2 / I was speechless when I saw a tombstone with my name and photo next to my father’s grave.
I started doubting everything because the sadness was so intense. Why did we experience this? Was I destined to have the worst luck of anyone alive? Our hometown held so many memories of Dad for me that I could not stand to go back. I immersed myself into my work, using meetings and spreadsheets to attempt to block out the sadness. Instead, Mom began coming to see me, and I was glad that the awful memories would not resurface. But lately, I started to feel guilty. I was aware that I had to revisit and face the memories I had been avoiding. I drove home with Andrew last week, and as we approached familiar sites, my uneasiness increased.
First, we went to the graveyard. The weight of each step I took toward Dad’s grave increased. By the time I got there, my knees buckled. I sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks, writing his name on the chilly stone. I was brought back to reality by Andrew’s soothing touch after becoming lost in regrets and memories. Gently, “Penny, check over there,” he uttered. My heart stopped when I turned to see another headstone a little distance away.
My name was written there: Penelope, Forever in Our Hearts. In the picture, I looked like a little girl who had everything figured out. Baffled by what I was witnessing, I just stared at the monument.
I was fully conscious and this grave was genuine; this was not a nightmare. I shook and dialed Mom. On the first ring, she responded. “Mom, I’m at the cemetery, and my name is on a grave,” I said. What is happening?Mom said in a surprisingly serene voice, “I didn’t think you’d ever come back to see it,” after a pause. “Explain what you mean.” With growing perplexity, I enquired. “After your father passed away, I thought I had lost you both.” You stopped making calls and coming in. I required a grieving object.
She hesitated, then said, “So, I had the headstone built and purchased the spot adjacent to your father’s. That was my sole means of surviving. I was caught between sadness and rage. But there was a discrepancy. Why had she never brought this up when she was there? Why not act like nothing was out of the ordinary? Then it hit me, her regular visits, her continual concern for my well-being, and her demand that I return home. She was getting ready for something more, not simply mourning. I remembered the drugs she’d given me the previous year, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Might she have been attempting to…I required clarification.
I hung up before she could answer, saying, “Mom, I’ll be over soon.” I realized that the streets that I had once felt happy driving through now filled me with fear as we made our way to her home. Mom smiled at me when we got there, like she had been waiting for us. The house inside was exactly as I had remembered, with the exception of a tiny shrine that had my picture, candles, and fresh flowers in it. My stomach turned over. With trembling in my voice, I pleaded, “Mom, this has to stop.” How come you done this? She answered, “I couldn’t let you leave me like your father did.” “I had to hold you near to me. I knew of no other method to do this.
It was obvious that this was an obsession rather than just sadness. If I didn’t step in, I knew she wouldn’t let me enjoy my life. So we could see each other every day, I proposed that she relocate closer to us. She accepted after hesitating for a while. A week later, I assisted Mom in taking down the shrine in her living room and we watched as the cemetery workers removed the gravestone with my name on it.Although it hasn’t been easy, I’m glad I went to Dad’s cemetery that day. For the first time in years, it feels like we’re headed in the right path after I was able to explore Mom’s odd new world. Although we will always be reminded of Dad, it now serves as a source of strength rather than sorrow.
