Chapter 11: Shape-Shifter

"I should go home now."

"You are home, my Ada."

Since the news, it was often that everything collapsed into deafening silence. All I could hear were my thoughts when I was surrounded by life, yet when I was alone, I absorbed tranquility of the quiet.

Was I calm? Was I okay with the new detour life opened up to my family? This wasn't the way I wanted to start thinking outside of myself. I didn't want to be forced to be in a different mindset, especially one that broke my heart every time I heard the memory of her voice saying it again and again.

"I have breast cancer."

No, she wasn't going to lie down and accept certain fate; I wouldn't let her if she wanted to. That wasn't her. She was my mother, and I knew she would fight it. I also knew that it would be a painful war. There would be battles followed by rounds of rest and fatigue. She would be weakened and made to deteriorate from within. Worst of all, she would conceal the pain so we couldn't see what she was going through. She was going to hide from me.

Please, don't.

The night, of the news, I returned to my apartment. Faith was speechless when I explained why  I brought lifelessness through the door. Once the truth spilled from my lips, I couldn't make out what Faith had said after. I figured, hearing about hope and strength would give me a chance to look at life with the eagle's eye that Faith soared with. She tried, but I was gone. I was seeping into murky waters and wanting to stay there. Hopelessness left me in fear of everything. I was afraid to laugh, to cry, to rest.

I was void of my feelings, though I tried to be my bravest when I was around my mother for the following two months. She was her usual self, fiddling with art in her pretty corner, whether it rained or shined. She tried to engage me in conversation, but it was difficult. I didn't want to talk about myself or my recent past. It didn't feel as important as the memories of family that kept cycling around in my head. I just wanted to be around her, so she didn't push too hard nor did she ask for more than I was willing to give. To my luck, I wasn't the only subject she could turn to when in need of conversing as another Sunday morning came around.

As usual, I took deep breaths, entering my mother and Nico's home. It strained me to enter somewhere so beautiful and be filled with pain I was trying to reign in and subdue on a constant basis. Thinking about how my mother would smile and try to keep me at ease worked against me. She was a fortress of a woman but I knew she was scared. She had to be, and I wasn't sure what I would do if she finally showed me that she was.

I opened the door and stepped on my heels to slip my sneakers off of my feet. As usual, I clung tight onto another bouquet in my arms. It had become a new ritual to bring fresh flowers into the home, whenever the old blooms began to wither. Of course, she loved them, but their purpose also served as a symbolic aid of vitality and rejuvenation. I could only hope that she understood my discreet message.

"Look at that face," I heard, before pulling my attention from the brown wrap that secured my sanity by the dozen.

The familiar and cheerful tone belonged to another important person in my immediate family. Another tone I had not heard in a long time outside of holiday gatherings.

"Aunt Emmy!" I exclaimed with wilted happiness.

I hurried into a warm embrace, successfully fighting the debilitating sadness from knowing why she was in the apartment on this Sunday morning.

I always enjoyed the signature curly pushback in a headband. It was hard to miss when she lacked in altitude compared to most everyone else but my grandmother. I tipped my head down to the short woman. She pet my head and gently patted my cheek.

"You look good, Ada," she said with conviction, but I knew that she was disregarding my dreariness.

Her eyes were warm when they circled around my face, but they turned a little cold when she turned back to her sister who was quietly molding the tall mound of clay in her corner.

I wanted to freeze that moment in time. My mother looked like herself, but I knew the treatment she was undergoing made her weaker. But not in spirit, I hoped.

"Nanette, you sure you don't want to do this in the bathroom?" Emmy asked her big sister. 

"No. Right here is fine," my mother promptly returned.

Her fingers were still building and shaping the wet clay. Her eyes no longer lively while she analyzed at the ashy medium.

I could feel my structure threatening to shiver. I wanted to know if she was afraid, but I would just receive the same answer she told me over and over again. Though, this time I wasn't the only company around. This wasn't a typical lazy Sunday where I came to subdue my internal struggle.

This Sunday was special. My aunt was present, as was Nico. It wasn't often that Nico didn't have his phone to his ear or in his grip. Instead, his hands were behind his back, and his attention was fixed on the sunny cityscape. As Aunt Emmy carefully set up her own tools around my mother's stool, every now and then he would move to scratch the salt and pepper beard along his tight jawline. What burdened his mind was obvious. The same pain ran through all of our veins. We all were keeping our distress wrapped behind our chests, without a doubt putting ourselves aside for my mother's sanity.

"Nico," my mother lovingly called with her concentration still affixed on the odd shape in front of her.

In no rush, he turned his attention to his right, his naturally squinted eyes peering at the ground before his crisp monks echoed in the quiet living room. He took hold of a nearby tall mirror on wheels, and took his time to park it in front of his artist.

My aunt's clippers snipped away at the long, tight coils. My lips curled in and stomach tightened. In the reflection, I watched my mother's eyes flutter as the snipping progressed. At first, Aunt Emmy was taking her time. Her little hands shook while wielding a cold weapon. A long blade mowed across another, severing the kinky brown waves that communed with silvery strands. Once my aunt's hand was more confident, she sped through and landscaped it down for the next stage.

Beside the mirror, Nico continued to survey my mother's face. I never saw him look at her without the hint of a glimmer in his eye, yet this moment was the exception. Everything was becoming an exception, including my mother's life. Nico was still in his emotions like his Nanette. I understood, even more, why they were made for each other at this point in time. He was waiting to catch her if she needed someone; he was on the front lines ready to help her fight whatever she would throw his way. He had done it before with his sister, but the red crescents under his eyes exhibited a plea hoping that my mother wouldn't pass away like his best friend had.

"I'm ready," my mom comfirmed to her baby sister.

Just as the razor blade touched her scalp, I stifled a cry. My mother's fingers froze into the clay, her fingers gradually sinking into the wet mold. Her cognac eyes pulled from her hands and poured into the reflection. She concentrated on my aunt's finish of the first stroke, and she watched the next and the next, until she was done.

Aunt Emmy pulled back and wiped her face with her sleeve. Her face was covered in wet streams like mine. Nico's right hand gently caressed my mother's chin while her hands, that were layered in clay, hovered above the new outline of her head. She was fascinated with the new shape. With sudden anxiousness, she was curving the oblong mold into something she was more sure of.

I still wasn't ready to see her in a way I didn't know. Curled up on the nearest couch, I cupped my hands over my mouth to silence the pained wails I tried to hide. It was difficult when I felt broken. Nico did his best to console me through a secure embrace. It lasted until I was ready to let go. I had to think about what I would do when I turned to see her morphing... changing in what we hoped would be for the better. It wasn't guaranteed.

Nico was finally able to express his thoughts when my crying subsided, "Ada, you have to keep strong for her. You may not feel like you can, but you're your mother's daughter. We love and admire her for all the things that she is. She's the embodiment of what we've always needed. But now, she needs us."

I pulled my face from his chest and looked at the person who was still their corner, smoothing and pulling away at clay.

"She needs you... do you understand?" he asked.

I turned back and allowed him to peer into my eyes.

Aunt Emmy touched the back of my head, "She will always be your mom and will always be my big sister no matter what changes we experience together. It's not easy, but you can and will do it because you're her daughter– a Young woman. We've been through hell and back, but the devil loves to play those games. And we will lose if we don't fight to keep it together... no matter the outcome."

My face felt worn and puffy from the exhaustion, so I kept quiet. I had nothing to contend to except my own weariness. I was tired of being tired. My mother had enough to deal with and my ruptured core would not allow her to express what she needed. I knew this. If she was my spirit, I had to give her room to thrive. If I didn't want her to hide from me, I had to be open.

I had to change. I couldn't be this person– this shattered human. The dependencies had shifted. So, I picked myself up from the couch. I left the haven of my aunt and stepfather to take a closer look at my mother. Her attention was instantly drawn to me. I looked over her bare head, carefully caressing it.

"You're still beautiful, mummy," I mewled.

My words provoked a glaze to cover her eyes. She took the clean back of her hand and rubbed my chin. There it was. There was the fear I feared. She was scared.

I had doubted my reaction to knowing she was afraid, but that changed when she confessed, "You're my rock, my love."

In an instant, my pained expression faded. A tiny tear trickled from her left eye. After a swift pull, my mother was tightly secured in my arms. I held the person who always did her best to keep it together simply so that I could go on. In the past, I have seen her suffer in silence. I have seen her cry in secret, I have seen her swiftly wipe her tears away when she heard me near. Those memories of her were as clear as the sky on our Sunday morning. But now, she didn't have to hide when she was scared.

"... crying is truly the first step to healing."

I wasn't going to be ashamed of expressing how I felt anymore. It had to be done to come back stronger– to have a fraction of strength she held. My mother was my foundation– a keystone to my temple.  She did everything she could to cement my understanding of all she would do to give me a future I was proud of.

All I've lost, within months, were no longer as painful as I held them to be. I made my mistakes, and I learned about myself from them. In truth, my weaknesses were my strengths. I cared and I loved hard– so much that I thought I didn't know myself because the happiness of others meant the world to me. But how could I be ashamed of loving the way mother loved me?  Through hell and highwater, she did what she could to shape me into the best person I could be.

I was molded with nothing but love. A love that made me as solid as a rock.

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Number of hidden songs: 1