Sharing a Story: Life is Not Fair

According to the blurb, this is a place where writers can present original content. So, since I'm looking for dopamine hits and hoping to get positive feedback, I am sharing a story I wrote last year. Please do NOT blast it to bits. If you don't like it, just say that you don't like it. I'm feeling fragile.

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Life is Not Fair
By Lauren Wilson

Liquor was not involved. So, you know it was a cellphone, and the silly little ditz didn’t even have the decency to die. Just my son. Swerving to avoid her as she reached under the seat to get her phone. Going off a two-lane bridge that the town kept promising to fix and didn’t. Plunging into a stream that was so filled with flood water that it was nearly overflowing. My son. Aiden Darnell Fisher. Sixteen years old. Dead.

I remember when he was conceived. Philip wanted to experience the sensation of condomless sex, and I went along. I remember hearing Philip’s “happy sounds” at the very wrong time. Pulling out is not good birth control. Cletus the Fetus. He was very much wanted, just unplanned. Philip was rising in his career, so I moved over to the mommy track. I worked for one of those huge progressive companies that let you take twelve weeks maternity leave – unpaid. Pump milk as necessary, stay home with sick children as necessary. And in return, you knew that you would always get dregs. The worst leads, the smallest raises, minimal commissions, no bonus, no possibility of being promoted. It was worth it. I had Aiden.

When Aiden was three, Philip got promoted to regional manager, with its headquarters in Dallas. There was no way I was raising my son in Dallas. I hate the schools; I hate the politics. Anne Arundel County had good schools. But Philip chose his job over us, and we divorced, amicably, so that I wouldn’t have to find out that there were other women. All things considered, Philip was a good father. He timed his visits when Aiden was having something important going on. A recital, a school play, a soccer match. He also made two special trips up. One when Aiden was 8, to explain about police, and one when Aiden was 11, to explain about sex. Philip was also a good fling because he would arrive a day early, I would get a babysitter, and we would do our thing. I was getting depo shots - to alleviate cramps, not for birth control - and it make things convenient. The next evening, Philip would arrive at the house while Aiden and I were having dinner, complete with whatever gift I knew Aiden wanted. By the time Aiden was about nine, he figured out “tell mom, get gift from dad.” But none of us minded.

My son is, was, a good boy. He was in his junior year, he had aced his SATs, and colleges were interested. His love of soccer carried him through high school. He played half-back and ran back and forth on the field like the wind. He had a girlfriend, Deja. His first girlfriend. Her first boyfriend. They had been dating for two years. He was a momma’s boy, but I did my best not to interfere. Philip had “the talk” with Aiden because I didn’t think it was my responsibility. Heck, I knew Aiden was not going to want to talk to me about wet dreams and long showers and erections under the desk if the teacher was pretty. But I stuffed condoms in his underwear drawer. They stayed there untouched for a long time, but when Aiden turned 16, they started to dwindle. So, I added more.

My son was not handsome – it’s still not easy to say “was.” He had eczema and light patches of skin against his darker hue. His teeth were not perfect, but we had decided not to get him braces. He was not big, neither husky nor tall. But he made up for it with a chiseled core, and my boy could pack a pair of jeans in a way that had the girls staring. I don’t know if he pulled them down while he was in school. His belt was around his waist when he left in the morning, and around his waist when he came home at night. He wore his hair in twists but kept it relatively short. A compromise between neat and urban chic.

Aiden started playing soccer at four. I had been tearing my hair out trying to deal with all of that boy energy. We had a small house in Odenton with a yard and a swing set, à la Philip, and I had gotten Aiden a black lab to run around the yard with. His name was Minzi – protector. And they were inseparable. But that still didn’t address the energy. I knew I had hit the ball out of the park when Aiden fell asleep in the car on the way home from his first soccer match. He had run up and down the field like a maniac. He couldn’t dribble, he couldn’t pass, but he had endless energy, and that’s really all you need when you’re four.

I did not get the soccer mom SUV. I had no desire for five or more Aidens in my car. In fact, driving to and from soccer games was “us” time. And so was dinner. Us time. I told him little innocent snippets about my day, like what I had to eat. And he told me about his day. What his friends said that was funny, which teachers were unfair to him – gotta go take care of that – and which ones he liked. Which homework was stumping him, and what he was breezing through. Aiden was not good at math. From day one, numbers confused him. He didn’t like them. It was a deep dislike that was not fixable, so I focused on having him enjoy other subjects. By fifth grade, he was bringing home a C in math, and I considered that acceptable. Numerous career choices were blocked off, but he loved social studies, and he cared about people. He liked learning about diverse cultures. That made it easy to get him interested in African history around age seven, and then later, African-American history, which has some horrific aspects that I wanted him to be ready for – by eight. I remember when I took him to The National Great Blacks in Wax Museum on North Avenue; he saw the slave ship with the life-sized wax figures showing rape, forced feeding, lying in chains. He asked me, “how did they go to the bathroom?” and I had to explain. Aiden loves, loved, showers and feeling clean, so this was the most upsetting part of the exhibit for him. We returned to see the lynching exhibit when he was ten.

So, yes – he was a momma’s boy. He could always call Philip, and they had regularly scheduled calls, which evolved into Facetime. But I nursed cuts and bruises, I dealt with ignorant teachers, I figured out how to get him to eat vegetables. I made him responsible for rounding up the house trash at age four and taking out the trash cans by seven. I made sure that he walked with me when I walked Minzi. Well, kinda. Aiden would run ahead, then sprint back, run forward, and sprint back. It was a soccer drill. And he got hugs. Lots and lots of hugs. We were doing the read-me-a-bedtime-story thing from when he was six months old to when he was ten, followed by a prayer to Jesus and the mommy-son super hug. On his eleventh birthday, I set 10 pm as bedtime, and he was reading on his own; we still said a prayer and hugged every night. He may have stayed up later, but if he was reading, you don’t punish that.

Aiden fractured his leg when he was eleven. Soccer is definitely a contact sport. He had a cast that all of his classmates signed, and he was off the field for eight weeks. My poor, bored baby. Time to introduce him to comic books. When I was young, DC Comics had birthed Milestone, with Icon, Hardware, Static and Blood Syndicate. I explained my need to Philip who happily rounded up each series for Aiden to read when he was bored – all the time. He couldn’t relate to the urban feel, but the characters were the right color. Marvel Comics only had two Black characters. Black Panther and, Falcon - Captain America’s sidekick. But Marvel was fun, so I tolerated it. I also got him a Nintendo Switch. You may wonder why I was not getting him a PlayStation or XBox. Nope, avoided them like the plague. And I was quite blunt about it. “Aiden, they fry the mind. And I will not let that happen to you.” The Nintendo could not come to the dinner table. He also had a desktop computer. Not a laptop. I did not want him taking the computer to bed. Instead, I wanted him reading. Comics morphed into science fiction, so I had Philip curate and hunt down age-appropriate sci-fi for my baby. And Philip took it to heart. Hello Amazon. Books arrived three times a week. Philip would buy the first in a series and see if Aiden would latch on. If so, he bought the rest.

Aiden had trouble with church. He had liked Sunday school, learning about Jesus. But God confused him. God sanctioned wars. God killed innocent Egyptian children. God leveled cities and wiped nearly every living thing from the earth with a flood. My son did not want to fear a Creator, and I was in a bind. I had always accepted it. Our pastor did not have answers that Aiden could accept. The pastor talked about man’s will, choices, and the importance of making the right choices. But it didn’t sit well with Aiden. So, he went to church because I made him go, and Deja was there, but he frequently challenged that pastor.

Right now, right this minute, I am having trouble with the church. I am having trouble with God. God tested Job, but in the end restored everything when Job showed unwavering faith. What could God possibly restore to me? There is a deep emptiness, a large black hole in the center of my being. My son is gone. My son suffered and died. My son drowned. His lungs filled with water, he choked, he felt horrendous pain. Because some little witch needed to find her cellphone. You cannot say it’s karma. Fate. What God had in store for him. God’s mysterious plan. None of those things comfort me. God’s son died, and then he came back. God never had to grieve.

I am so very angry. I am angry at myself for letting Aiden get a car. It wasn’t a big car. It wasn’t a stylish car. It was a Honda Civic with good gas mileage, and I was going to let him drive to his soccer games across the state on evenings and weekends, and I was going to get off the mommy track and reclaim my career. I am angry at myself because I feel selfish for wanting to be more than a mom. I have a degree in marketing. I’m good at sales. I deserve to be making more money. In fact, in two years, Aiden would go to college, and I would be an empty nester. Minzi passed away two years ago, and we didn’t get another dog. I wasn’t sure what I would do with myself. I had figured that I would throw myself into work. Two years from now. Not now. That’s not what I want for my life right now.

I am angry with the town of Princess Anne for not repairing that stupid, stupid bridge. What kind of corrupt, mismanaged blundering would result in a bridge with a weak barrier that everyone knew about and just said “drive slow”? I am angry with the makers of cellphones. Apple, Samsung, Nokia, Motorola, all of them. For creating something so completely addictive that irresponsible children, and some adults, would try to split their attention between the road and the phone. Emma Bradshaw can boo-hoo and say she’s sorry all she wants. She broke the law. She will probably get community service. Yes, I hate Emma Bradshaw with a deep loathing in my gut. And if she asks my forgiveness, I will say, “Never,” do a 180 and walk away, proud of myself for not spitting in her face.

Philip is here, and though I rail at him and punch him and scream at him, he is completely blameless. Not that he vetoed the car, but it hadn’t been his idea. He never had to be a custodial parent; he didn’t really know what you invested to bring a Black boy into manhood. The choices you make, the risks you take, the allowances, and the taboos. He had no idea what it would mean to ME for Aiden to have a car. To no longer be a soccer mom. And it comes back to me again. A choice I made, a risk I took, an allowance. Here we are, living in a safe town, in a nice neighborhood, with a good, diverse police force that doesn’t profile, and it didn’t matter. No, he didn’t get shot on the crime-ridden streets of Baltimore. He’s not that particular statistic. But “fatalities from car accidents” is still a statistic. My son is a number on a chart to the rest of the world.

There is no word for a parent that loses a child. There are widows, widowers, and orphans. No word for me. Just “grieving mother.”

The wake and the funeral are tomorrow, and a part of me does not want to go. Philip dropped everything and took a Red-Eye plane when I called him. And he has handled all of the painful details. Bless him for that. If I had had to do it, I would have, but I didn’t have to and I am so grateful. We have laid out Aiden in his soccer jersey. It was the most meaningful thing in his life. The funeral is on a Saturday, and the coach withdrew from a match so that his teammates could come. I have to be courageous for them. I have to be courageous for Deja. She is a mess. She managed to get through life without seeing death. No parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles. Is she actually fortunate when she is so completely unprepared? No, not experiencing death and understanding it as part of life is not a blessing. I need to be strong for her.

So, I am getting it all out now. My anger at God, my anger at myself, my anger at Princess Anne, my deep loathing of Emma Bradshaw. In the morning, there will be a receiving line, and everyone will express their regrets. Deja will stand with us. My church friends will offer “words of comfort” that will only turn the sword deeper into my chest. “He is in a better place.” Bullshit. This place was just fine. We were just fine. Aiden and Philip and I were just fine. Aiden and Deja were just fine. Aiden and the Arundel Wildcats had a strong win record, and were on their way to the playoffs – they were just fine. NO! There is no better place. It’s true that we live in a messed-up world with wars and disasters, hunger, viruses, and unending racism. Our waters are polluted, our Black youth are dying, we can barely handle each environmental crisis, from the hurricanes to the burning forests. But Aiden actually wanted to make the world a better place. Aiden stayed up on Climate Change; Aiden cared about youth suicide; Aiden cared about gun violence. In my mind, Aiden would have been a great social worker or might even have started his own charity. He cared. And in a few long, painful moments, his life was snuffed out, and all of those wonderful possibilities were snipped like Fate’s cord. “He’s in a better place.”

And as I say this, I realize that my goal in life was never to get to Heaven. I am a good person. I believe in God, and Jesus is my Savior. But I have things to do, right here right now. Heaven is a nice future, but I do not want it to be my present. I don’t want it to be Aiden’s present. I just can’t believe that he is meant to be there right now instead of being with me and Philip and Deja.

The tears, the sobs, are coming to a momentary end because I am very, very tired. I am hoping to have a dreamless night. Dreaming of Aiden would split my soul. Philip and I are sharing my bed. His resilience has been a blessing, even though a part of me wants to see just one tear. Maybe when he flies back to Dallas, he will cry in his own bedroom, but I know that men don’t show emotion. I remember explaining that to Aiden. And making our home a safe space for crying, for anger, for emotions that the rest of the world didn’t need to see. No, he was not a big baby. As he grew older, he needed a safe space less. The punching bag helped. Never a hug in public, but many hugs in private. Because it was just the two of us.

Yes, let me sleep now so that I can kiss my baby boy good-bye in the morning.