The last time I saw her was the eighth grade farewell assembly. I turned and waved to her. She waved and smiled and walked out of the auditorium. I never saw her again.
I was 14 years old. Everything is dramatic when one is 14 years old, so I tried really hard to not make a big deal about her. I got a post card from her two weeks after school started that fall. All it said was “Have a great first day of school”. That was the last time I heard anything from her.
Being raised as an only child by a single dad helped me keep my emotions in check. When my dad showed little emotion, I learned to keep a game face on as well, so I said very little about how much I missed her. Eventually, I came to believe that I didn’t miss her at all. On occasion, the school counselor would call me in and I wanted to cry all the bottled tears and tell him that, as silly as it would seem to him, I really missed her. But he never wanted to know what was wrong with me, he never asked about her – only about my “future plans”.
My future plans? They included getting married as soon as I could and moving out of the small town that had become my prison, moving out of the house that had become my cage. I learned very quickly that that was not an acceptable answer, so I eventually smiled and nodded and said, “I’m still undecided, but I do want to go to college.” That answer always seemed to get the counselors off of my back for the rest that semester.
At the end of my junior year, I met Rodney. He was almost finished with college and had come to spend the summer working the hayfields with his uncle. Most of the other girls who waited tables at Weeze’s saw a ripped, sweaty, tanned college boy who came in for a late breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and coffee after already putting in a half day in the hay. I, however, saw a ticket to freedom. Luckily, Rodney was attracted to my auburn hair and that summer, my future plans became crystal clear. At the end the following summer, we were married. My dad walked me down the aisle of the Prairie Grove United Methodist Church and said, “Good luck, girl” as he passed my hand off to Rodney.
I remember missing her only slightly that day. It would have been fun to have her help me pick out my dress. It would have been exciting to have her help me select my lingerie. It would have been nothing short of amazing to have her be at my side as I said, “I do.”
Maybe I missed her more than I cared to admit because the day I became a wife and Rodney and I moved to the city, I became overcome with emotion for her. Or maybe my psyche was preparing me for what I’d see on the news six months later.
I had just come in from the bank; Rodney was in the shower; the TV was already on. I pulled the cord on the crockpot and began to dip the potatoes and carrots out and into the bowl that my dad had given to us as a wedding present.
I doubt I would have thought much of the news if the lead story hadn’t mentioned the free clinic that was just down the street from the bank where I was a teller. I parked in a lot next door to the clinic and walked down the block to the bank. Today, however, I had filled in at our eastside branch and had obviously missed the neighborhood excitement. I put the ladle down and walked to the living room to get the full story.
The news team had just played the 9-1-1 call made by a 6-year-old who had slipped, unnoticed, into the bathroom as the knife-wielding woman made her way into the waiting room shouting unintelligible demands. I remember thinking, “That’s too bad.” I also remember thinking, “Stupid druggies.” And as I began to go back to the kitchen, her picture was flashed on the screen. I had to look twice, but she didn’t look that much different than she did almost six years ago when she walked from the junior high auditorium.
The anchor’s syrupy voice interrupted my visual reunion. “This afternoon, an unidentified woman entered and took hostages at the Meadow Drive Free Clinic. Among the hostages were eight children who are all under the age of 10. As she made what appeared to be aggressive movements with her knife, a clinic attendee, who had a handgun on his person, shot and killed her thus ending the standoff only ten minutes after it had begun.”
I took a breath. I shook my head. After all these years, I had found my mother. And in the matter of a three-minute news story, I had lost her yet again.