An E-Portfolio

“Honey, wake up, the realtor is coming in half an hour. Do you want me to make you some breakfast? I have eggs, waffles, cereal, oatm—”

            “Mom,” I cut her off groggily as I rolled around in my sheets, dampened with sweat from the nightmares about dad. “Remember I’m never hungry in the morning? You’ve only known me for the past sixteen years.”

            “Breakfast is important, and you’re getting too skinny!” she replied.

            I groaned, already stressed, and the day hadn’t even begun yet.

 

            For the past few months since dad died, everything was different. Mom and I hardly got along anymore, and the only similarity between us was having to cope with the hardest death we’d ever have to. It was a disturbing situation; dad was her best friend and truest love, celebrating their twenty-sixth anniversary the month before he passed. But she was a strong woman, with unwavering optimism and a pleasant face. Me, on the other hand, I was a mess. I got so depressed I would spend my time thinking about the how’s and when’s of suicide, feeling hopeless, void of purpose, and wanting to reunite with dad in the afterlife. Losing him put a damper on various parts of my life and made me question everything I’d ever known.

           

            “Gracey!” mom yodeled from the kitchen, “would you please come here?”

            So needy, I thought irrationally. I wish she would just leave me alone. I snatched the bottle of Zoloft from my nightstand, popped one in my mouth, and headed to the bathroom. Turning on the sink, I sipped some water and closed my eyes. I imagined the tiny pill wash down my throat and drop into my stomach, trying to consciously remind myself that medication was to my benefit. At least it was according to my shrink.

            I walked into the kitchen to see mom at the sink, cleaning dishes, clanking them in that familiar way, and drying her hands on the towel always swung around her shoulder. A candle burned on the countertop which hung a heavy scent of vanilla. She turned around and smiled widely, making tinges of resentment flood over me. The little voice continued in my head. How does she smile so easily? A hundred pills and I still couldn’t grin like that.

            “Grace, I have something for you,” she said, her eyes gleamed as she yanked open a kitchen drawer. Adroitly flicking through papers and folders, she then turned towards me. My eyes darted to the wallet-sized photograph clutched against her chest. Although her fingers covered most of the writing on the back, I still recognized the scrawl perfectly. Mom had unique handwriting, a flow of cursive in a specific slant identifiable from years of birthday cards. Her eyes welled up as she handed it to me.

            “I found this in dad’s wallet when I picked up his things from hospice care,” her voice trembled. “I could only imagine how hard this was for you. Yeah, I lost my life partner, but you lost your dad, and that’s completely irreplaceable. You have come so far, Grace. I know dad would’ve wanted you to have this picture, especially now with the house for sale, it’s all so difficult…” the sentence faded, and a calming silence enveloped the room.

            Staring at the picture, my suppressed memories came to fruition. It had been my thirteenth birthday party at the beach. My parents stood behind me, their hands lovingly on my shoulders, and their teeth fully exposed. I was huddled between them, my teeth equally exposed, but eclipsed by my braces. A dolphin’s dorsal could be seen poking out of the waves just past dad’s baseball-capped head, which I thought gave the picture a magical feel. What a euphoric time when my family was whole.

            A knock at the door snapped me back to the present.

            “That’s the realtor, sweetie. She’s just going to look at the house and talk a little. Why don’t you take my car and go up to the beach?”

            As mom handed me the keys, I was still distracted by the picture. It felt like the last tangible connection I had. I went to my room to grab my license and heard mom’s voice greet the realtor warmly. I headed out the back door to avoid the realtor and mom’s kindness, which I knew I didn’t deserve.

 

            I drove along the coast with the windows down, letting the salty breeze knot my hair and the sun warm me up. Lost in thought, I remembered the last time I saw dad alive. He was medicated and sleepy. The cancer pulsed through his body and ate away his brain. Feeling helpless, I sat in a stained cloth chair next to his hospice bed. Pretty Woman was on TV, and the medication seemed to be wearing off, as he blinked his lids hazily and lightly stretched his arms. His eyes found me, and a gentle smile crossed his face.

            “Hey kiddo,” his voice croaked. “Whatcha doin’?” I could tell he was tired.

            “Pretty Woman is on TV,” I replied. I wanted to fall apart every time he called me kiddo.

            “Pretty Woman, huh? How about we make some popcorn?” The hope in his voice was heart-shattering.

            Thanks to the meds, he didn’t understand. As far as he knew, we were at home; he was whole; everything was fine.

            “Where’s your mom?” he asked, glancing around the room and growing uncomfortable when he couldn’t find her.

            She had been talking to a doctor, but I told him she was taking the dog out. The dog died a year prior, but that made no difference now.

            “Well, we should pause the movie and wait for her! She’s about to miss the best part,” he said.

            “Ok, dad. I’ll pause it, and we can wait. I’ll go start the popcorn, be right back.” I kissed his cheek and left the room, not letting my tears fall until I reached the hallway. I returned after having a meltdown and wish I could say I saw him sleeping peacefully. Instead, he was pale, had blood dripping from his nose, and his eyes glazed over. I ran to him, tripping over tubes from the heart monitor, but he was already gone. The next few weeks were a blur.

           

            I arrived back from the beach several hours later. Not wanting to face the realtor, I purposely took my time.

            “You were gone a lot longer than I expected, is everything ok?” mom asked. Her eyes bore into me in that maternal way. I could tell she only ever wanted the best for me.

            “Yeah, fine.” I kept my sentences short.

            “Honey…” she started. I knew where this was going.

            “Mom, please, I just had a rough day and don’t want to talk about it, ok?”

            “Fine, but just know that I’m here for you. You’re going to be okay, your pain is only temporary. It’ll all get better, you’ll see.”

            I wished I could believe her.

            “I just hate that we have to give up the house! Why? I just don’t understand. The courts don’t think you can pay mortgage, so they’re throwing us out? Did they even give you a chance? You’re working two jobs! Is that not enough?” I snapped.

            “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just want to know why they’re being so heartless. It all feels so unfair. I already lost dad; I don’t want to lose the house. I love it here. Don’t they get that?”

            “Look baby, I understand,” she said, sympathetically wiping away the tears I could no longer hold back. “It’s getting really hard for me to afford this place. Trust me, this is just as difficult for me; your dad and I built a life here and I don’t want it to be taken away either, but sometimes we must sacrifice. When things become much bigger than you, it’s better to surrender and go with the flow. But I put up a hell of a fight for a long time, and that makes me feel accomplished. I know dad would’ve been proud.”

            Mom hugged me tightly as I cried. I realized I never loved her more than I did in that moment.

 

***

 

           After our house finally sold, I’d drive by it sometimes, but I’d never stop. On the anniversary of dad’s death, it only seemed  appropriate to visit. The experience quickly led me to believe that it was meant to be all along.

           I drove through the old neighborhood and looked over at the winding sidewalk that ran parallel. My mind flashed back to the times I rode my golf cart along that same concrete, bouncing my way around, music blasting from the speaker dad installed. Sometimes I would put my dog in a basket hung on the back of the cart, his little body perfectly perched on the towel laid as a cushion. His nose wiggled in the breeze, whiffing the lusciousness of pine and the succulence of barbeque as we drove along the golf courses under a sorbet sky.

          As I rounded the last curve before the old house, I rolled down my window and basked in the sun that seemed to always shine a little differently here. I pulled up to the driveway and looked at the house standing firm on the corner. I thought to myself how it was now filled with strangers, the previous memories embedded within the walls and sucked up into the house’s consciousness. I took everything in: the same flowers were still in bloom that lined the dining room windowsill, and the flag hanger reading ‘Welcome’ was still dug into the front lawn, from which a small American flag fluttered in the wind. The large oak tree that used to shade the entire driveway had been cut down, nothing but a stump a few feet from the mailbox. The spot where I used to see mom’s white SUV was now occupied by a small hybrid car the color of rust. I heard the familiar squeak of the front door and thought I was imagining things, until a small elder woman came wobbling out and leaned on her cane. Her hunched neck made her movements seem uneasy, and she took careful steps on the cracked concrete. I made my way to her as she walked towards her mailbox. When she heard my footsteps approaching, she glanced at me with watery green eyes.

          “Hello miss, can I help you?” she asked expectantly.

          “Yes, actually you can. You see, I used to live here. I was wondering if I could take a step inside and maybe look around a little,” I replied, hoping she was willing enough to let a perfect stranger into her home. 

         “Well, I thought you looked familiar! I think I have something that belongs to you. Please dear, come inside,” she said.

           I was confused at what she meant, but nevertheless, I followed her into the house.

 

           Upon entering, I saw the walls were the same butter yellow my parents had painted them years before, making my throat fill with a heavy lump.

           “I’m sure it looks a little different now, but I kept the walls the same color. I thought it brought happiness. I loved it so much I didn’t want to change it!” said the woman.

           I glanced around the room and imagined how it used to be: leather brown couches had adorned an antique floral rug, an interesting contrast to the modern wood coffee table showcasing the fused glasswork I made at summer camp. A colorful painting of people dancing merrily had hung on the back wall, and a large mirror above the fireplace reflected the ambient room in a most inviting way.

            “I have tea brewing on the stove, would you care for a cup, dear?” asked the woman sincerely. Her question brought me out of my blast from the past.

            “Sure, I would love some,” I replied.

            I glanced around the room again, this time seeing what was really there: cloth white couches worn with age surrounded a glass coffee table with books on travel and art. The back wall had a large floral painting from which I could almost smell the gardenias that were splattered on the canvas. Pictures of children and grandchildren lined the other shelves, all under a dazzling but unfamiliar chandelier.

            The woman took me into the kitchen, which was mostly empty. The hum of the dishwasher was all I could hear, and the countertops were bare except for a stack of paperwork and mail in the corner. It was so drab and different than what I was used to.

            The woman walked to the cabinet and drew out a porcelain cup.

            “How do you take it, with milk or honey?” she asked.

            “I prefer honey, thank you.”

            She poured the hot liquid, and the steam rose to fill the air with a minty scent. Coincidentally, peppermint tea had always been my favorite.

            I walked to the back of the kitchen and peaked out the French doors leading to the patio, half expecting to see my dog sprawled out on the tile and lounging in the sun. I opened the doors to see the backyard, a comforting and beautiful view. I didn’t notice I had been alone until I turned around and saw the woman limp back into the kitchen from the rear hallway.

            “I think you’re going to like this, honey,” said the woman. She held a manila folder in her shaky hands. “I found this picture lying on the floor in the garage shortly after we moved in.”

            “You’re kidding…” I said under my breath. I knew exactly what it was when I saw mom’s handwriting on the back. I had lost the beach photograph after we moved, hating myself for it ever since.

            The woman embraced me lightly and explained how she recognized me from the picture as I walked up the driveway not even an hour prior.

            “What a happy family,” she said.

            She handed me the picture, which I clasped tightly, sure to never lose again.

            “I can’t thank you enough,” I said fervidly. “I…I don’t even know…I am speechless. Thank you so much. This picture means more to me than you could ever know.”

            I stared at the picture for a while, making sure the image was burned into my brain. I never wanted to forget the joy my parents brought me as a child, and the morals they instilled in me as an adult.

            The void I had been feeling became largely filled by the reunion with that picture, and it was as much of a sign as I needed. A long time had passed since dad had been in the house, a year had passed since he had been on Earth, but here he was still, a presence so unyielding, so prominent, deep within my heart.