2019-09-15 - Gone

Elise can't remember a day when her and her mother ever really got along, not even when Elise was little, with brown eyes too big for her head, bouncy pigtails and chock full of desire to just make her mother happy. There was nothing Elise could do that was ever really good enough - she didn't study hard enough, she drew too many pictures. She didn't read enough books. She talked to too many boys. She didn't pay enough attention at Church.

The disapproval was ever present, stern and looming, a way of life. Elise's mother had gone to her college graduation and lamented that Elise did not become a doctor. Her mother had visited her once in Seattle and complained that Elise's apartment was too small, that her boyfriend was too white, that her job was not prestigious enough. She'd lined up male suitors, arranged unwanted dates, reminded her to go to Church every Sunday. Elise's mother was always disappointed. Elise's mother always wanted her to do better.

There was only ever one time that the words 'I'm proud of you' were ever uttered. Even then it was over the phone and never in person, when Elise gave up her great career, her little apartment in Seattle, her too white boyfriend, and moved back home to take care of her ailing father. Back then, Elise knew that the pride was born out of Elise doing her duty, her obligation as a child; her mother wasn't really proud of her, she was just proud of what Elise was willing to give up for her parents.

At least, that's what Elise thought she knew. That's what Elise thought she was sure of.

The person that put a bullet in the back of her mother's head hadn't taken anything off of her. In Elise's trembling hands was a clear plastic ziplock bag that contained the contents of her mother's purse. The coroner had given it to her when she went to identify the bodies. Inside was a single tube of lipstick, a mirrored compact, and her mother's wallet. When she opened the latter, there was a small piece of paper, yellowed and folded a hundred times over, wrinkled and worn with age.

She carefully unfolds the paper, spreading it onto her lap. Made with pastels, the vibrancy of the colors has faded over time. But Elise knows this picture: it was a drawing she'd made so many years ago now, of her and her mother, 'Mommy & Elise' written across the top in the unsteady hand of a six year old. But there wasn't just the drawing, kept close all these years. Crammed in along with the change was a plastic photograph holder, the kind that old people stuck in their ways carried instead of keeping photos on their cellphone. Nearly every single school photo of Elise was kept there, including a picture from her college graduation, there with her mom and dad. And the last photograph, a picture that Elise had sent her mother out of spite - a selfie of her and Graham, smiling happy, so very much in love.

She'd kept it. Her mother had it printed out, cropped to wallet size, she hadn't even cut Graham out of it. She'd kept it, she'd held onto it. And Elise hadn't even bothered to show up to dinner, assuming there'd be another time. Another chance.

And now they were dead. There were no chances any more. She never even got a chance to say goodbye.