Lost Journals

“Mom, who’s my dad?” I asked.

My mom and I were sitting in the living room. She was curled up in her Lazy Boy cross-stitching. Her white cotton nightshirt flowed around her like royal robes. Ensconced in her throne, I thought she had all the answers.

“I wondered when you’d ask,” she said not looking up from her needle.

“I’m fourteen. Isn’t it time I know?”

“His name’s Steve. He was my high school sweetheart.”

“What happened?”

“I got pregnant and he disappeared.”

“He abandoned us?”

“Not exactly. He was still around. I thought it would be better if we handled this on our own.”

“Why?”

“Steve’s an alcoholic,” she said flipping a cigarette out of the pack. She lit the cigarette with trembling hands. “Your grandma hated him. She wanted me to get an abortion.”

“What?” I asked. The earth had quit moving and turned on its side. Grandma’s Catholic and she wanted to kill me?

I wrapped my arms around myself trying to ward off the chill filling the room. “Did you love him?”

“I don’t know … maybe. I was young and stupid.”

“What’s love feel like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you love Larry?”

“I love him but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love. I’d imagine it would feel like floating. Like being so filled with light you can’t help but float.”

I imagined a dove flying: pale, white and beautiful. I pictured myself floating on a thermal, arms outstretched drifting towards heaven; a gentle hand lifting me higher. Would I ever feel that way? Was it possible? If Mom had given up, what hope was there for me?