm water of the bathtub and the presence of my mother. I still retain an affinity for bathtubs.

The woman holding the camera giggles. “What are you doing?” She asks. Her voice is deep and instrumental. It’s clear she adores me, her only daughter. In my infantile eyes, my mother is life giving goddess, a Platonic form of beauty. I smile up at my mother, dimples creasing the edges of my mouth. The same dimples dapple the outskirts of her lips, too.

“I wrote a song, mommy.”

“What’s it about, baby?”

I laugh, a high-pitched reflection of my mother’s own laugh, the kind of laugh you only hear before the complexities of adulthood put their hands around a child’s throat. “I don’t know.”

My mom turns the camera on herself, now sitting on the edge of the bath tub. The camera refocuses on a moony face with warm brown eyes and cropped red ochre hair. It is apparent that my green eyes must have come from my dad, but everything is else is wrought from the chromosomes of this woman. My mom looks at the camera lens, her pupils darting from side to side, trying to figure out where to look. We always teased her about being bad with technology.

“My baby wrote a song,” she asserts with a quiet pride.

This tape is all I have of Mom before the walker and the pain pills and blood tests and Lupus. Always the Lupus.

***

“Ok, Mom. One foot at a time.”

I take my mom’s leggings in my hands and gently roll them up, so that they go on faster when she puts her atrophied legs in. Gingerly, I take the first foot and place it in the bunched up hole of the legging, and smooth the fabric across her soft, creamy calf. I follow the same delicate operation for the second foot, and look up at her face when I’m done.

“Ready?” I ask.

She shuts her eyes tightly. They are almond shaped and slope downward innocently, like mine.

In one quick, haggard movement, she shoots up off the edge of the bed onto her feet, with help from her walker, so that I can pull her leggings up all the way. A grunt laced with pain and effort escapes her translucent lips, and she crash lands back onto her bed.

“Ok. Ok. You did it,” I murmur, brushing some lint off her knee. “You’re dressed.”

“Thanks baby,” Mom begins, and then tacks an “I’m sorry” onto it discreetly. She is always apologizing for being my mom. While I can understand this sentiment, there is nothing to be sorry for. Despite her severe Lupus and all the consequent health problems, she is a good mom. Always has been.

“Alright. I’m going to work. I got my cell on me at all times. Dad’s taking a nap on the couch.” I brief my mom as I open the window blinds beside her big, four-poster bed. Silvery slivers of sunlight shoot into the room, illuminating all the oak furniture and the shag carpet and the dated floral patterns. We moved into this house fourteen years ago, so it’s a different house than the one in the video. I never liked it. It’s a big house in a nice American neighborhood, the kind that the wind blows right through without being warmed first.

“Sounds good hun. Have a good day.” My mom settles back into her pillows. I lean down and plant a kiss on her forehead, careful not to lean on her too hard. I’m afraid of breaking her.

My workplace is a hot pink, sparkly gumball of a world. I’m a part-time key holder for Charlotte Russe, a young women’s clothing store. All my coworkers are also women, so sometimes over the summers, I forget men actually exist.

We do things like bring each other waffle fries from Chik Fil A on our breaks and give each other discounts we aren’t supposed to give. We sarcastically dance to the cheap pop music corporate makes us play, and the giggles of girls line the merchandise fabric like rhinestones.

As much as I like my work, the constant montage of moms and daughters shopping together reminds me of something I’m missing.

I see girls running out of the dressing rooms in half naked ecstasy to show their mom an outfit, and I can’t relate. I see girls asking their moms for advice on color coordination and nothing in my brain pings in response.

You see, I can’t remember the last time I went shopping with my mom. It’s such a petty, suburban detail, I know, but you don’t realise how much the little things count in a relationship until you can’t have them.

***

The first Spring Formal dress I bought, I bought alone. I bought it the spring that my mom was in the hospital (again) with pneumonia. It was the spring the dog died, and not soon after the floods came and washed out the wildflowers on the side of the road, and the road with them. Houston forgot how to swim. It was the spring I forgot how much my body was worth and slept with a boy I really shouldn’t have slept with; so it was also the spring of my almost baby, and crying in a nail salon bathroom.

Though it was a beautiful dress, it was a dark one, more suited for fall than spring. The bodice was a nude tan with muted rhinestones peppering it, and it was slightly too big— gravity and my ribcage fought for supremacy. However, I could endure the suffering and the constant bust checks for the sheer beauty of the dress. The full length, ballroom tulle skirt was tar black. Add a couple stars, and it could have been mistaken for the night sky.

For that Formal, I got ready at my friend’s house. I remember sitting on the stairs in my dress as her mom took pictures with her, smiling boisterous pearly smiles into the camera lens. I could almost see the camera flashes bouncing off their teeth. Her mom told her in melodic tones how beautiful she looked in her purple mermaid dress. A thick ball of an emotion I could not quite name formed in my chest, on top of my heart, and it sat there all during the Spring Formal. It was there when I danced with my friends and when I drove my friend home that night across town, the highway unraveling under my swollen feet. It was there when I arrived home at 2am and nobody was awake to greet me.

I sent my mom a few selfies of the dress in a mirror at the dance, but the hospital always had had bad reception.

The first and only time Mom saw my dress was on a hanger a few months later. She looked at it with an expression like flat soda in her eyes. She ran the tulle between her finger tips lightly, considerately.

“It’s lovely, Lexy. Really,” she said her wind chime voice. She didn’t say it, but we could both feel the “I’m Sorry” hanging thick in the air.

***

“Shit. I just remembered something.”

“What is it Lex?”

“The Spring Formal is next weekend. I still need a dress.”

“Why can’t you wear the one you wore last year?”

I shake my head. “It’s too big now, Mom. I’m gonna have to go today to get a dress.”

I look over at my mom. We are cuddled into her bed the day before Easter, an expanse of half eaten Cadbury bunnies and crème filled eggs spread before us. Her eyes are getting dewy clear and red.

“Oh God, Mom. What’s wrong? Please don’t cry.” At the sight of my mother getting choked up, I feel a wad of tears in my throat as well. It’s a universal, primitive instinct, the urge to cry at the sight of one’s mother crying.

“Dammit. I wanted to go with you this year.” Her voice cracks a bit, coated with a mixture of frustration and sorrow.

“Relax. What about next year?”

“Next year I’ll still be sick, baby.”

Unable to respond, I walk to her side of the bed and wrap my arms around her small nymph body. I have to be careful not to step on one of the Ziploc bags of pills on the ground. We remain like that for a bit, twisted into each other like wisteria plants. The TV murmurs with “Say Yes to The Dress” in the background. I want to reach in between the static and crawl away, my mom in hand.

“Listen. I’ll send you a picture of all the dresses, ok?” I know this offer isn’t much, but my brain is wired for problem solving like my father, and this is the best I can come up with.

Surprisingly, Mom brightens up at this idea.

“Deal.”

At the mall, I try four different stores and countless dresses. I film myself dancing around the dressing room in all of them, and my mom responds with her varying, unapologetic opinions. The other moms and daughters look on in confusion, wondering what the hell I’m doing, and why I’m alone. The moms help their daughters carry the heavy dresses and are convinced of their child’s exceptionality. I am alone to haul my own dresses back and forth from the sales floor to the changing room. By myself, it is a daunting and tiring task to wriggle in and out of the dresses, but my mom’s digital voice urges me on. I can almost see the invisible thread tying us together suspended above the dressing rooms, and reaching across town and over all the heads of the other moms and daughters.

After two hours of this, I narrow things down to two dresses. One is relatively reminiscent of the dress I picked last year; strapless, with a muted peach bodice and dusky ballroom skirt. But the other one is so strikingly different from anything I’d usually pick.

It, too, is a full length ball gown, but instead of polite, quiet colours, it’s awash with vivid spring magentas and oranges. Water colour flowers flit about on a silvery satin ocean. It’s an open back with a crisscross. If I wanted to be buried in my past dress, I wanted to live in this one.

My mom and I are sold.

“THAT’S THE ONE” she texts in all caps.

Before racing to the checkout, however, I check the price tag and realize it’s egregiously off budget. I sink back into the changing room bench. In the next dressing room over, I hear a mom helping her daughter shuffle into a dress. At first they spar at one another in shrill voices, but once the dress is on, silence pervades the dressing room.

“Oh, wow.” Her mom finally sighs. “You’re so beautiful.”

I can’t hear the girl blushing, but I can feel it.

I sigh and reluctantly call my dad, the budget setter.

“I think mom and I found a dress we like.”

“Oh great! Are you gonna be home in a bit?” His burly Caribbean accent fills my ear.

“Well, the dress is a little bit more than we expected. Like 80 dollars more.”

My dad makes a sharp sound by blowing air through his teeth.

“Lex, are there any other ones—“

He is cut off by an assertive yell in the background.

“Well, you just got lucky. Your mother chimed in. She’ll pay the extra 80.”

I jump up off the dressing room bench.

“Really?”

“Yup. Hurry home. I just made dinner.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks Dad. Tell Mom I said thanks.”

He lets out a broad chuckle. “You’re welcome. See you in a bit.”

When I get home, it is my turn to be exceptional. My mom and I coo over the dress, and I jump up and down on my side of her bed and dance around the dusty oak bed posts, hot pink hibiscus flowers bouncing victoriously on my hip bones. I think I hear every synonym for “beautiful” that night. In the shiny dress before my mom, I am rendered a bright creature, lit from within like a floral Christmas light. She just smiles and smiles and the bedroom fades into a warm whirlpool of laughter and lamp light.

Suddenly I don’t care about the dressing rooms or the other girls or the Lupus.

***

I still dream about being able to go shopping with my mom. By this, I mean that the walker and the pills melt away, and my mom rises from the bed. By this, I mean that I imagine the Lupus gene switched off, allowing us to be just a mom and her daughter.

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