The Password

-Dad’s not her password anymore

-What do you mean?! Where?

-Her Gmail. It’s not working.

My brother Bud had a tendency to talk about stuff as if I knew the entire context of the conversation he had had in his head. He took after Mom that way. 

I got why a change of passwords would be upsetting, in this context. Bud and I came from a generation where using your significant other as your password was a true sign of commitment. Thus, Dad’s password had always been MomsName1968, Mom’s password DadsName1968 and that was it. Bud and I would later create other passwords, delegate our devices to create them, but our folks never did.

I vaguely recalled Mom ranting about special characters and what’s so special about them and why can’t I keep this password what’s wrong with it anyway I can’t even find that under line anywhere, but I never followed up, and now here we are.

-OK Bud, that’s fine. We’re going to receive the legacy email with all the passwords in a few weeks anyway. And I can still access her phone when I’m there.

-Right. Forgot you had the fingerprints and stuff.

I did have the fingerprints recorded on Mom’s phone. I also had her location, her instructions for the funeral, her directions on what she wanted to wear for it, all the practical info. Bud was the one who had to arrange all of that, since I was living an ocean away, and yet, I was the one Mom trusted with all the info. I was the one who could carry the mental and emotional load.

An episode comes to mind. I was 9 or 10, at a sports competition. Mom was low-key bragging about how level-headed and quiet I always was, when I lost it. I burst out crying because I had lost the match, Mom was surprised and disappointed that I had proven her wrong in front of people. I just needed to be sad. Bud and Dad would always be scared of my sadness; Mom would mostly be embarrassed. I just needed to be sad. I just need to be sad. But I’m, once again, the one who can take it. The one who can be level-headed and figure out the practical stuff. While Bud is doing all the work, and neither of us is truly seen.

______

It wasn’t all about food, but an awful lot of it was about food. Mom was one of the reasons and a fellow victim of my eating disorder and body dysmorphia. But she was also the one who I shared some of the best meals with. Her memory lives in the tea she bought me because I told her I couldn’t find a good one. And in the instant coffee Dad wouldn’t remember was her favorite, so I took it with me on the way home. 

Before moving overseas, I savored every last meal with them as if it was going to be the last one ever. Until one eventually was. I made her her last risotto; I bought her her last treats. When we received the instructions for surgery preparation, that’s when it hit me, that she might never have a bunch of food again. I tried sharing that with Bud.

-That’s good, though, you know. Everyone should follow that diet. It’s really good to cleanse from those foods.

He kept talking about PH imbalances, I stopped listening. It wasn’t about the food. At the height of my eating disorder, Mom or I would stop at the best bakery in town to buy a sweet raisin bread roll and share it over the sink before Dad could realize and want one, too. It was the one treat I was always able to enjoy. This went on for over 20 years. Not like Mom wouldn’t try to guilt trip us on how we shouldn’t be eating this stuff, it’s so bad it’s so fat. But we would, nonetheless. When the doctors insisted that Mom needed to gain weight (ah! How the tables turn, I thought), I bought her the raisin bread roll. The day of her surgery I tried buying one for good luck, for me – they had run out. I only had it the day before her funeral, over the sink before Dad came home. It was one of many pieces of her I lost over time.

______

I’m not sure when it started, but I know when I noticed. She wasn’t texting me twice a day anymore. Days went by without her initiating a text conversation, a week could go by without calls with her and Dad; even those calls seemed shallow, as if they were trying to cut them short to move on to something more urgent. Nothing was more urgent than talking to me, in regular times. When she eventually shared her diagnosis – no, when Bud pushed her to share it with me, - it all made sense. When I flew back, I had to ring the bell. She hadn’t been waiting by the doorbell to buzz me in like she used to. Another piece lost. She would let me do house chores, she felt too tired to keep up with those. Another piece lost. She barely read the newspaper, until we stopped buying it altogether. She stopped humming / whistling / randomly singing around the house. That was a huge piece, her voice. I was forever grateful to my past self, for deciding to record Mom and Grandma on a random Tuesday a decade ago. I wouldn’t have either of their voices to listen to, otherwise. After surgery, she never fully recovered her natural voice. I realized that thanks to a dream. She was in our childhood backyard hanging clothes, humming. She asked me what we should cook for my aunt, who was coming over for lunch. I knew it was a dream; I started sobbing. She came to comfort me and asked me if I can’t come back the way I used to be, what’s even the point? and I knew she meant it. I woke up sobbing and holding what felt like her hand in mine. That was the last time I heard her voice. Another piece lost.

______

There was this short story I read as a child, it was called “Seven Floors.” There was a hospital that treated only one specific disease; mild cases were on the 7th floor, the more severe the case, the lower the floor. The protagonist was first admitted to the top floor, as his was a very mild case. There were multiple reasons and excuses to move him to lower and lower floors (we need the bed, there’s maintenance on this floor, we’ll just move you temporarily…), until he was in the basement floor and died. Sometimes, it felt like that with Mom.

The doctors were initially optimistic on her chances of recovery. They said her symptoms were normal, even the grossest ones. A lot of it didn’t sit right with us, but we weren’t doctors. So, we trusted that she was being admitted to what that short story would consider the 4th or 5th floor, and she would eventually get better. She wanted me and only me to take her to the hospital. I made a point of breathing in the crispy, cold air that morning. She couldn’t be bothered; she was in too much pain. She didn’t know that was going to be the last outdoor air she would ever breathe. 

I’m now breathing a little deeper, loving a little harder, hugging a little tighter, because I saw what I could be missing out on.

After surgery there were complications, “only temporary” we were told. Except they kept piling up. It became a rollercoaster of “she’s not gonna make it” to “we weren’t expecting this much improvement”. It felt like she was condemned to the basement, and that’s when she started mentioning death.

______

She would gesture “death” to me behind other people’s backs. I don’t know why, but I can speculate. I could talk about that very matter of fact. I could still crack some dark jokes. Just like when we talked about their funerals months before, between talking about what to have for dinner and what happened at work. We had talked about “their” funerals because she was not the one who anybody expected to go first. So, she had started giving me instructions for Dad’s funeral, and since we were at it, she added instructions for her own. 

So, I wasn’t worried about her gesturing “death” in the hospital bed. I wasn’t going to dismiss and deny the gesture – like Dad would, - and I wasn’t going to go philosophical or spiritual – like Bud would. I just acknowledged:

-Yes, Mom, I know you think you’re going to die. Not today, though, your body has decided otherwise. And no, it’s not like we can help you in that direction, it’s still illegal.

At that point, she would gesture exasperation. I get it. I was bombarded by texts from people who wished her some sort of recovery. I was exasperated too. Sometimes, it felt like they were wishing her torture. But they were sending their prayers to the Mom they remembered from before. They hadn’t seen her steady decline, they didn’t realize how huge of a miracle they were wishing for, when talking about a full recovery. Both Mom and I wished we could put “dignified death” on the table, as a good alternative to everything else.

______

-We had time, that was a luxury. We had time to tell her everything we needed to.

Bud was right. But I also realized I didn’t have anything to tell her. Tough love had been her love language to me; practical compliance had been mine towards her.

I visited her wearing new clothes I had picked, asking her for her opinion. She would give me a “thumbs up” or a “good enough (a bit too squared)” gesture. Yes, she could be very detailed in her gestures. I would text her my hairstyle and my ironed clothes, she would reply praising my evolution into adulthood, at over 40. She was using the correct emojis right until the end.

It seems only apt, that she would die when I had just bought clothes for her funeral. Because we knew the end was coming, and I didn’t have dark clothes for the heatwave. I was walking home from the mall when Bud called me. I had been listening to emotional songs, while thinking of all the life that Mom wasn’t going to experience. I was embarrassed on her behalf about my crying in the middle of the street but couldn’t help it. I felt like it was too sunny, the breeze too nice, for her to go without taking notice. She would never walk down the beach, she would never smell the ocean, she would never laugh again.

I went home and wrote what I would say at the funeral.

And I just wanted to be sad.

______

Not going out of our way to let everyone know, to shout it from the rooftops, seemed cruel to me. Sure, Mom was beyond discreet, but her life had touched a lot of people, who would barely even learn about her passing. And I felt like I needed a village or two, to get through that. So, I went rogue and told more people than she would have liked me to. Some broke down in tears, some didn’t bat an eye, others offered a hug, a bottle of water, a tissue to dry my tears – every interaction helped.

Someone said that grief is like a spiky rod in the middle of our soul, which is a fluffy cloud; the soul keeps growing, as more love feeds it, but sometimes it will touch a spike. Grief will never disappear, but it will become more bearable. All the rituals of death – the rituals that serve those who stay more than those who go – help share the load of that grief. 

Being able to imagine how Mom would have critiqued the details of the funeral also helped. Hearing raucous children playing outside the church – a sign that the world moves on even when it stops for us – also helped. Carrying her urn, as if I was holding her on her last walk, helped tremendously. Swapping the traditional “May the earth be light upon you” with a whispered “May you be light upon the earth, because I don’t think it’s ready” also helped. Breathing in the summer breeze, in the brightest sun, while her ashes spread on the green grass, gave me closure and peace.

But at the end of the day, I still needed to be sad. 

______

-Bud, I got the legacy email from Gmail.

-Oh, right. So, what did she change it to?

-Technically, it’s still Dad. But us, too. The password is Rose<3Bud<3Dad_1968

Turns out she found the “under line” after all.

Scent of coffee grounds

Bam bam bam. A light, then nothing. Quick pics flow like a film, quick flashes now slowing down. Here we are, me and Roby. I've grazed my knee, because he was holding me and he let me slip out of his arms. I'm afraid of blood, but I don't want to cry because I don't want to give him this satisfaction. «It hurts?» «YES!!» «Sorry, didn't mean to…» «You're a jerk, as usual. I won't play with you ever again.» And then I cuddle up, pretending to hurt more than I actually do. He stands up and goes to the kitchen, he's gone for a while. When he comes back, he's got two coffee cups, even if mama doesn't want us to drink it. «I put four sugars in yours, shall we make peace?» I don't answer, take my cup and mix the sugar. He's fooling around, gargles and make me laugh. «Still mad?» «Little less now.» «So you can smell the scent?» «What scent?» «That scent you smell after you drank a cup of coffee when you're happy. Can you smell it?» «You're right, I can smell something. I think it's the scent of coffee grounds.» «Oh, I thought it was the cup. But you're the one to know such stuff, so I trust you. It's the scent of coffee grounds.» Pics flowing again, running fast. Here they slow down again. Me and Roby again, but older. I'm crying after I just broke up. «Hussshhhhhh c'mon, stop it huuuushhhhhhh!!» He could never stand my tears, he's afraid of seeing me cry. «It's not worth it, c'mon! He was such an asshole!! He can't force you to do something you don't want to! If you're meant to be, you will meet him again, if not you'll find a thousand other guys, much better than him!! Huuusssshhhh stop it, c'mon stand up and follow me.» He draws me out to the balcony where we hang our laundry out to dry. We can see all the roofs from there, time's close to sunset. «Do you think it's worth to cry?? Look at this sight, look at the colors of the clouds! This is worth crying for, but with happiness!!» I stopped crying, but I don't give a damn about the clouds. «Thanks.» I smile. «Fine, that's a start. If you stop fuckin' sulk, then, you can also find a new Brad Pitt.» I push him in play and laugh, he puts his hand on my shoulder and we go back inside.

Bam bam bam. I open my eyes, where am I? Blue light Oh My God I can't breathe aaahhhh aaahhhh calm down calm down it's just an oxygen mask. I take a deep breath, where am I? IV everywhere, am I at the hospital? I'm passing out, I close my eyes. Pics flowing again, as if I'm watching a movie. Me and Roby again, we're children again, we're puffing up our cheeks. We're Bubboo and Bubbee, we must keep talking like this until one of us laughs. He's doing everything he can to make me laugh, and finally he manages to. He's happy, but not because he won, just because I'm laughing. Pics flowing again, memories shoal and mix together. Here I am, at Roby's door. Ding-dong. «Heeeyyy dumby, how come you're here??» «Hi.. well… I dropped by to give you the invitation, you know... I'm marrying Manuel.» «Oh. Oh, OK. But, are you sure? Come on in, let's talk about it.» «Oh no, he's waiting in the car, I'm on a rush... sorry.» He looks down at the invitation. «Sorry for what? The thing is, I don't know if you would still be sorry, if you were happy. And if you would miss that sparkle in your eyes. But if you say you're happy, then I believe you, you know I trust you.» «And I trust you.» I've got a lump in my throat, I don't want him to frown at me. «Don't turn away from me.» «Heeeyyyy are you nuts?? How could Bubboo turn away from Bubbee??» And he puffs up his cheeks, like when we were children. I laugh, and he's relieved to see me laugh as I used to. «But if you have any problems, you know I'm here, right?» I hold him tight, because I'm afraid we will end up growing away anyway.

White lights, distant voices. «Doctor, the girl is waking up.» One light in one eye, then in the other one. «Giovanna, can you hear me?» My mouth is furred, I can't answer. «Sedate her, she's still weak». It's dark again, and the pics are flowing again. Me and Roby walking on the beach after it rained. He lifts some wet sand with his umbrella and I get dirty. I'm about to get mad at him when he throws me to the ground with a wrestler's move, we laugh and fight. Back at the bungalow, mama gets really mad. «C'mon mama, it's my fault 'cause I made her kinda tumbling down!!» I laugh again. Pics flowing, once again. We're in his car, I'm crying while Roby's driving. «I don't wanna start with "I warned you", so let me just say he's the biggest jackass on Earth. And stop looking at that fucking mobile or I'll throw it away!! He's not gonna call you, and if he does, he will talk to ME! When will you begin to understand how much you deserve thanks to the wonderful person you are and all you give to other people??» «Sure, what I give besides ballbusting? Evidently, I wasn't enough for him.» «YEAH, SURE!! And if that was true, he's justified in finding another woman? Are you kidding??! If I weren't driving I would wrestle with you like we used to, just to see if I can re-activate some cells in that brain of yours!! And do you really want to know what you give to other people? Look at what I found in my stuff, the other day, read something that's worth crying for, c'mon!» He takes a piece of paper out of his pocket, it's old and yellow. At the top, there's a date written by a child. «Hey, what the fuck is he doing?? WWWOOOHHHAAA!!»

Bam bam bam. I wake up, I'm still numb but my head is clear. A nurse is changing the IV. «Good morning Giovanna, how do you feel?» «Confused… weak» «You had a bad accident, it's normal.» «Roby… Roberto, my brother, where is he?? How is he?» «You must thank him, if he hadn't had that quick reaction... he sheered on his side, to avoid you being hurt. He saved your life. He's in a different ward.» «Can I see him? I want to see him.» «Maybe tomorrow, right now he's still too weak.» She goes away. I start looking around, bringing the room into focus. I see my mobile on the bedside table, and that piece of paper. I must have had it in my hands. I take it and read the first lines:

“March 10th 1989. That is the day I turn eight.

Today I'm writing the eight nine or maybe ten stuff I more like, so when I read this in four or maybe five years I can see what I like still and what not. I begin from the less good to the best good.

10.Playing Pang on the Amiga, cos I always win at Pang and sometimes at golden axe too.

09.The recess at school, so I can run and play and I can not study for a while.

08.When we sit around the table at Christmas and New Years Eve all together and we laugh a lot and we eat what Auntie makes and then we count sixty fiftyfive and so on, cos now I can cos I'm older but some time ago I couldn't cos I was too young and I slept a lot earlier.

07.The scent of burned paper and wood when papa cooks barbecue and we collect pine needles. Then papa always gets sick and that's not good, but before it is.

06.The scent of grass when it rains or maybe not, the scent of everything when it's not raining anymore and everybody go around in tracksuit with the umbrella and then you can see the rain bowl too.

05.When we go to the beach together, cos we sing in the car and we laugh all the time but then my sister gets sick so we must be quiet but I still like it.

04.When my mom hugs me tight and I don't know that she wants to hug me, so I like it anyway no I like it even more.”

A smile fills my mouth, tears fill my eyes, I close the paper and decide to go on reading it later, with Roby. He's so right, there are many things worth crying for. Finally they let me see him. Doctors have dark, crusty faces, I don't like them. They stop me in the hallway.

«Hi.»

«Hi.»

«Miss D., maybe you should wait a little while. It's not a good show.»

«I don't care, I wanna see Roby. How is he?»

«Oh… he's not well, Miss D.»

«What do you mean? How long will he have to stay here?»

«Well… he suffered some traumas and brain damages which led to an oedema… he's in coma, Miss D.»

«Coma? But he will pull through. He must pull through.»

«We don't have big hopes, honestly. I'm sorry but... well, if he doesn't react in the next six hours, we will have to declare his brain death. I'm really sorry Miss D., honestly.» Silence.

«Mrs.»

«Sorry?»

«You keep calling me "Miss" even though I'm married. Mrs.»

«Oh… sorry. Seriously, you'd better choose another moment to see your brother.»

«No. If you're telling the truth, this could be my last chance to see him.»

«It's up to you then, ma'm. Let me take you to the room.»

The room is dark, Roby's got IV everywhere. His head is all wrapped, his legs too. Oh My God brother, what happened? I get closer and hold his hand. «Hi, it's me.» Beep beep beep. «C'mon, stop pretending, you won. Wake up.» Beep beep beep. I can feel a lead weight on my stomach. It's called helplessness. I'm looking at the only man –or maybe the only person- who never deceived me, and gave me all he had without asking anything back. And I'm helpless. And I can't even tell him, how special he is. How long I've been looking for someone like him, someone who could see in me all the good things he saw. I can't stop staring at that bandage around his head... how much did it hurt??! Why?? To save me, once more. To save my life and save me from my life, at the same time. To make me realize how many walls I built along the years. Walls around myself, to prevent me from getting at my heart and hurt myself. Walls against other people, to prevent them from getting at my heart and destroy me. Walls against the whole world, afraid of I don't know what, but it's something that could kill me if it'd only got closer. Maybe it's fear of happiness. Roby never built any walls. Every time he was slapped, he smiled back. And every time he was let down, he chose to trust again. Like he did with me. I let him down all my life. And yet he made me feel the most important person in the world. What's so special in me, I don't know. I can't even wake you up. I keep crying. Oh yeah, the list. I take the paper, start reading it and remembering with him. Nothing. Beep beep beep. There's only half an hour left, I've been here for five hours and a half. I go on reading, there are three items left.

“03.The sun set when there are a lot of clouds in the sky, and they color orange and pink and then birds fly into them and there's the light wind that ruffles my hair.

02.The scent of coffee grounds, cos then you are very happy if you smell it, and you love very very much that who's with you. When my sister is there I always smell it. Only if I drink coffee, that is.”

Oh, yeah. It's been a long time since I thought about that. It's been a long time since I last smelled it. I take a glimpse to the last line, and everything collapses. The world as I considered it until now, the idea of being forced to fight for something different from what I already have. I look around and discover a new world, that is the same world but now I'm able to see it. And I understand that my life is stronger than my efforts to ruin it. And I finally understand that there are many things worth crying for, but many more things worth laughing for. Once again, Roby gave me joy, gave me my life back.

“01.My sister's smile, cos it colors everything and it seems that there's a light so strong that you must close your eyes, even if it's raining outside. And she always smiles even if I say silly silly stuff, but she smiles cos she's nice. Here they are. This are the stuff I more like. One day I say them to my sister, so she can say hers. Not today cos she's mad, and I want to make her laugh. So then she's happy.”

Beep beep beep. I can't hold back the tears anymore. I stop. I read the list all over again. Beep beep beep. A doctor walks in. «Ma'am… you should walk out the room.»

«No.»

«Please, ma'am, we must unplug the machines.»

«Unplug them, but I'm staying here. And bring me a coffee, with lots of sugar.»

«But ma'am…» He's persuaded by my glance. When the nurse comes in bringing my coffee, I slowly mix it. I look at Roby, and I can't see anything else. I drink my coffee as we used to. Beep beep beep. Beep beep. Then nothing. His face softens, he looks as if he's ready to stick out his tongue and make me laugh. Thus I laugh, laugh, laugh and everybody thinks I'm crazy but I can't see them nor hear them. Out of the windows there's one of our sunsets, full of clouds in the sky. And I bet you can smell wet grass, rain and burnt wood in the air. But I can smell only one thing, and put my lips on Roby's 'cause I'm sure he can smell it too. It's that scent, again. The scent of coffee grounds.