When They Die Twice

An exploration of grief after the death of a mentally ill parent

“Mom?” I ask as I open your bedroom door. You aren’t there. I don’t know why I’m surprised your car wasn’t in the driveway.

Downstairs on the kitchen counter, I find a note that worries me. 

Mom -

Went to stay the night at Zander’s house.

Love,

James

When did James write this? Was it last night? Or Friday?

A hard kernel of dread fills my belly as I dig my phone out of my hoodie pocket. Trembling fingers fumble around, pressing buttons, until at last, they dial James’ number.

“James!” my voice quakes with fear.

“Uh, yeah, what’s up Em?”

“When did you leave this note?”

“Uh, Friday.”

The blood pumping through my ears is deafening as my mind flashes to Friday morning when I slammed my bedroom door in your face. 

“His name is Dave. He’s my fiance,” you said with rushed words and a high-pitched tone. Your eyes were wide and sparkled with wonder like you were watching fireworks on the fourth of July. 

It’s simply not possible. You don’t leave the house or work. Dave doesn’t exist. He’s a figment of your manic imagination. 

“Em, is everything okay? Is mom home now?” James says frantically, bringing me back to reality.

“You need to come home. I don’t know where mom is. I’m calling the police station.” 

My heart is a stampede of racing horses as I hang up the phone and dial 911. The conversation is a blur as I give over my mother’s identifying information; she’s driving a red Honda CRV, a round scar from her the smallpox vaccine she received in the army, no tattoos, she’s probably wearing gold earrings.

I knot my hands together as I sit on the top of the stairs near your room, waiting for something to happen. My mind dreams of the most horrible answer. I shouldn’t have left you alone, but I was scared. You scared me. Over the last week, I watched as you morphed and changed into someone else, like watching a mirror develop small cracks, distorting the image into something unusual. 

And I ran, took flight, and refused to come home. Instead of taking my bus home, I jumped in the car with a friend. I shouldn’t have left you.

When the phone rings, my breath catches in my chest. I pick up the phone with hands that don’t feel like my own. I’m floating outside of myself when I hear myself say, “Hello.”

“This is Officer Mendez. Is this Emma Michael?”

“Yes.”

“Emma, do you have another guardian?”

I shake my head as if the officer can see me. “It’s just me and my brother.”

“Emma, are you in a safe place?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sending over an officer now. Your mother was in a car accident.”

---

You were never quite the same again. I’m not the same.

When I spoke, you stared back at me with empty, unseeing eyes.

A deep crevice formed in my heart, a yawning space which ached for you - for my mom.

And while I could see you, touch you, and even smell you. My mother was gone. It was never her who answer or responded, but a ghost. A small fragment of what you used to be.

---

“Em? Em, it’s your turn,” my husband-to-be says.

My chest lurches with a sharp breath as I tear my eyes away from the empty seat in the front row. But I saw you. You were there with your gold hoop earrings, gold rings, and gold necklace. You always had a thing for gold. Maybe it reminded you of the bright sun hitting the ocean along the shore in Santa Barbara. 

As I turn toward Thomas, I’m wrapped in a fog of you, wishing for a mother who isn’t here. My heart aches from the festering wound you left there years ago. You drifted away and never really came back. I clear my throat and shake my head, ridding my mind of your apparition. 

---

You weren’t there when I got married, when I graduated college or gave brith to my son. And I reached a sense of acceptance with your absence. Each of these moments passed without you there.

I saw you in the gold rings my mother-in-law wore and in the crashing waves that kissed the coast on our yearly vacation. You were a specter of my scarred heart.

I thought grief was done with me.

Until the phone rang the other day. It was your son, my brother - James. And my heart crumbled before he ever muttered the words.

I already knew.

I lost you again.

---

Thank you for taking the time to read.

My mother, Sheila, passed away on October 16, 2024. She was misdiagnosed when I was 17 and prescribed meds, which worsened her condition. When I was twenty-five, she was correctly diagnosed and I had a few good years with her before she fell into psychosis again. I wrote this piece in her passing. I love you, mom and hope you’ve found a place to rest. You deserve it.