My memory of the last quarter of 1989 is a bit spotty now as I have suppressed some details that were hard to process at the time. The piece that is perhaps most critical to this story is that my mother, in the doctor’s words, “literally blew her top” while we were out of town visiting my sister. Her blood pressure rose so high that she had a seizure, and she was hospitalized until it lowered some. When we eventually returned home, we were vigilant about her salt intake – the only factor we were aware of in our limited education that would affect her health. Somewhere in those weeks I had my thirteenth birthday (which I do not remember celebrating at all) and a stomach virus. I was feeling better by Christmas Eve 1989.
On Christmas Eve 1989, I baked sugar cookies with red and green sprinkles. No one had the “Christmas Spirit” and I was trying to rustle up some cheer. My sister was having a challenging first pregnancy and was on the other end of the state. My brother was having other challenges – I don’t recall what and don’t remember where he was; just that it was a long-distance call and I knew where to find his phone number. They were both married and “the kids” were now adults and had their own lives to deal with. Logically we all understood that we weren’t central to their lives anymore. But we all felt the absence because this was the first Christmas that no one was coming home.
Daddy had been at work on his part-time security job and returned home tired and cold. We spoke briefly and he went to his room. Mommy was relaxing on the couch watching television when I went to ask Daddy if he wanted any cookies. I walked into his room, called his name, but he didn’t stir. He didn’t look right – slumped over with a book falling out of his hand. It scared me and I called his name again much louder. He found his way out of his slumber and answered. I asked if he wanted cookies, said something about regretting waking him up, maybe even told him to go back to sleep. I ran back to the kitchen and prayed – “Dear God, please don’t let my daddy die.” I wiped the tears that were falling and pretended to be tired and went to bed.
Christmas arrived rather uneventfully. I remember getting a Juicy Fruit watch, a Nintendo game (I don’t remember which one), and Karyn White’s self-titled debut album on cassette. I spent the day learning all the words to “Superwoman” and playing whatever game I got. Apparently I got some cash because Mommy and I planned to go to shopping the day-after-Christmas sales. And later that night Daddy left to work an overnight shift.
When I woke up the next morning, I remembered having a dream that featured Malcolm Jamal Warner and smiling because I had a crush on him. I lay back down almost hoping to catch the rest of that dream and then a series of events occurred that under other circumstances would mean absolutely nothing. Daddy came home and I remember thinking he was making too much noise. Mommy liked to wake up naturally, not from other people’s living sounds. He went to the back of the house for a moment and when he returned to the kitchen he asked me if Mommy had been up and I said something about leaving her to sleep late. Then the dryer buzzed letting us know that the clothes were dry. Daddy asked me to check and see if that woke up Mommy – which was a bit weird – and I dismissed it, told him it wasn’t that loud. Then the phone rang. I purposely let it ring too many times hoping she would answer – usually by the second ring because she couldn’t stand to hear it. When she didn’t answer, I picked up just before the answering machine would have picked up and answered it. It was a follow-up call from the doctor about the virus I’d had. And after I hung up, I tiptoed toward Mommy’s room and peeked inside. I thought she was sleeping but I decided to try and wake her up. She didn’t.
I was the one who found her.
I called for Daddy. I picked up the phone to dial 911 while Daddy turned her over. I hadn’t dialed 911 – just held the phone – so I asked if I should and Daddy said he was afraid she’d passed. My brain didn’t accept that so I called 911. Funnily enough I recalled my training in school every year from Kindergarten until that day about calling in emergencies and the script didn’t go exactly as we’d rehearsed. I often recall strange specifics like that.
I remember the paramedics entered from the front door, which we seldom used. I remember they went to her bedroom and I ran to the kitchen again to pray. My prayers this time were bargaining – I promised to go to every church service and pray everyday and read my Bible or something if my Mommy was okay. As soon as I said, “Amen,” the paramedics confirmed she was gone and had been for a while.
I was the one who found her. So I was expected to report on her last movements, her position when found, and other things that made my brain give me amnesia. It was already trying to erase the images and details. Because I was the one who found her.
Neighbors were in and out of the house uninvited, drawn in by curiosity of an emergency vehicle at the house. I was spinning. My father became both silent and formal with the neighbors and getting instructions from the paramedics. And I didn’t know what to do with the feelings I had. I was the one who found her.
After the body was removed from the house, I called my Godmother, Lucy Bell, first. She was closest and most important. She could do what Daddy couldn’t which was give me something I didn’t even want from him – make me feel safe. But her mother answered the phone and told me that she wasn’t home. Her mother was the first person I told that my mother died. I remember she kept saying “Naw! Aw naw! Naw!” I didn’t have time or energy to penetrate her shock and disbelief, so I just told her to pass on the message and I dialed my sister next.
My sister was far away but she was the next person I wanted near me. Now, I don’t recall what I said to her on the phone. I know I said the same words to everyone I called – Mama died – but I don’t know what else I said. I remember that every time I said it, I looked at Mommy’s room. Somewhere during or right after that call my Godmother had taken me in her arms. She didn’t call me back but ran to the house as soon as she got the news. I went limp. It felt wrong. It was exactly what I needed and wanted and at the same time it was wrong. I don’t think we’d ever really hugged before. I returned to the task of calling the people who needed to know immediately.
My brother was next. I know that I said, “Mama died” and I know that he kept saying “What?”. I know that I said it maybe three times and each time he responded the same way. So my Godmother took the phone. “Victor, Victor….Vi…” and I heard him yelling unintelligibly. The phone was returned to me. I don’t remember much else of that conversation.
I don’t remember if I called Mommy’s brother then, but I remember that shortly after my Godmother arrived there were too many people in the house. There was too much noise. I was angry with my father because I knew he couldn’t give me what I needed. Church folks were arriving – Deacons were sitting with him and it pissed me off. I wanted the ones who were supposed to comfort me and walk beside me through those initial moments. My Godmother was trying to take care of some business of some sort and I felt a shift in my emotions and in my mental state – I had to get out of that house. It still happens to me that way, usually when there are too many people around. My skin itches and the air seems to dissipate out of the room and respect and consideration of others be damned – get out of my way, literally, because I am getting the hell out of there by any means I deem necessary. I told my Godmother to get me out of the house. Nothing was happening quickly enough and people thought it was better that I stay at the house. So I screamed until my Godmother heard me – I mean really heard that I needed to get out of that house. And unfortunately someone else said, “Come on and go to my house with me.” It did not feel like a rescue. It felt like a last resort. And so I went with another church member and stayed away until my sister arrived in town.
Mommy died the day after Christmas and her funeral was about 3 days later. And somewhere in all the confusion, no one could hear me. Whenever I said words people didn’t respond. Could I have been mute thinking I was audible? I don’t think so because everyone was whispering about me practically non-stop. They had to see me. They just couldn’t hear me.
Of all that was said, the thing I held on to was “she’s the one who found her”. I was the one who found her. I was the one who found her. That was to me the most cruel part of the circumstances surrounding the most traumatic event of my life – nothing has touched it in 30 years and I find it hard to imagine that anything will ever top it. But I should have been wrapped in the cocoon that the adults in my life always kept me in when this happened. I should never have been on the frontlines. I should have been one of the people getting the news, not the one delivering the news. There should have been the right people, ready with tissues, telling me the right words, and holding me while I absorbed the shock and my body grieved.
I was the one who found her and for the next several years whenever I had to identify my mother, who died, I added as if it was part of my name that I was the one who found her. If I wore my first name like a diamond tiara, I wore this label like a crown of thorns. It would be decades before I removed that crown of thorns and chose my own name and identity.
I am Regina Lynette. I was the one who found her.
I am Regina Lynette 