Ghost Mom
I don’t know Lilah like my daughter’s other friends. She’s one of the many girls who’s been in and out of social circles over the years, Girl Scouts, a random sleep over here, a soccer game there. I know her name, Lilah Silvers, and that she has a twin brother Nick. She lives somewhere in our neighborhood, on one of the streets that intersects ours, part of a grid designed in 1960 when straight lines and split-levels were all the rage in suburban New Jersey.
But when I got the call that she’d missed the bus, Lilah became the kid I had to save.
We were already on our way to the school drop-off line, me with coffee in hand, my son, Dominic, in the back and my daughter, Ruby, in front. She’s punching in radio stations while checking her Snapchat streaks. I’m trying not to explode because she’s doing the two things that annoy me the most, both at the same time, when my phone rings.
It’s Ellie, another neighbor. She stammers that she’s just passed Lilah on Main Street and that she clearly missed the bus. Ellie was already late and couldn’t stop, but asked if I could scoop her up so she could get to school.
“Of course!” I said, without even thinking. “Where the hell does she live? What bus stop?” I’m asking Ruby and Ellie at the same time and both give me different answers.
I make a quick U-turn and spill the dregs of my coffee on my jeans. My eyes scan the streets looking for her, a small girl with a large backpack, that’s what all the 7th grade girls look like to me.
“Where is she?” I ask, both my kids shrug back an answer. They are looking too, as I crawl down the street.
“She must have gone inside her house,” Ruby finally says. “She’ll get a ride mom, don’t worry.”
Ruby is 13 and has no idea what worry really is. But I do.
Lilah’s mom died a few months ago. Suddenly, without any warning. Lilah went to bed one night with a mom and woke up to EMT’s trying to revive a lifeless body in the living room. It’s a haunting story that leaves a mental scar, a dark, conflicting feeling of relief that this tragedy happened to someone else.
Lilah’s dad never really recovered, not that one can from such a loss. He’s got a hound dog look about him on a good day. When I see him now, he’s lost — eyes averted, shirt just short of being crisp, a shoelace untied. I’ve heard he’s doing his best but his job demands that he’s out of the house by 6AM and home after dark, after dinner, way after homework.
The twins post to their Instagram accounts about their mother, how much they miss her and Ruby joins her friends with tearful emoji’s and “hang in there” sentiments. It’s sweet but obviously just dressing on a much deeper wound. They’ve been forced to grow up in the unrelenting light of grief, and I can only imagine what it takes for them to keep moving forward.
Its that kindred spirit of motherhood that compels me to take another loop around the block. Because it's my biggest fear, not being around for my kids. And I know if I were the ghost mom and not the one with cold coffee soaking into her jeans, I’d be screaming, who’s taking care of my people? Who’s got my kids? Who?
So I answer the silent call, the call I hope Lilah's mom can hear as I snake down the streets whispering “I’ve got her, mama, I’ve got her.”
Photo by Scott Webb on Unsplash
