“Wakey wakey! It’s morning time, Lina!” My little sister Cammy screams as she runs into my room, throwing the curtains open, officially blinding me. She’s three years old now, and she still doesn’t call me by my real name; it’s always those baby nicknames. She dances around my room singing the theme song to her favorite little kids’ show, Doc McStuffins. Her little blond curls are bouncing as she picks up my cat, Frank, and starts twirling him around in her chubby little arms. My mother pokes her head in my doorway as Cam jumps next to me, scaring Frank under the bed.

“Alina. Get up now! We have to get going, remember? We have a long drive ahead of us, and I’m not planning on spending the whole day driving,” my mom grumbles. She’s already dressed for today, wearing a dark gray pencil skirt and a button up black shirt. In her hands -- which are shaking-- she tightly grasps a gray and navy blue pinstriped suit jacket. Her brown hair is curled delicately, draped over one shoulder. She’s dreading this day as much as I am.

Frowning at my mom, I throw back the covers, shocked by the chilling draft that hits my ankles as my feet swing over my bed and hit the floor. I walk to my closet, throwing open the doors angrily. I grab the hanger with the black dress hanging on it, picking at the white cat hair adorning the dark material. It’s a simple black dress, and even if I had wanted a dress with color, I don’t have much color in my clothing these days. Of course I already have my outfit picked out. I’ve had it picked out for weeks.

“Get out, I’m not gonna change with you in here,” I tell my mother, turning towards where she stands. “You either, Cam, for that matter. I’ll come out when I’m done getting ready.”
My mom just slowly shakes her head as she backs away, a seemingly permanent frown plastered on her face. For once, she’s one hundred percent sober --at least for now. I snort, partly in laughter. This is the first time in months. Cammy looks slightly less willing as she casts several long looks back in my direction. She quietly shuts the door, and for the first time this morning, I’m alone. A silent tear rolls down my face as I remember the events of the past year leading up to this day.

We used to be a happy family. Family Game Nights, going out to dinner, vacations all around the east coast. Then Dad died. It was a freak accident, and he was the only one seriously injured. Cammy was two years old at the time, a babbling toddler bouncing around in her car seat. I was 14, sitting next to Cam in the backseat of the family car, a cheap 1997 Saturn. It was beige colored, and in need of new seat covering. The car was crappy, and we had more than enough money to fix it, but we preferred to travel. Mom was always smiling back then, laughing and giggling all day, every day. I remember the details of that day as if the images were burned into my brain. Her and Dad were jamming out to Journey in the front seat, headbanging along to “Faithfully.”

We were on a road trip to New York City, driving down a side street. Dad turned left to go to our favorite restaurant, Red Lobster. The brakes went out. That’s all that happened. We swerved to avoid a pothole and plowed over a ditch, and into the site of road construction site, metal beams and rebar laying all around. I can still bring to my mind the sensation of flying. The sensation of careening over that shallow ditch, our front left tire colliding with the corner of a cement block.  I remember the sensation of being weightless, even if only for a moment. And, I remember everything as if in slow motion.

One of those metal beams just happened to shatter the windshield, and it just happened to pierce Dad’s forehead. The doctors say it was instant; that he didn't have time to suffer, or even time for his brain to process what happened. One look at him, and I knew. Just like that, the brightest light in my life was ripped from this world. Mom had knocked her head against the windshield upon impact, and a thin trail of blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Cammy was crying uncontrollably, having been thrown from her car seat. Her head must’ve hit the window because there was a large purple bump on her head, and a small gash on her trembling lip. I was the only one who wasn’t hurt.

The car was on its driver’s side in a trench at the scene of the crash. I unbuckled and crawled slightly uphill to where Cammy was still struggling. I could hear sirens coming towards us, but I didn’t care anymore, oh I really didn’t care. I held my little sister close to me, whispering her name over and over again, as silent tears streamed down my face.

“Oh, Camille. I’m so glad you’re safe, baby,” I murmured in her little ear.

When the ambulance transported my mother to the hospital, I clutched Cam to myself, and we rode with her. The doctors tried to keep quiet, but I could still hear what they were saying. They talked about there being no reason to bring Dad. He was already gone. My quiet tears had suddenly turned into ragged sobs; sobs that tore through my body, destroying me from the inside out. I became so loud that the doctors immediately ceased talking for the rest of the ride. I eventually quieted, my sobbing becoming more subdued.

It’s been a year. One whole year, today. Sitting on my floor recalling that day --the day my life fell apart-- I realize something. Until now, I have not shed one single tear since the accident. Mom had a major concussion, which eventually healed. Sure, Mom cried. When she stopped, though, something was different. She had hardened and changed into something unrecognizable; she was now colder, more distant. My mother doesn’t laugh, or smile. Camille isn’t old enough to remember who she was before, so she has no reason to feel the loss that I do.

Cammy’s injuries were minor: just a few scrapes and bruises. She’s the same bubbly, bouncy child she had been a year ago. Me and my mother were the ones that have changed.

Before the accident, our family had lived in White Plains, just north of New York City. After the accident, we still lived in the same city. It was ironic that even after our social lives had been uprooted, we remained in White Plains, where we are still not accepted by the community. Before that day, we traveled almost constantly. I went to public schools in different cities for even mere weeks at a time when we took extended vacations, and while we were on the road, I was home schooled by my mother. Now, I go to school in White Plains, but I’m not really a part of the student body there.

Among the perfect families in my community, and the perfect students in my high school, I’m viewed as that girl. I’m that girl with the angry red lines on her wrists. I’m that girl with no father, and an alcoholic mother who just doesn’t care anymore. And today? I’m that girl who can’t get a grip and make the tears stop.

We’re driving to New York City today, to visit Dad. Mom was unconscious for so long after the accident that we didn’t get to decide where exactly he was buried. So, they buried him in the same city he died in. It’s just a small cemetery outside of the city. Mom and Camille have been there before, but I couldn’t bear to go before now. Weeks ago, when I announced that I would accompany them today, Mom started to cry. I was shocked. She never cried anymore. The way I figure it, she was drunk out of her mind that day.

I’ve been mainly caring after Cam for the past year. Mom essentially gave up on life when she woke up that day. Without Dad, all that she used to be was stripped away, leaving the bitter, uncaring woman that I know today. This car ride will be torture.

I break out of my reverie, and throw the dress on. I apply eyeliner on my eyes, and put some blush on to make my pale face look less washed out. I glance in the mirror, and I don’t know why, but the sight of my reflection brings more tears to my eyes. My light brown hair is naturally curly, and it reaches halfway between my spine and my tailbone. My long, pale legs are partially covered by the dress, which flows to just above my knees. As an afterthought, I put on a pair of bright red converse. They were always Dad's favorites. My eyes are now lined in black, and the pink blush on my cheeks makes me look like a life-sized porcelain doll. The only difference is that I don’t have cracks on the outside anymore. They’re all on the inside.

When I walk out of my room, I brush past my mother and grab Camille, taking her to the car. It’s running already, and I buckle her into her car seat as my mom walks into the garage, a dismissive look plastered onto her face.

“Hurry up!” she snaps at me. I forgot that she is mean even when she’s sober. But she’s meaner still when she’s been drinking. I rush around to the other side of the car, not wanting to anger her any further.

I climb into the seat next to Cam, and as soon as the door closes, she slams on the accelerator, speeding out of the garage. As we go down the driveway, I turn around in my seat to get a good look at our house. It’s modern-chic architecture, all silver and white. It’s a mainly blocky exterior, and it looks the same as it did a year ago. It’s funny how the outside can change so little, when the contents of my home have changed so drastically.

It’s only about an hour to New York City from my house. The drive with my mom makes it feel like days. She’s constantly nagging. Why did you dress up so much? Can’t you ever wear anything with color? Sarcastically, I was thinking to myself, “Yeah, because she pays attention to how I dress on a daily basis." She doesn’t even work anymore, she just blows all Dad’s hard-earned savings on beer and cigarettes.

Dad was a successful business person for the first half of my life. He co-owned a law firm, and he made boatloads of cash. When I was about seven years old, he had made enough so that he could retire. Mom still worked every once in a while back then, she was a substitute teacher for the local school district. Of course, we weren’t really home that often, but it’s the thought that counts, I guess. After he died, Mom hit bottom. She didn’t really come home, except for to change her clothes, and maybe to eat. So, from then on, I had to learn how to take care of my two-year-old sister.

All the stress of taking care of Cammy got to me about two months in. I started cutting. I couldn’t help it, I had a lot of issues back then. I’m not denying that I don’t have problems now, but I’ve learned how to cope with most of the things that bother me. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same thing for my mom. She got worse. She comes home about once a week now, and then she just drives to the store to get food for me and Cam. Then, she goes back to the bar. It wasn’t always like this, though. We used to eat meals together, gathered around a table, either in our home, or at some high-dollar restaurant. Homemade soups, decadent roasts--

“ALINA!” My mother screams my name, breaking me out of my daydream.

“What, Mother?” I snap back at her. She flinches at my harsh tone. For a moment, it looks as if she might cry, but then her face changes like she put a mask on.

“Unbuckle your sister. We’re here.”

We trudge up the hills in the cemetery, over tree roots projecting from the Earth, under low hanging boughs of the trees spotted along the path. My mother grasps three red roses in her gloved hands. As my family reaches the crest of the third hill, my mother stops dead in her tracks. There is a small gravestone reading,

Marcus Gray
January 6, 1970 - April 19, 2013
“He that endureth to the end shall be saved.”
Matthew 10:22

Being here, in this desolate place, reading my father’s gravestone, breaks something inside of me. Sympathy washes over me, sympathy for my mother --for all she has lost. Suddenly, the understanding is almost overwhelming. The wave rises higher and higher, and comes crashing down, threatening to drown me. I had blamed my mother for everything that had happened since the day Dad died. Inwardly, I realize I used my alcoholic mother as an excuse for my behavior. Mom had turned to alcohol for comfort, just as I had turned to self-harming.

As I’m thinking about all of this, my mother has given Cammy a rose. She grabbed Cam’s small hand, and walked to Dad’s grave marker. Mom was whispering inaudibly, and she started to sob as she stood there. Cammy, upon seeing our mom’s expression, also starts to cry. Mom finishes whatever she was saying, and walks Cam back to me.

I gently take a rose from my mother’s hands, offering a sympathetic smile. It doesn’t seem like she sees, but as I turn away, I catch fresh tears rolling down her face. I solemnly walk to the base of the grave, placing the rose before the headstone. I lean down so my mother and sister won’t hear the whispered words I speak to my father.

“Dad, in the beginning, I thought you were selfish for leaving us. Not just for leaving, but for leaving without saying goodbye.” I take a deep breath, and continue to pour my heart out to the only person I can trust.

“Now that I came here today, I finally realized something: I wasn’t the only one affected by you dying. I was being too harsh on Mom, and I was very selfish.” Tears are now streaming down my face, and I catch my breath, not wanting to upset Camille.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted this past year, and I promise I’ll try to be more understanding of Mom. I love you, and I miss you so much.” I’m holding back sobs now, and I stumble back to where my family waits for me. I stand in front of Mom, trying to hold back my tears.

“I’m so sorry Mommy,” I sob as I lean into her arms, which are open in an embrace. I haven’t called her “Mommy” since I was about six years old.

“Oh, baby, you don’t have to cry. I’m sorry too,” she whispers as she holds me in a tight hug. As she releases me from the hug, I feel something different now. I made a promise to my father to bridge the gap between me and my mother, and I will do just that.

As I lift my little sister to my hip, I also grab Mom’s hand, and begin to turn us away from my father’s final resting place. I know it will be hard, but I have overcome more obstacles in my life than an overbearing, alcoholic mother. Things will never be the same as they were before, but life for us will change for the better. I will always remain optimistic. I give Mom’s hand a reassuring squeeze, and we make the short walk back to the family car --a 1997 beige Saturn sedan.