Chapter 2: Significance
When I opened my eyes, I first noticed the agonizing smell of French Onion soup. Only one person could have the audacity to come into my house and cook French Onion: my mother.
I groaned and sat up, using all of the unknown strength that I didn’t have. “Mom.”
“It’s about time you woke up,” she complained. But, I could tell by her voice that she had been crying as much as I had. “How many times have I called you? I even called to let you know that I was coming to LA today. I had to get a taxi and that cost me fifty dollars.”
I wanted to smile, but no smile came. “Sorry.”
She sighed as she sat next to me, putting her hand on my leg. Her sadness was emitted through her fingertips. “I made some soup. I noticed how you’ve only been eating TV dinners and canned soups. Get up and get cleaned: we’re having a nice family meal.”
“With just the two of us?”
“Surprise, surprise, I invited your father.”
“Is he here?”
“Last time I called him, he was checking into a Hilton. He said he’d be here in an hour.”
Millions of words could have been exchanged between the silence that followed after that poor excuse of a conversations. Maybe even a billion of words, but only three could be uttered by me: “Mom, he’s gone.”
Two women bawled that moment. Two women have never been closer until that moment. And, two women who could not have been so different.
There was my mother, who had been missing in my life for over fifteen years; there was a woman who had severed ties with her family when she was the one who filed for a divorce; there was the woman who had given birth to James Tyler Carter the II.
God, she was my mother, but why were we so different?
After what seemed like an hour or so, my mother was the one to stop crying. She kissed my forehead and brought my head to her shoulder. “Your father will be here, soon. I’ll go continue dinner.” She wiped her tears, stood up, and went to the kitchen.
Never once did she tell me to stop crying. For that, I was grateful.
When my dad appeared in my doorway, he attempted to smile while facing my crying face.
“Hey, Honey.” He offered no hug, and it seemed that he remained the same cold man that he was known to be.
“H-hey, Daddy.” I let him in.
“Hey, Lizzie,” he greeted my mother.
“Hi, James.”
“How’ve you been?”
They drifted into a conversation that was held between two friends. They acted like nothing happened. And, for that, I wanted to scream at them. Their son was dead; their daughter was crying her eyes out. But, they continued their conversation like it was just another office party.
I couldn’t take it, so I left to the bathroom.
Mom’s towels were all set up; her purple tooth brush laid parallel to mine. She was here to stay.
In this bathroom, I could hear the conversation being casually talked through between my parents.
“How’s Ben?” Dad asked.
“He’s doing good.”
“Work?”
“Oh, yes, it’s going fine. There’s been a lot of lay-offs, but I’m thankful that my seniority has helped me.”
“Same here.”
“Is Janine and Tyson still living next to the house?”
“They moved out about five years ago.”
Once again, they drifted into a conversation that I couldn’t relate to.
Now, I sit here on the edge of my bath tub and still try to wipe these wet eyes. But, no matter how many times I wipe them away, the instantly come back. These tears turn into hiccups, and suddenly, I’m bawling.
Mom had put on the classic Bee Gees collection that Dad had on his iPod. Each song brought about a new old memory: ‘Stayin’ Alive’ with my dad discoing; Mom’s ballad of ‘How Deep Is Your Love’ to Dad; and, of course, a family classic of ‘I Started a Joke’.
And, though this song had nothing to do with the experience, all three of us could only feel the lyrics in our souls crying out:
And, how can you mend a broken heart?
How can you stop the rain from falling down?
How can you stop the sun from shining?
What makes the world go round?
I could feel the tears forming.
How can you mend this broken man?
How can a loser ever win?
Please help me mend my broken heart and let me live again…
As the song faded away, our spirits died away as well. It was a true question: how do you mend a broken heart? Could it truly be mended?
And the way Barry Gibb questions how are you to do something so impossible—like stopping the rain from falling down or how could you stop the sun from shining—emphasized how impossible mending a broken heart was. Before—even before love—I thought that this song was pointless. And…and now, why has it become so meaningful in a few minutes of the song? So significant even after so many years of listening to it?
Suddenly, Dad’s iPod switches to a more up-beat and modern sound: U2. The tears disappear as we all sing along to ‘Vertigo’.
Mom brought out the stir-fried chicken and wild rice.
“Eat up, Honey.” She put an extra helping on my plate. “You’re going to need it.”
“Why? What’s up?”
Dad wiped his mouth. “You’re taking us out, tomorrow.”
I look at him. “What do you mean?”
He smiled. “It’s been almost thirty years since I’ve been out here; you’d better take me out for some sight seeing.”
My parents planned out where they wanted to go: Hollywood, Long Beach, Universal Studios…
When they replenished their own ancient memories of the classic places like Disneyland, I can only tell them how much those places have changed. It was then that I realized I could have never loved my parents more: with their laughter, they attempted to appease my sorrows.
On deciding rooms, Dad volunteered for the sofa; Mom got the study.
The bed I was given to this night brought out more memories; old memories from ages ago. This was the same bed I had when I was a little girl. On the left corner of my bed, Jimmy would sit and read me bedtime stories. Sometimes, on my right, I felt his breath.
No one sits at the left corner of my bed; no warmth comes from my right. The bed had never been colder. At least on the couch, he had left something for me to hold on to. On my bed, just faint memories that must be called from the back of my mind remain.
I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep.
We head to Disneyland first. Dad’s the first to wake, and he makes cereal for everyone. After half an hour, we bundle out the door.
Like always, I have to listen to Ryan Seacrest in the morning, followed by my…whatever.
Dad sits in the front as I take the wheel. Mom is happy to stay in the back.
When Katy Perry starts her bubble gum pop, Dad gives me the look; the look is very similar to Jimmy’s when he disapproves of something.
Without warning, he changes the channel.
“Dad…”
“Nat…we need to respect the oldies.” The Carpenter’s ‘Close To You’ plays. Mom begins to sing.
It’s something sentimental about The Carpenter’s; something magical. Maybe because, every Christmas, Mom had to put on her The Carpenter’s record and the whole house—uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins—would match to Karen Carpenter’s voice. Maybe, it’s because, suddenly, everyone would be singing ‘Top of the World’ in perfect unison.
And, the sentimental parts come as a bang when I remember Jimmy playing piano and I singing to ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’, for the sixty-ninth birthday of my grandmother.
It’s strange that people never think of these things when there is no tragic occurrence. It’s very strange how people don’t want to think of these things when they’re fighting with the correspondent of these memories.
Before tears made their way, Dad reminded me that the gas was running out. I pull into a gas station and pay with my card for a full tank.
All the while, I hear my mom complaining how expensive gas was. She complains why didn’t I get a gas-efficient car.
I ask Dad to watch the car while I go get some snacks.
Three waters, a Danish, and a bag of chips later, I stand in line. In front of me is a mom and two kids. Maybe God is playing a bad trick, but the kids were a teenager and a little girl.
The teen—a boy—is talking to his sister. They’re debating on how to split the bags of chips they have. The little girl wants the Cheetos her brother has, but still wants her Doritos. The boy is selfless and says they’ll share in the car.
In my mind, I question why God wants to ruin my life so badly. Why does He give me these significant little pieces of my life that make me want to cry.
The boy takes his sister’s hand as they leave the mini-mart and cross to their car. The way he interlocks his fingers in between hers shows that he isn’t doing this from obligation; if it was an obligation, he would grab her wrist. The way he’s interlocking their fingers signifies how much he loves her; the same way Jimmy did for me.
I sum up all my strength and pay for the snacks. I nearly run out with my stuff. I get into the car as Dad takes out the pump and puts it back into the holder.
“You okay?” Mom asks.
“…I’m fine.” I pass back the bag and start the car. I take one look to my right to see those two siblings in the back of their Toyota. They’re both laughing. I speed off.
