April

                April showers bring May flowers—at least, that’s what my father used to tell me. My father was an eternal optimist, always looking for the positive. Had you met him, you’d likely think he was insane. One time, the man gave money to a woman that had rear-ended him so that she could get her vehicle fixed. He was generous, but stupidly so. When I was eight, we nearly declared bankruptcy due to his generosity. He just shrugged and smiled. April showers bring May flowers, he’d say, as if that could fix everything. It didn’t, of course. To be honest, I’m not sure if my parents ever did recover from that.

                My mother, however, was not an optimist. I don’t think I’d call her a pessimist, though; “realist” is probably the best description. I remember asking her about April showers when I was young. A thunderstorm was rolling in, and the clouds were the same color as the sidewalk would be once it started to rain. She was standing at the sink and scrubbing the dishes when I asked her. Her hands stopped their motion and sunk into the dingy water. April is the cruelest month, she’d said, her gaze lost on the storm outside the window. I never asked her about April showers again.

                When my mother got sick, I wasn’t worried. Well, that’s a lie. I was petrified, but I inherited her stoic nature. To everyone else, I was the picture of calm. Inside, I was drowning. My wedding was only a month away, and my fiancée was the one who encouraged me to go home as often as I could in order to help my mother. I never wanted to see her. It wasn’t because I didn’t care about her, but because I cared too much. To see her struggle to stand, or to fight to feed herself, or have to call for assistance when she needed to go to the bathroom… It was painful. Eventually, I put up the same walls my mother had all her life and hired nurses to take care of her.

                My mother was always a withdrawn person. You need to understand that. She communicated more through her silence than anything else. After the death of my father when I was seventeen, she spoke even less. At my high school graduation ceremony, most parents spoke loudly of all their child had accomplished. They made banners and bequeathed gifts upon their children. They told their children they were proud of them. My mother simply offered me a small, quiet smile as she bounced little Adalyn on her hip. That was her way, and I understood. How I wished she had smiled like that more often at me.

                The last time I was with her was three weeks ago. I was taking over the watch from Adalyn. Mother was asleep in the hospital bed. Hospitals are awful. They smell like antiseptic and feel like anticipation. Everyone in a hospital is waiting for something. The nurse waiting for her break. The man two doors over waiting for his brother to visit him. The woman in the gift shop, waiting patiently to buy her soda as the woman in front of her buys a balloon to give to a friend on the fourth floor. The parents waiting to see their new baby. And me, the child waiting for their mother to die.

                We didn’t know how close she was, but we knew it wasn’t far off. She lived in the hospital now, just biding her time. The doctors had given her six months almost two years ago, and we had all thought then that she was on death’s doorstep. Maybe she had died back then and this emaciated woman in the hospital bed was only an imposter. That would almost make more sense. It’s so hard to listen to the beeping, to know they’re only counting out the seconds of life your mother has left.

                Now, this is the most important part. I want you to close your eyes for a second. I want you to hear the beeps. I want you to hear your dying mother take such a labored breath that you can’t imagine how it isn’t her last. I want you to think about all you’ve seen her do for you, and all you know you haven’t done for her. Can you see that? Now, imagine she looks at you and stares into your soul. Not like the way she did when she was disappointed in you, but something deeper, something that speaks directly to you and whatever you’re made of. Now imagine she looks at you, and she speaks the first words she’s said in months. And she whispers it over and over again and you know exactly what she means.

                Do you think you could tell her no? If you saw the pain on her face, could you just sit by and not do anything? I made my decision. The last words my mother will ever say to me are Baby, it’s April. They’ll be echoing in my mind for the rest of my life on an endless loop. And I’ll never forget what she meant by it. I’ll never forget the tears in her eyes, or the relief in her face when I nodded yes and increased the dosage on her pain medication. I’ll never forget how it felt to hold her hand as she died. No matter what happens tonight, I’ll never regret it.

And that, officer, is why I had to murder my mother.