Prologue

At eighty-nine years old, Clara Denise Graham is nearing death. While spending her last days in a hospice care center, she concocts a plan to amend the relationship she has with her daughter.

Someone once told me that there is no fear in dying if you’ve lived a full life. I would agree with one addition: there is no fear in dying but only if you also know where you’re going. I’m sure you’re wondering what qualifies me to make such a statement. Well, I will tell you. My name is Clara Graham, and I’m dying. I.am.dying. I will be dead soon. I’m going to croak. I’m going to bite the big one. Lord have mercy, they are going to bury me six feet under. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Okay, I know that was insensitive and a tad bit dramatic. I apologize. Death is no laughing matter, especially when the people we love die. I understand. I am eighty-nine years old and death has been a constant presence in my life for some time now. I have endured the death of almost everyone I’ve loved. No matter how many people you lose: it never gets easy, you’re never ready to say goodbye, and you never quite accept the fact that death is a part of life. We are born, we live, and we die. Death is inevitable, but instead of fearing it I embrace it, knowing that when I take my last breath, I will be with the One who has known me since before I was born.

By my account, I have lived a full life. I have fearlessly and unapologetically followed Jesus Christ, I have loved others, and I have had the courage to let others love me. I would love to stop here--sum my life up nice and neatly, tie a bow around it, and lay it on a bed of roses, but I can’t. Can any of us? Life is full of trials and tribulations, and I don’t think any of us leave this world unscathed, without wishing that we could change a few things about our time here. As you can imagine, my long life presents a multitude of things I regret and wish to change.

My most recent regret is the hospice care center down the street from my daughter and granddaughter that I now call home. My schedule is routine: three hot meals a day, followed by a bevy of prescription pills, a bath (if I’m lucky), and the occasional game of backgammon or rummy with the nursing staff. With such an exhilarating and packed schedule, it’s amazing that I have time to think, but I do. I have mulled over my eighty-nine years and the things I wish I could change are down to one.

Her name is Coral Jean Graham, and she is my daughter. I don’t regret her existence or even being a mother. In actuality, I enjoyed being a mother. It was one of the only things I knew I was suppose to be in life. Looking back on it now, I reckon most of this confidence came from my desire to be a better mother to Coral than my mother was to me.

I had the best intentions for her too. Before she was born, I made a list of the top four things I wanted to give to her--scribbled on the back of a brown paper bag during the peak of my pregnancy-induced hormones. (1) I wanted to love her unconditionally, (2) I wanted to protect her from every harm, (3) I wanted her to know that no matter what happened in life I would always be there for her, and (4) I wanted her to grow up in a happy and loving family. It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t succeed in giving her those things. It never occurred to me that my intentions would take her straight through hell.

The one thing I wanted to protect her from is the one thing I invited into her life. What do you do when you find out your husband and the father of your child is sexually attracted to your daughter? Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I killed him. To be more specific, I shot him and watched him take his last breath. The blood that poured from his body and stain the cream-colored carpet gave me great satisfaction. I can’t describe the pure rage that consumed me when I saw what the man I loved was doing to my baby. I don’t even remember picking up the shotgun and pulling the trigger. I only remember seeing them in the darkness, smelling Winter Fresh Speed Stick, and feeling hot and sweaty.

The jury convicted me of involuntary manslaughter, and I was sentenced to twenty-five years of probation. The judge said I had adequate provocation. She was right. I was provoked to get that son of a b***h off of my seven-year-old daughter dead or alive. Unfortunately for him, I chose the former rather than the latter. I have no regrets about killing him--in fact I wish I could kill him over and over and over again. I’m sorry. Please excuse the preceding. That’s the anger talking. If I could do it over again, for Coral, I wouldn’t kill him. I would definitely beat him within an inch of his life and call the police, but I wouldn’t kill him. Over the years, I told myself that I made the right decision. Who would want a pedophile for a father? Who would want a two-for-one special--a father and a molester all rolled into one. I didn’t want that for my daughter. However, that wasn’t my decision to make, it was hers.

Coral hates me for what I did. “Oh you’re not dead yet? What a shame.” Her greeting remains the same with each telephone call. Although I know it’s coming when I dial her number, I am never prepared to hear the words come from her mouth. I must be crazy or a glutton for punishment because I call her faithfully every week--hoping that I will make it past her greeting, but I never do. She greets me accordingly and promptly hangs up the phone. I know that she’s hurt. I know that her father hurt her. I know that I’ve hurt her. “Momma it’s time that you start feeling some of the pain that I feel. Since dad isn’t here to get his share, it looks like you’re going to get a double dose.” Coral was fifteen years old when she said that to me. The words fell from her mouth without warning. It was an announcement of sorts--an announcement of the things to come. And although I was forewarned, I wasn’t prepared for what happened.

On her sixteenth birthday, I found her in the middle of the living room standing on a wooden barstool with a sheet thrown over the rafter and tied around her neck. She held me captive for five hours--doing her best impression of a tightrope walker on the edge of the barstool and threatening to jump if I moved. I pleaded with her for hours until suddenly she looked at me, grinned, removed the noose from around her neck, and plopped down onto the barstool. “Thou shall not kill, right mother? Don’t worry. I will do as you say and not as you do.” 

Her faux suicide attempt was the beginning of sorrows. The more I tried to help her, the more she rebelled. The more I told her not to do something, the more she did it. “Don’t do drugs Coral. Don’t have sex Coral.” She didn’t listen. Sometimes I think I should have changed my tactics--perhaps tried my hand at some reverse psychology. "Have sex Coral, but make sure you never use contraceptives. Do drugs Coral! Your goal is to get as high as the Empire State Building. Now sniff and inject as many drugs into your blood stream as you can. Ready, Set, Go!"

Maybe she would have done the opposite just to spite me. Now, I will never know. On her seventeenth birthday, I found her seizing, foaming at the mouth, and a needle sticking out of her arm. On her eighteenth birthday, she told me and the entire Baptist congregation that she was eight weeks pregnant during the church service announcements. That was a delightful experience--as I’m sure you can imagine.

 Call me crazy, naïve, and stupid, but when June was born I thought Coral would change. I thought the anger would dissipate or, at the very least, retreat below surface level. I thought June would calm the storm that raged inside of Coral, but I was wrong. Coral had planned her pregnancy, but she never had any intentions of being a mother. June was yet another one of Coral’s so-called punishments, and after her birth, Coral refused to look at her, hold her, or even name her. I assumed the role of mother and grandmother, which became effortless the first time June opened her big brown eyes and looked at me. She instantly became my Junebug, and I loved her like I gave birth to her myself.

Like any mother who loves their child, I wanted to save the day. I wanted fix everything. Coral wasn’t ready to be a mother--by her own assertion and my own observation. She wasn’t emotionally or financially equipped to care for a child. So before Coral and June left the hospital, I had everything figured out. I would raise June as my own, and I would support Coral when she went back to school to get her G.E.D. I told myself that this could work. We could make this work.

However, true to form, Coral didn’t want it to work. Similar to all of her self-proclaimed punishments, the actual punishment was never obvious. Her feigned suicide attempt and heroin overdose wasn’t about dying, it was about making me suffer--using the love I felt for her against me. The birth of June was no different. I thought having sex with a random stranger and conceiving a child that I would have to care for was the punishment, but I was mistaken. Three weeks after June’s birth, Coral gave me an ultimatum: it was June, or it was her. I had to choose.

It was another one of Coral’s sick and warped games, and this time, unlike all the others, I refused to play. When Coral realized that she could no longer control me like a pawn in a chess game, threats were delivered in rapid succession. June would be put up for adoption or left on the front steps of a church or firehouse if I didn’t make a choice. The mere mentioned of my grandbaby being shuffled from pillar to post in the foster care system or being discarded at a church or firehouse like a piece of trash created a fiery sensation that started in the pit of my stomach and rose expediently to my esophagus until I was yelling at the top of my lungs: “If you want to leave, then leave. As for June, she’s staying here with me.”

It’s “amazing” (I use that word sarcastically) all of the wonderful skills your children master by living with you and observing you for years. One of my absolute “favorites” (again, I use this word sarcastically) is one that they seem to acquire early: pushing their parent’s buttons. Coral had it mastered by eleven, so I wasn’t surprised when I realized--sitting on the floor in June’s nursery, that with two anger-induced sentences I had unintentionally given Coral exactly what she wanted. I had made a choice. A choice that I would live to regret.

If you want to leave, then leave. As for June, she’s staying here with me. Those were the last words I said to my baby. The next morning I found a handwritten note in June’s crib:

Dear Momma,

I hope June is the daughter I was never able to be. Goodbye.

Coral

When I read the letter--scrawled on a piece of notebook paper--the message written and erased so much the paper had holes in it, I experienced a feeling that was shameful and uncharacteristic of being a mother. A feeling that I am ashamed to share--but will because it is the truth. I felt relieved, and after my mother called and told me Coral was with her, I was glad.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved Coral. I love Coral. However, her behavior repulsed me like a large-winged Palmetto Cockroach meandering across my utensils and dishes. And after all the years of torment and pain, I needed a break. I was tired. For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of calm. I just wanted peace. I just wanted to be happy.

I’m sure it’s not hard to miss the reoccurring “I” in my pathetic pity party. My only daughter had run away from home and the only person I could think about was myself. It took a long time for me to realize that when you become a parent, you don’t necessarily give up the “I,” but the “I” becomes secondary to other pronouns: he (your son) or she (your daughter).

Momma it’s time that you start feeling some of the pain that I feel. Since dad isn’t here to get his share, it looks like you’re going to get a double dose. When Coral said that to me I immediately focused on the wrong pronoun--“I”--as in myself. It wasn’t about me. It was about her. “She.” She was in pain. Through the unprotected sex, planned pregnancy, fake suicide attempt, and drug overdose, she was crying out for help. Hell, she was screaming for it, and I failed to hear her. I failed to help her. I just let her go.

Unfortunately, I am not Michael J. Fox, and I do not have access to a DeLorean. I can’t change what I did or what I didn’t do. However, knowing what I know now, I can try to make it right. Therefore, in my quest to do that, I will tell my story. However uncomfortable, painful, and embarrassing, I will tell it truthfully for Coral--in hopes that one day she will read it. As a parent you never stop hoping and wanting the best for your children. I’m no different. At the beginning of Coral’s life, I had things I wanted to give to her--things I wanted to teach her. Now, at the end of my life, I have one last hope for her: forgiveness. I hope she reads this one day and forgives me. I hope she forgives her father. I hope she moves forward in her life with love and peace in her heart instead of anger and hatred.

To Coral Jean, if you ever read this: You are the daughter I always wanted, and I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you weren’t. Take care of June. Protect her. Love her. She needs you like you needed me. I love you. I always have, and I always will.

Author's Note

Please feel free to leave a review. I want to become a better writer so any criticism, good or bad, is strongly encouraged! Thank you so much! :-)

Reviews

[Anotherlifemaybe]

Interesting beginning, made me look forward to read the rest of the story.
Good work.