Mom Died Every Flu Season

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Mom died every flu season.

“Oh honey, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe,” she would say. “Tell your brother I love him. Remember that the Bavarian porcelain goes to anyone but my sister.”

While I lived at home she went through five different doctors. The ethical fired her because they were ethical. The unethical fired her because they didn’t like for her to be seeing other doctors simultaneously—too much exposure.

Mom was not afraid of steroids or antibiotics; she craved them.

“Amy, this time I’m dying for real,” she said on the telephone, calmer than ever. “I have booked a trip for you and your brother to Mexico. Our last adventure.”

“Mom, no. Stop it. You are doing it again.”

“Amy, I’m dying and this is my dying wish. You are going. Tickets are in your e-mail. Say hi to Dwayne.”

She hung up the phone. She really did.

Mom loved my husband, Dwayne.

“How come I’m not invited?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not going,” I said while chugging a handful of vitamins, minerals, and supplements.

“Amy, you are going,” he said. “Of course you are. But why am I not invited?”

No one had seen the real trouble with Mom, not like I had. Beneath the high drama and theatrics there were some deep-rooted issues. Everyone—Dwayne especially—found her hilarious, charming, and entertaining. Easy to do since they were never woken up at 3 a.m. to check her temperature, or asked to see with a magnifying glass if the infected pore had something crawling from within.

“Oh my word, Kyle, could you at least be more discreet?”

“What?” He lowered his sunglasses, eyes red as hot iron. “Mom knows, she got me this batch from her naturist doctor.”

“Unbelievable,” I said. “You are not flying with any of that, right? You do know it is illegal.”

“Relax, sissy, I’m buying more when we get to PV.”

“I don’t know why I ever agreed to this.”

Mom flew in a day before us. She wanted everything to be perfect.

“I wish you weren’t allergic to roses, I would have roses all over the bedroom,” she had said.

If it hadn’t been for that last customer I had, I wouldn’t have gone. But I needed a break from work, and I do love the beach.

“Welcome home,” Armando, our butler for the week, said.

The double doors opened into a huge room. Granite top over a tree trunk. Wood paneling. Orchids. Margaritas on a freaking silver platter.

Mom was positioned perfectly on a wicker chaise lounge bathing in sunset light. She looked like a Greek goddess. The white linen wrap draping over her shoulders and the oversized hat were just enough to make me self-conscious in my jeans. The one benefit to a life of paranoia and cheating death was her body. Mom was fit.

“Oh, my baby!”

Her red lipstick left a mark on Kyle’s cheek. Of course she greeted him first.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, being hugged.

“I didn’t know if you were actually going to come,” she said, holding me by the shoulders, at arm’s length. “Good, good. I’m glad you are here, Amy. Get you a margarita, you look tired.”

But are you really happy to see me? And thanks! Love the tired look. Nice to see you too, I thought.

Mom was actually in a good mood. Everything was grand. Armando was trying to please Mom almost to a flirtatious level.

“Anything else you need, señora?”

“Oh, Armando, I love how you say señora. I can’t roll my r’s.”

“No, you say it perfect. No rolling r in señora.”

He was trying to sound like Antonio Banderas. Cheap gimmick, but it really was working on Mom.

We were sitting on the patio, light evening breeze, candlelight, all dressed in white, drinking white wine when the double doors opened.

“Thank you, Armando.”

That undeniable raspy, deep voice through that thick mustache: Dad.

“Mom, what is he doing here?” I whispered, as quietly as an exasperated woman can.

Turns out she thought it was important for Dad to be there. Ever since the divorce, Mom and Dad have always tried to one-up each other. It is a constant battle to the point of being something that gives them identity. “Hi, my name is Samantha and I am divorced from Rufus—oh, and I am better than him.”

“Hey Son,” he greeted Kyle.

Kyle didn’t respond.

“Hey poopie.”

I hated that nickname.

“Armando? Una cerveza, por favor?”

Yes, Armando, one beer please, and show him out.

“Hey daddy,” I said.

“Samantha…” he greeted Mom.

What was that? What was that squeeze on her shoulder blade and the kiss on the cheek?

“Rufus…”

I love my parents, I really do. But I don’t love them together, I can’t stand them together. They are reactive in the most horrific of ways. Why is he here?

Kyle wasn’t in his room. I don’t think he slept there. He swiped right on a hundred girls at dinner.

I left the villa quietly. Old Vallarta was a different town in the morning. Boys and girls in cute uniforms took street buses with the women in their lives. Morning light broke through clouds of dust being swept into the sky. Loud diesel engines reverberated on the narrow streets. People had scarves and sweaters; I was the only one in shorts and a small top—it was around 64ºF. They huddled up around steam coming out from the pots selling some kind of breakfast food wrapped in corn husks and drank hot drinks in foam cups.

The beach was quiet. An old foreigner was doing yoga. Locals were collecting trash and setting up umbrellas and chairs. I called Dwayne, but he didn’t pick up. I sent him a video telling him hi, and all the details from dinner.

The coffee from the chain convenience store had a burnt taste, and the one from the street vendor tasted terribly sweet, like everything but coffee; it tasted like cane juice stained black. I went to the reception at the resort looking for Armando to ask for an Americano, but could not find him.

I gave up.

I walked back to the villa. I remembered there was a Nespresso machine in the living room in Mom’s area. I really shouldn’t have done that.

“Amy!” Mom screamed.

My stomach sank. I was short of air and I felt like my heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t smoked since college. I rushed out to the street stand selling candy, fritters, and loose cigarettes. It was ten pesos.

“Two, por favor,” I said, making a sign for two with my hand.

I was pulling on it like oxygen. My hand was shaking.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Amy, those things are going to kill you!”

Mom had followed me, likely awakening passions on her way to me with that skimpy laced nightgown—slightly more than she had on ten minutes prior.

“Please, stop, we don’t need to talk about it,” I said, exhaling smoke with each word in staccato.

“Amy, your father and I have excellent sexual chemistry, we always…”

“Mom, stop.”

She took the cigarette from my hand.

“What are you doing?”

I had never seen my mother smoke.

“I’m already dying, Amy, don’t you get it? This is not going to hurt me anymore.”

We didn’t speak of the unspeakable. But it was obvious that Mom was having a great time with her orchestrated telenovela.

“Where is your brother?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know, securing progeny, buying drugs?”

“Is he still smoking that?”

“Is he? Heavens, you really need to get to know your son.”

I fell asleep the rest of the morning, thankfully under the shade. I would have been severely burnt had I been in the sun.

“Amy, where is your brother? He is going to be late for the whale-watching tour.”

“Why do I have to be responsible for Kyle?”

“Because you are the old one.”

Great way to say it, Mom.

Kyle and Cynthia, who spoke perfect English, were waiting for us at the whale-watching thing.

“Oh, thank goodness, my baby is okay!” said Mom.

No explanation was ever expected from Kyle, only instant relief that he would grace us with his apathetic, irresponsible presence.

Mom got seasick. It was awful.

“I told you I’m dying, Amy, you just won’t believe me,” she said as I held her hair. “Oh Amy, you gotta look after your brother, and remember…”

“The Bavarian porcelain goes to anyone but Aunt Martha.”

“Yes, that’s my girl.”

‘Yes, that’s my girl’—that was the nicest thing she had said to me in a long time. Mind you, it had to do with guaranteeing her sister didn’t get the stupid porcelain, but I guess that made me a good daughter in her eyes.

Mom cancelled dinner. She said she needed the night off, and she asked Armando to find her a masseur.

Kyle left with Cynthia after the whale-watching to some party in a rich Mexican’s house at the top of the mountain. Cynthia was already calling me sister, and she insisted I went with them, but I politely declined the invitation—I’m too old for that.

“Wanna go for dinner, Poopie?”

I agreed. I hadn’t been with Dad, by myself, since I married Dwayne.

Of all things we ended up eating hot dogs in a street cart. We don’t do hot dogs in America like they do in Mexico. Dad was crying from the jalapeños; ketchup and mayo were all over his shirt; the stringy cheese they put on it with the nacho cheese topping was all over his mustache.

I loved my dad.

“Amy…”

For the first time I wished he was calling me Poopie. I knew what he wanted to talk about.

“No, Dad, please.”

“Amy, I love your mother, so very much.”

“Dad…”

“Please, let me explain.” He coughed, still choking on jalapeño heat. “Your mother and I have maintained sexual relations since we divorced.”

“Oh Lord…”

I wished he would stop.

“We experience the kind of compatibility with each other that one maybe only finds once in their lifetime,” he said. “Have you and Dwayne found that compatibility?”

“Gracias,” I said to the hot-dog man. I didn’t need change, keep the pesos. I needed to get out of that situation. Dad was speaking obnoxiously loud. Did he not realize that we may not speak Spanish, but half the people around us understood English?

Kyle didn’t arrive to sleep. I was not going to go for the Nespresso in Mom’s living room; I was having burnt coffee and another cigarette.

I confessed to Dwayne and shared all the dysfunctional details of my beautiful family.

“Is something going on?” I asked over the telephone. “You sound weird. I just told you I’ve smoked three cigarettes so far and you didn’t care.”

“No, nothing. It’s fine. You are on vacation.”

“Oh, darling, if this is reverse psychology, it is working, damage done, understood—no more smoking,” I said.

“No, I don’t mind. It’s not that. Just a lot on my mind right now… work.”

Liar, liar, you are lying.

“Ok, can’t wait to see you again, just one more night. Love you.”

“Ok, you too.”

‘Ok, you too’? What is that supposed to mean?

I was losing my mind. I needed to get out of there. Mom’s victory-lap pre-death was not worth my marriage.

I tried changing my ticket, and I could have, but I couldn’t bring myself to spend two thousand dollars to apologize for smoking. Dwayne would be more upset if I did that.

One last dinner. Kyle graced us with his presence, and Cynthia’s.

Armando was off duty, but he had been invited to the dinner. I’m sure that was grounds for him to lose his job, but we had steaks, shrimp, the ugliest lobsters I’ve ever seen, Moët Impérial, a chocolate fountain; it was the gaudiest dinner ever—but that was Mom.

“Cynthia, sweetie, help me up.”

I rolled my eyes; Mom was being so overly dramatic since getting seasick.

“I know you will take such good care of my Kyle, just like you do with me,” she pinched her cheek. “You’ll have the prettiest babies—such a shame I won’t be here to see it.”

Taking good care of you? She literally just helped you up! I’ve been looking after you for as long as I have memory. I could read a blood-pressure cuff before I could read the numbers on it. This hypochondriac has been my responsibility.

“Armando, get me another glass, will you?”

Armando was too busy taking selfies with the chocolate fountain to care. I handed Mom the glass of champagne.

She clinked the glass so hard I thought it would break. Everyone went quiet, except for Armando who was recording a TikTok.

“Kyle, sweetie, I’m so proud of you for finding love. Your father and I, we were in love once. Lately we just…”

“Mom!”

“Amy, don’t be such a prude, it is perfectly natural.”

The toast turned into a speech. She then thanked Dad for all the years of unhappy marriage and she went on to explain all the ways in which she was better than him.

“And you, Amy.” She stopped. Everyone turned to look at me. Mom was holding back tears.

What is going on?

I started to stand up. She signaled for me to sit down.

“I’m okay,” she said, wiping a single tear away from her face. I saw it glistening, with the candlelight, and then evaporate on the back of her hand. “You are the best thing I ever did, Dwayne is so lucky. I wove you, darling.”

I froze. I didn’t know what to say. I started to speak when Armando screamed, “Cheers!”, raising his glass.

Mom died that night. Dad found her when he went to her bedroom for the unspeakable.

It wasn’t easy to get the body back home. I had to bribe a doctor, two police officers—thankfully one was Armando’s cousin who convinced the other one—and some kind of notary public that I’m sure was totally unnecessary, but I was not leaving my mother in Mexico for the two weeks that they said it would take.

Dwayne knew she was really sick. I should have known that something was wrong when she didn’t invite him. I should have asked. But then it made sense, why he had been so off—he knew all along, and Mom had selfishly tasked my husband with arranging everything for the funeral “just in case,” she had told him.

She left a letter for me. A safe place where she could say I love you instead of I wove you. I cried all night. Dwayne held me as I sobbed into daylight in fetal position.

Aunt Martha called the next morning.

“Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Thank you, Auntie.”

There was a small pause. I assumed she was trying to get a hold of herself; she had just lost her sister.

“Did she ever tell you what to do with the Bavarian porcelain?”