When Elizabeth’s mother died, she was, of course, crushed.
Her mother was a good woman. She had lived a good life and died a dignified enough death. She had gone relatively quickly. Elizabeth had cried at the funeral. She stood with her father at the memorial, the good daughter she was, and accepted handshakes and hugs from family and strangers and People Who Knew Her When She Was Only This Big.
The weekend Elizabeth’s mother died, the city was mostly empty. Seeing that the following Tuesday was the 4th of July, most had left on Friday evening to go to their Summer Homes, taking Monday off work to give themselves an extra long Holiday weekend. Elizabeth did not go anywhere. She did not have a Summer Home.
When Elizabeth got the call, she thought to herself: I ought to call my mother to let her know. Oh, she remembered.
Elizabeth was a writer. And so, when Elizabeth got the call that her mother died, she was, of course, very sad. But, Elizabeth was a writer. And so, when she got the call that her mother died, part of her was tickled pink. Elizabeth knew what this could mean for her career: most, if not all, great writers had the gift of the DODM: the dead or difficult mother. Elizabeth had never before had a dead or necessarily difficult mother. She attributed her mediocre writing career to the fact that her mother was a decent woman. Their relationship had always been mild and smooth, nothing like what she heard from her friends’ relationships with their own mothers, which seemed to be filled with tears and guilt and heaviness. She thought: finally.
She felt many things, but mostly, she thought, it felt like when she broke her right arm in 4th grade and had her cast signed by everyone in the grade. Even her crush Ben signed her cast. He wrote a smiley face next to his name. Her teacher made the class write her a get-well-soon card. Her best friend Sarah had to write notes for her in class, given she was right handed and couldn’t do it herself, with the cast and all. That is what Elizabeth’s mother’s death felt like.
When Elizabeth was young, she would go with her mother to the shore. Her mother would pack ham and cheese sandwiches, a bag of chips, and two oreos, one for each of them. After a few hours laying in the sand and walking in ankle-deep water together, Elizabeth would sit with her mother on their striped beach towels and open the sandwiches. They would work fully through the sandwiches before moving onto the chips, always plain Lays. They seldom spoke as they ate. After the sandwiches and chips were gone, they would sit together and listen to the waves crashing on the sand. The oreos were always saved for the ride home. Once they were buckled in, Elizabeth’s mother would open the ziplock bag, lean over the backseat, and hand Elizabeth her treasured cookie. The oreos, after hours in the sun, were always warm and soft. Elizabeth doesn’t eat oreos anymore.
She went by herself to the funeral. She did not have anyone with whom to travel home. She took three trains to LaGuardia, boarded the four hour flight, and called an Uber to her childhood home. It was humid, and her hair stuck to her forehead. The Uber driver had the windows down instead of turning on the AC. Most Ubers in her homedown did this, she remembered. There were small American flags waving in almost every manicured lawn she passed. When she arrived, she opened the front door to find her father at the dining table, sitting with her older sister. Victoria had been by her mother’s side when she died. She was, of course, crushed. Elizabeth thought: maybe now I can ask Victoria about the bruise.
When Victoria was 18 and Elizabeth 12, Victoria came home one night with a bruised and busted lip. She never said how it happened. When Victoria wasn’t looking, Elizabeth would stare at the bruise over the following days as the swelling receded, watching it turn from purple to yellow. Their mother noticed, of course. She never asked. In the kitchen, their mother would glance at Victoria with soft, unreadable eyes. Victoria didn’t talk about it. If Elizabeth brought it up, Victoria changed the subject or walked away. Elizabeth sometimes heard her speaking in low tones over the phone. When Victoria went off to college, and then to medical school, the problem resolved itself. It was never spoken of again.
The funeral was later that evening. Elizabeth thought of what she would write. Victoria was not a writer, and therefore did not see the upside to this loss. At least Elizabeth would be moved to write, maybe. Victoria would return to her husband and three children and high-paying secure career as a clinician at the local hospital in their hometown. But she probably would not be moved to write. And so, Elizabeth, for once in her life, felt she may have the upper hand. Yes, she had missed the moment her mother died. Yes, she had failed to come home when her mother first told her she was sick eight months ago. No, she hadn’t written anything in the eight months since. But maybe now, finally, that would change.
After the funeral, Elizabeth drove herself to the grocery store. She walked straight to aisle nine and stared at the shelves of blue. She picked up a pack of double-stuff, the kind her mother called excessive when they were first released. She walked to the self checkout, avoiding the cashier who was in her highschool geometry class.
When she got home, she placed the oreos on the windowsill in the sun. It was summer, and the sun would not set until well after 8pm. She sat in her childhood bedroom, which her mother had not changed since she moved out 15 years ago. The bedspread was the same quilt Elizabeth’s grandmother had made for her. She sat crosslegged on bed and pulled out her laptop. Elizabeth opened a blank word document and titled it: Mother. She stared. She imagined writing the first line: When Elizabeth’s mother died, she was, of course, crushed.
She deleted it. She imagined the review: A poignant and haunting piece. Maybe that’s what they would say. Maybe they would publish it in the New Yorker. She imagined her mother reading the review. She thought: my mother might not like this essay. Then she thought: Well, I don’t know.
After she felt enough time had passed staring at the blank screen, she returned to oreos on the windowsill. They had melted slightly, slumping up against the plastic. She picked one up and bit into it. Warm and soft. It didn’t taste like she remembered.
Author’s note: I had a piece on ICE ready for this week, but I felt the overwhelming badness of real life and current news has been especially heavy lately. So, Elizabeth was born (just as her mother died. Sorry, Elizabeth). I initially said my substack would be a little bit of everything, so here is an attempt at some short story fiction to mix things up. I felt even more out of my comfort zone writing this, which is good, I think. I am very glad to say this story is, of course, completely fictitious. My mother reads all of my substacks and would never let me come home with a busted lip without making the perpetrator pay for it.
Until next time,
Clare
©️ Clare Culver 2025
Cover art: Michele Clamp
I’m enthralled. Thank you.