The Day She Lost Her Soul
When I was eleven years old and in sixth grade, I climbed into the backseat of my mother’s Toyota Corolla after school. My best friend Jasmine was with me. We were in high spirits; we’d spent all day together and had plans that afternoon to play with my new purple and silver Poo-Chi and build a dream life on The Sims while we waited for dinner. I was keeping my fingers crossed for mac & cheese or chicken nuggets.
My mother had parked the car underneath the dappled shade of the soaring arbutus tree, just as she had every other time she’d come to pick me up. She was unpredictable in many ways but her parking spot could always be counted on. It made me feel safe to know that I could exit my school and see the white station wagon waiting for me to come aboard.
Jasmine and I buckled ourselves in, tossing our backpacks to the floor. “Hi mom,” I said cheerfully. She didn’t reply. Instead, she wordlessly turned the key in the ignition, set the car into drive, and without a glance in either of the side mirrors, pulled out onto the bustling street, narrowly avoiding a crossing guard. The keys made their typical jangling noise, partly because of the keychain I’d beaded for her at summer camp using metal accents like nuts and bolts. I don’t know what my mother thought about it but my dad told me it was “crafty” and that he was proud of my use of mixed media.
“Mom?” I asked. “Are you okay?” She was prone to random bouts of silence. This was due to what my dad described as “something broken inside mommy’s brain”. However, I knew she took medication that I wasn’t allowed to touch and she had never refused to speak in front of one of my friends before. I thought about how she might berate me for staying silent in front of one of her friends. It was unacceptable!
“Mrs. Morales?” Jasmine prompted. She had witnessed my mother yell at me on countless occasions so it was eerie to hear nothing but the hum of the engine and the rubber tires screeching their way along the bumpy rural road.
We exchanged a look in the back seat. What is wrong with her? we both seemed to ask through widened eyes and furrowed brows.
Closer to our house, my mother blasted right through a four-way stop, and although I didn’t yet know how to drive, and despite the fact that our car was the only one in sight, I knew it was reckless. It felt dangerous and made my stomach drop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jasmine grip the door handle. We were both securely strapped to the seat, but it didn’t make the experience any less worrisome.
My mother still hadn’t uttered anything more than a heavy sigh by the time we reached our steep, hill-like driveway. (It was the best to sled down in the winter and all the neighbourhood kids lined up for their turn.) The car slid down the driveway and an inch away from the rolling garage door, my mother slammed on the brakes. Jasmine and I scooted unwilling forward. By this point, we were both scared. I felt like something was very wrong and I wasn’t in much of a mood to play with my robotic dog anymore.
We sat in silence for about a minute, although it felt like thirty, waiting for my mother to initiate the vehicle exit. I looked at Jasmine; she was already nervously looking at me. Then, my mother unbuckled her seatbelt. She said, “I lost my soul today” and left us in the backseat. The slam of the car door echoed in our ears.
Neither one of us had any idea of what it meant to lose a soul, but from the tone in her voice, it didn’t sound good. I wondered if she wanted us to help her look for it. Surely it couldn’t have gotten far. Whenever I lost a Barbie or my favourite gel pen, I would just retrace my steps until I found it again.
“What does she mean?” asked Jasmine in a small voice. It crossed my mind briefly that this might be the last time Jasmine wanted to have a playdate at my house.
“I think…” My mouth felt dry, like I’d stuffed it full of plain Triscuits. I thought back to the screaming matches I’d heard recently, and of going into my parent’s bathroom that morning and seeing that my dad’s toothbrush was gone. I thought of their cold shoulders and cold meals and how they never kissed anymore. I thought of how my dad told me that he “had tried” but I didn’t know what he meant. “I think my parents are getting a divorce.”
I wiped away a tear fatter than a beluga whale that was swimming down my flushed cheeks. Jasmine didn’t understand because her parents touched and kissed and cooked together and spoke to each other with loving inflections. She would probably never know what it was like to have a mother who’d lost her soul. I envied her. And although it felt like nothing would ever be okay again, I reached for my backpack, plastered a saddened smile on my face, and suggested we go inside.
It was my first taste of “growing up too fast” and I wanted to spit it out.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ
