Becky’s Mother

When I was seven, I sat next to Becky in Mrs. Rollins’s second grade class.  We were best friends that year, and I would assume it was because we talked so much while sitting next to each other.  Mrs. Rollins always threatened to move us because we talked so much, but those were empty promises.  Over that Christmas break, I invited Becky to my house.

Throughout the year, Becky came to my house several times.  My parents loved her; she was polite and honest and she always used her manners.  We would sit in my room and play with Barbies for hours on end, pretending that our dolls were getting married or having a picnic or going on a tropical island vacation.

“My mommy takes us on a tropical island vacation every year,” Becky would tell me every time we pretended our Barbies were living the good life in Barbados or Hawaii or Bermuda.  “I’ve been to all of those places with my mommy.”  At seven, I wasn’t sure where those places were, but I knew they were places rich people went.  I heard my dad say that his “greedy, money-hungry toad” of a boss went to one of those places every year during his company’s busiest month of the year.

Looking back, I should have figured something was strange when I went to Becky’s house and her mother wasn’t home.

“She’s working, she’s a veterinarian.  She saves animals,” Becky would tell me.  I secretly wished that my mother was as cool as Becky’s.  My mother only worked for the Sony Corporation, which is a cool thing now, but a very uncool thing when you’re seven and care more about plastic jewelry than your mother working as a secretary for a music exec who sometimes gives her free concert tickets.  Ah, but such is life.

Becky’s mother would always be out on an emergency when a cat was hit by a car, a dog was being beaten, a bird was dying.  And she worked late hours, but Becky told me that she got to go to the animal clinic on a regular basis to visit and play with the animals.  Besides, her daddy took good care of her, even though she missed her mommy a lot when she was away saving all the animals that were dying or in pain or needed shots.  Becky’s mom always bought her the best dolls and the nicest clothes and the coolest mass marketing product of the microsecond.  Becky’s room was pink and frilly and perfect to a seven year old.  “My mommy decorated it for me.”

I never met Becky’s mother.  According to Becky, her mother bought her awesome toys, took her on nice vacations, saved the cute little animals, redecorated her bedroom, bought her a puppy, made her a Barbie birthday party, taught her to ride a bike, promised her a million and one things that I wanted.  I used to secretly wish I could switch mothers with Becky just for a day so I could have a cool mom who saved cute animals and did a hundred billion things and was home in time to tuck Becky in.

Becky left my school after that year, and I ran into her last week when my school played against her school in a basketball game.  I watched as she pulled up in her brand new Honda Civic to the venue and get out with her highlighted hair and designer clothes.  She smiled at me and said a polite “Hi Carlie!” with a wave and walked into our gym to watch the game.  If I had been seven, I would have thought Becky’s mom had bought all of those things for her, but I found out shortly after that she’d left out a curious piece of information that I hadn’t been able to understand until I was older.

Becky’s mother had died shortly after giving birth to her due to labor complications.