Much Love, Anne

I’ve been a single parent for a week now. Oddly or not, I like the single part of “single parent.” But, the parent part of “single parent” has been keeping me extremely busy and at a loss for words here lately.

Last night, I finished the last Modjeska caramel marshmallow. Why is that significant? It’s not really, other than it’s the last of the Christmas candy left that I enjoy; this is a bit strange because this shipment of candy bothers me a bit when it arrives before Christmas each year.

Every Christmas since 2000, a brown cardboard box arrives on my doorstep two weeks before Xmas. Usually, I’m excited when a box arrives; however, this one sends holiday greetings and with it, the Ghost of a Life Past. When I look at the label for the sender and see that it’s Godiva, Williams Sonoma, or Dean and DeLuca, I sigh.

After I bring the box inside, I let it sit for a day or two. Any ghost whisperer knows that it’s good not to let the ghost or the cat out of the box until you dwell on it and know you can deal with it when you let it out. When I finally open the box, I pull out some wonderful treat, which leaves the packing receipt staring at me while I hear it scream eerily, "Wooooooo, woooooo, woooooo!" (By the way, that's the sound a ghost makes when the sound is typed!)

Year after year, I do the same thing; at this point now, it almost feels like a dream. I pick up the receipt. I unfold it, and there it is in black and white. It says “Much Love, Anne.”

Anne was my Dad’s girlfriend when my Dad was alive. I had always gotten along well with her, and while not a bad person, I was just sadly disappointed with her at the end of my Dad's life. Above all, I found it very sad, even sadder for my Dad that she, one who was given quite a bit of money by my Dad in the end, chose to hide up in his bedroom the last 30 minutes of his life.

I went up to his room, told her she was going to die. I went back downstairs. I waited and waited and waited to hear her footsteps on the stairs.

She never came down. I stayed with my Dad. And even though I didn’t think he could hear me or feel my presence, I remained by his side holding his hand and telling him over and over again how much I loved him.

After that day, I never looked at Anne the same way again. In fact, I made a point of avoiding her. When the first box of Christmas candy arrived, I wanted to scream. To his credit, John tried to hide the box the second year.

I went down to the basement to do the laundry; this is where I keep the recycling bins. I noticed a cardboard box sticking out from under the stairs. I pulled it out to put it into the bin, and I saw the Godiva label.

I went into John’s office, and I asked, “What came from Godiva?!” He stammered, paused, and then said as if he thought I might punch him, “They were from her. I gave them to Susan.” I smiled; in retrospect, it probably was one of the most thoughtful things he had ever done for me.

By the third year, John didn’t try to hide the chocolates. When I’d arrive home, I’d see the box and grimace. He waited for it; the rant came, went, and the chocolates found a home with my co-workers, a neighbor, or a friend.

By the seventh year, I gave in to the past that would finally remain in the past. I opened the licorice from Dean and Deluca, and then I went to up to my bedroom. It wasn’t to cry.

I stared at the sailboat painting on the wall. Anne once asked me if she could have it because it reminded her of Dick, my father, and I very obnoxiously said, “No.” After receiving a good deal of money from my father and failing to be there with him in the end, I thought she could go out and buy herself another; yes, I was upset and angry, but I was entitled.

I pulled the painting off the wall, and I replaced it with one that my Dad had painted of Nantucket, which really seemed more fitting. I took the painting, wrapped it in Christmas paper, and crossed out “From:” on a present tag; instead, I wrote “Love, Dick.” I packed the painting up in a box, gave the box to John, and said, “Please mail this and make sure it gets there by the 24th no matter how much it costs.”

It doesn’t sound like mailing a painting to a woman you didn’t care for would heal an old wound, but it did. I wasn’t completely done dwelling on it, because each year, the box brought a pang to my heart. This year was no different I thought as I crumpled up the Modjeska caramel marshmallow wrapper.

Ironically, during the day, I had read a blog post by my college roommate, Lauri. She had lost her Dad to cancer like me, and she recently lost her brother-in-law. She wrote:

“I'd realized after my father died that there is little use in dwelling on the negative details of the past when what's done is done, especially after someone dies. Accepting the past without a further thought is an integral feature of living in the Now.” Funny, it almost was like I was destined to eat that last marshmallow and read Lauri’s thoughts yesterday. Was the tenth box of Christmas candy from Anne the charm?

I threw the Williams Sonoma box down the basement stairs where it would eventually make its way into the recycle bin. I still held onto the packing receipt. I unfolded it once more and read “Much Love, Anne,“ and then I said softly, “I love you, Mom and Dad.”

Iz, who had wandered into the kitchen for her dessert, asked, “Mom, what did you say?” I said, “I love you.” She looked at me strangely and then said, “I love you, too.”

I then remembered that she had a huge patch of blue paint in her hair and blue paint all over her hands and under her fingernails. In school, she said that they had painted their “world.” Allegedly, Gabe had also painted Iz’s noggin.

I tend to think that Iz asked for it, because she thought it might look cool. Based on her reaction when Nathan’s friend, Connor, said it looked cool, it reaffirmed my suspicions. And even more so, when she said she wanted a permanent blue streak in her hair when she was older; I frowned and then she asked, “Mommy, can I have that pink gel in my hair for tomorrow?”

Usually, Iz takes a bath every night. After completing my nightly routine of feeding the pets, cleaning the litter boxes, doing homework, making a school lunch, and then feeding Iz, Nate, and Nate’s friends, Joey and Connor, I was exhausted. So, I told her she could skip her bath, which was greeted by an immediate “Yay!” This was closely followed by an immediate scowl when I said, “But, you have to wash your hair, your face, and your hands.”

This exchange of bathing ideas and facial expressions was then followed by Iz placing her hand on her hips. She asked, “Now?” I told her that if she washed up now she could then have dessert and stay up 15 minutes longer and wallow in the presence of the two teenaged males in the house; she liked pretending not to like Nathan’s friends and telling them so even though she adored them both.

She whined “But, I don’t want to go up to the tub.” Just then, I had a blast from my childhood past. When my Mom didn’t feel like putting us in the tub when we were young, she did the kitchen sink bath. I asked her to go upstairs and get a towel and the baby shampoo to which she asked, “You’re not going to use the hose outside are you?”

I laughed and said, “No. We’ll do it right here in the kitchen sink just like my Mom used to do." She looked puzzled but went upstairs and came back down with what I had asked her for. I pulled her stool in front of the sink, and she looked questioningly at me.

I said, “Step up.” She looked a bit fearful, and I said, “Cover your eyes with this towel and lean over the sink.” I turned on the faucet sprayer, and she began to giggle as the water flowed over her blue-stained noggin.

I located the blue paint, scrubbed, and in only a few minutes, she had the towel wrapped around her head in a turban. My sister and I used to like when my Mom made us “the turban.” Iz liked it, too.

She washed her hands, and we scrubbed her fingernails. She took her turban off and began to brush her hair. I asked, “Wasn’t that easy?” She said, “That was fun, Mommy.”

The blue streak was gone, though I’m sure it would be back eventually. Nathan never wanted to do anything off the beaten path. I’m sure at 14, Iz would be rocking pink hair, big earrings, and fake tattoos.

While there was much love from Anne every Christmas in the form of marshmallows, truffles, and licorice, I decided last night that I could no longer dwell in it; this was my year to let go of a lot of things. I would not dwell in the Past, I would live in the Now, and I would not worry about the Future. But, I’d always borrow from the Past; I love you, Mom and Dad. ♥