Things I'd Say To My Mother, If I Could See Her Just One More Time

LONG ISLAND, NY — If my mother saw me today, would she recognize me?

My mother, Doris Rabidoux, died on a blisteringly hot day in August in 1994. She was just 53 years old. My son, her only grandchild, wasn't even yet 2. In so many ways, that day was as close as yesterday. I remember sitting in the room at the hospice, my mother, ravaged by cancer, staring into my eyes in wonder. "You look just like my daughter, my Lisa," she said.

Then, looking up at the ceiling, she whispered, "It's so beautiful."

That was the last time I saw my mother. That night, I got a message on the answering machine after picking up my baby boy, just a year old. It was the hospice, asking me to call. They wanted to tell me that my mother had died at 9:06 p.m.

I remember her face, her eyes, the bright smile, as clearly as if she'd just left the room. But her voice. That's different. I have a cassette tape she made for me when I was 10, when she bought me my first shiny red Panasonic cassette player, her voice telling me "Merry Christmas!" and that she loved me.

Her voice, if I heard it now, would I recognize it in a crowd?

I know, if I were to see her again, I'd know my mother, her face, her hair, immediately. I envision that scene in my mind so often. I've had dreams about it — that her dying was just a nightmare, not really true. And in those dreams, when I see my mother again, maybe walking down the street or emerging from a subway station as she did so often after working all day in lower Manhattan — in every dream, I run to her, as fast as I can. Running so she can't slip away. So I can hug her close, just one more time.

But would my mother recognize me? I was just 29 when she died. So different, really. Long brown hair, still — thinner, but still much the same in physical size. My face, though, it's changed, lined by time and experience, by tears, so many tears. It's my eyes, though, that I think are most different now. The day I heard the words, "Your mother died tonight," my eyes lost a light that's never again been ignited. There's a line that's drawn, when you lose your mother, the line that delineates before and after. And once that line is crossed, the light dims, forever dampened by the knowledge that forever forward, there is no shelter, no respite. No home, not really. The part of you that was your mother's child is forced to grow up in that heartbeat and there really is no way back.

In my own case, I lost my entire immediate family within five years and so, there was no one to share laughter with about my own childhood silliness, no grandma to tell my son about my little-girl days, no great-grandmother to open her arms wide in her pink cardigan sweater to reassure me that yes, things are hard, but they would be okay, and she would always, always love me.

I've thought so often about what I would say to my mother, if I had the chance. And now, for Mother's Day, the conversations that can never be, swirl relentlessly through my mind.

First, I guess I'd say I was sorry, for the teen angst and the things I did, like every other teenaged girl in the history of time, to drive my mother crazy. I'd tell her that I'm sorry I didn't like her pork chops in apricot sauce, that she'd tried so hard to cook from a recipe and that she was so proud of. I'd say I was sorry that day when she and my grandmother called me from vacation in Ocean Grove, the place we loved and spent so many summers. They asked when I was coming — I'd stayed behind for an internship. They asked if they could order me the turkey for Sunday dinner at the inn where we stayed. And I said yes, and promised I'd be there, but being young and infatuated with a boy, I chose to stay back, for a date. For someone that means nothing to me now. I would say I was so, so sorry — and that I'd give anything to eat turkey dinner on a Victorian porch by the sea with them one more time.

Then, I think I'd tell my mother how much she inspired me. That wasn't something we ever talked about. My grandmother and I were so close, we had a rock-solid bond and so much love. My mother and I were the opposite. We fought and walked a rocky road for so many years. I was so focused, in my teenaged girl way, of listing all my grievances and her wrongdoings, that never told her what she did right. I never thanked her for taking me to see "Godspell" nine times on Broadway, just because I loved it. For instilling in me a lifelong love of theater with her stories of meeting Helen Hayes and taking me to Broadway at least a few times every month, even on her limited salary.

I never thanked my mother for working nights while my grandmother took care of me, just so that we'd have enough money for me to attend a private elementary school in brand-new clothes from A&S. I never thanked her for teaching me to follow my own rules, by example — when she ordered dessert instead of dinner at the restaurant or when she worked full-time and got promotion after promotion, during a time when most moms wore aprons and organized Girl Scout events. I owe my faith in my professional self and in my career to my mother, and I never told her that. I'm forever sorry for that, Mom.

I never thanked my mother for the day in April when it was still cold enough to wear winter coats and she told me she was letting me stay home from school so we could take the bus to Asbury Park on the Jersey Shore, that boardwalk we loved so much, for a special day, just the two of us. It was one of the best days I ever had with her. I never thanked her for the hot chocolate and cookies at the ice cream parlor when I felt sick. Or for taking me to Madison Square Garden to see David Cassidy when I was only 7. My mother, she believed in making the everyday magical. Something I've tried so hard to do with my own son. And if I could see her, I'd take her perfectly manicured hands in mine, my nails invariably chipped, and thank her for that gift.

I never thanked my mother for the day, when she was dying, that she pointed to the closet filled with Christmas gifts she'd wrapped for me, even though it was just August, knowing she wouldn't be with me on Christmas morning as she had been for every Christmas of my life, wrapping presents for months so I'd have the biggest pile any child had ever seen. She had a pair of Barney sneakers wrapped for my son. At the time, a new mom, I was worried that his little feet were too tiny, that he wasn't growing fast enough. She smiled as she handed me the box. "He'll grow, honey. You'll see."

If I could see my mother one more time, I'd thank her for teaching me the cha-cha. For playing endless games of Careers and Mystery Date. For sitting every July 4th on our stoop with sparklers and telling me, as the fireworks exploded in the velvet sky, that they were really for me, for my birthday just a few days later.

I'd thank her for making me an Easter basket every year even when I was grown, for singing "Happy Birthday" the loudest every year — and I'd tell her that I still hate that song, without her singing it to me.

I don't know if my mother would recognize me now, a woman with a son now who's older than I was, when she died. She may not recognize my face, my voice, or know anything about me now and the life I've created in spite of her loss.

But I hope she'd look into my eyes and see the little girl and young woman who's been searching for her in every crowd, for decades. I think she'd know my eyes, so much like hers. I think she'd see the love in them and know, instantly, that I was her daughter. Her Lisa. That I've been here all these years, without her —and loving her forever.