Mama’s Eyes by Meghan Pos

Mama’s Eyes BY MEGHAN POS

Tonight, her specialty: grilled cheese sandwiches! With only six slices of bread left, she could make three grilled cheeses: two for me and one for her. You see, half of the money my mother had, was spent on alcohol and cocaine, so sometimes, at the end of the week, we didn’t have money for a regular dinner. I didn’t understand that at the time, since I was only five years old. My stomach was growling, so when she put the plate in front of me, I was bummed. “Only two? But mama, I’m hungry!” I said. “This is all we have.” She replied. “But I want four grilled cheeses!” Lightning struck behind her irises. Fire rose up and her eyes turned from chocolate brown to deep black. Furious is what she was – I shouldn’t have asked for more food. She lunged forward with her own grilled cheese in her hand and pushed me into the couch. Whilst being on top of me, she screamed: “Well, you can have them all then!” and started shoving the grilled cheese into my mouth. I couldn’t breathe. She grabbed the other two and mushed them into my face. I cried and cried. I wanted to scream that she had to stop, but there was no way my mouth could form those words. She got up, grabbed the plate and smashed it against the wall. I was sobbing; she had just smashed my favorite Dikkie Dik plate. Cruel as she could be in those moments, she walked over to the kitchen cabinet, grabbed my favorite Dikkie Dik bowl and threw that to wall, as well. Bits and pieces flew through the room. These impulsive behavior shifts happened all the time. She would get extremely angry and punish me for saying something that didn’t sit well with her. As an adult, I now understand that using cocaine made my mother’s extreme borderline personality disorder a lot worse. Reality didn’t look the same to her as it did to me. However, as such a young child, I was convinced I had said the wrong thing. I felt guilty for asking for more food when we already had so little. I never questioned her behavior, because I saw her for who she was: my mother. I ran to her and screamed, “Mama, I am so sorry! Please, stop. I love you.” She didn’t look at me. She was only interested in smashing more crockery. “I’m sorry. Please, mama. Look at me. I love you. I love you.” I said as I clung to her, begging for her to hug me, but she pushed me to the hallway. She walked to my bedroom and she pushed me in. “Mama, I am so sorry! Please, I love you so-“ Slam. The door shut. I opened the door and she pushed me back in. I knew damn well I should stay in my room now. After a few minutes, I gave it another go and walked through the hallway with new tears already rolling down my cheek, afraid to see what punishment I was going to get next. When I got to the living room, she was sitting on the couch. The shards of plate and bowl inches away from her. She sighed and said, “There you are, sweetheart. Sorry about the plates, but let’s clean that up later, alright? Shall we watch some tv?” I nodded, brushed away my tears and jumped on the couch with her.

By the time I was twelve, I hadn’t been living with my mother for six years. Child services had taken me away and I was placed in and out of group homes and placed within a foster family. Later, after a huge lawsuit against child services, I could live with my father. Don’t cheer too early, he is not much of a peach either. I still had weekly visits with my mother, which were sometimes under supervision. This was extended every year by a judge, but this year was different. Because I was twelve years old, the judge was obligated to listen to my opinion as well. I had always known my mother was sick, but the months prior to the court hearing I started to understand how negatively it had impacted me. I detested her behaviour. I hated how she asked me for money to buy cheap wine. I hated how there were always men coming over, who weren’t allowed there by child services. I hated how she said that that was our secret and I shouldn’t tell my father and my grandma. Although I never did tell them. So, on the day of the court hearing, I told the judge that I never wanted to see my mother again, because I finally saw her for who she was: a dangerous monster. He told me he understood and I could leave the court room. My heart sunk to my feet; I knew my mother was next to come in. I took a deep breath and swung the door open. She was about four metres away from me. She walked towards me, big smile, and asked, “How did it go, sweetie?” Her hand reached out, but I took a step back. I was so afraid to look her in the eye. Afraid that the fire was burning again. I wanted to yell at her, because I felt that she deserved that. “What? Am I not allowed to touch you anymore?” she asked. I glanced up, ready to yell. Ready to tell her that she and her filthy hands could go to hell. But I could only bring out, “No. I’m sorry.” Emptiness. A big fog rose over her eyes. I had never seen her like that before, but she was frozen so I took my chance. I ran past her, almost unable to see where I was going because of the ocean that filled my sight.

Seven years. That is how long I hadn’t seen or heard anything from my mother. I was living with four other girls in a shabby, but homely student house in Utrecht. Sitting in my sixteen square meter room, I got a call from my aunt Dilly. She is my mother’s sister, who has lived in Spain almost her whole life. “Hi Meghan, am I not disturbing you?” “No, no. What is going on?” “I don’t want to scare you. It’s your mother. She was admitted into the hospital last night and is in intensive care right now. The doctors say she is in critical condition.” I didn’t know what to feel, honestly. I didn’t know how to react either, so I kept it practical and asked, “Is she conscious?” “Yes, but asleep. They are operating on her liver this afternoon.” “Are visitations possible?” “Not yet. It is too risky with COVID. Once she is moved to the regular hospital ward, one person a day is allowed. Your aunt Adrie is waiting for that to happen. You don’t mean to say you want to go?” “I think I do, actually.” “Megh, you don’t have to. You owe her nothing. I want you to keep that in mind. Your wellbeing is much more important. I mean, I’m not going to stop you, of course, but don’t feel like you’re obligated.” “I don’t. I just feel like there are a couple of things I want to say to her before she dies. Whether that is now or in ten years.”

“Okay. I can understand how you may regret not doing that.” “Yeah. Besides, no better place than a hospital to talk to her. If she attacks me, at least I’ll have a medic with me within seconds.” A few days later, I was walking through the hallways of the hospital. I took the lift to the third floor, where she was staying in room 8. The lift doors opened and I started walking. Room 2. Sweat started dripping from my forehead. Room 4. My heart was racing out of my chest. Room 6. Deep breaths. Room 8. She was sleeping peacefully. The woman that was lying in front of me looked like she hadn’t aged seven years, but rather fourteen. Her cheeks had fallen in. Her greasy hair was partly gray and her whole body was much more wrinkled. I tapped her lightly on the hand, which was thin and weak. She opened her eyes slowly and for a second, she was a bit startled. Then I saw it. A field full of sunflowers being greeted by warm rays. Her eyes colored chocolate brown with a touch of honey. No-one’s brown eyes are as beautiful as my mother’s when she looks at you with love. “Hi sweetheart.” She said. Her voice sounded hoarse, but it was still hers. This was the voice of my mother. I realised how much her voice actually sounded like my aunt’s, which was comforting in a way. “Hi mama.” “Thank you for coming.” “Of course. How are you feeling?” “Tired. Some trouble breathing, but a bit better than yesterday.” Where do you go from there? I had asked the obvious. I knew what I wanted to say, but I had no idea how to move from casual conversation to the elephant in the room. “You look good. I like your hair short.” She said. “Thank you.” I said and started crying. Not loud or ugly. Just tears making their way to my chin. I could see the water fill her eyes, as well. My hand was still on top of hers. She squeezed it a bit. We sat in silence for a minute before she said: “I want you to know how sorry I am for everything that has happened. I’m very sorry, sweetheart.” “Thank you for saying that.” I said. This was what I wanted her to say and I appreciated it. “I have actually come to say something to you.” She nodded. Something in her face changed, as if she was actually scared of what I was going to say. She lifted her eyebrows. “You did some bad things. I just don’t think that the fact that you did bad things, makes you a bad person.” I said. The corners of her mouth curled up into a modest smile and I saw her for who she was: a woman who made a lot of poor decisions, because she was very sick. A woman who deserves sympathy. “I can’t imagine what it is like to be sick. I wish you would have had a nicer life, but we can’t change that now. I just don’t want you to live with the thought that I hate you, because I don’t. I want you to know you’re not a bad person in my eyes.” I think it was too much for her to take in, because she replied with: “Okay.” I could see it touched her, though. More importantly, I was glad to have gotten the chance to tell her that. When I left later on, she asked me if I would visit her again. It was the question I hoped she wouldn’t ask. “I don’t know, mama. Maybe. But if I don’t, I will still love you.”