"Why do you always do that?!"

For New Years, my sisters, parents, and I visit my grandparents.  My sisters and I plan to go downtown for the evening and celebrate the holiday, while my parents stay home.  We like having excuse to spend time with other people our age, and I am especially excited to finally be able to celebrate something.

As Sara, McKenzie, and I get our coats on, my mother pops up from the couch and strides over, afraid that she will get left behind.

“No, Mom,” McKenzie explains.  “Stay here.”

We gather various purses and keys, and even when my mother notices she doesn’t have her coat on, she follows us to the door anyway. 

“Mom,” I try to explain, “you and Dad are gong to stay here and spend time with Grandma.”

She shakes her head violently and sneers at us, “Why do you always DO that?!”  She tosses up her hands in anger and glares as we stand silently around her, stunned into speechlessness.

“What?” Sara asks quietly.

“Why do you always do that?” Her question sounds more like a plea, softer this time as tears line the bottom of her eyes.

My sisters and I shepherd her out of the foyer, trying not to make a scene in front of our father and grandmother. 

The question reverberates in my mind—she has said this to me three times before as I left for work.  Why do you always do that? Which I learned to understand as, Why do you always leave? 

We form a three-point perimeter around her, trying to describe why we’re leaving without overtly saying that we are going to have a good time (without her).  No matter how many versions I try, she doesn’t understand.  She shakes her head violently and repeats in a low, solid voice, “You always do this.”

She has become easily angered and frustrated by all the things she cannot do anymore, like socializing or leaving the house on her own, but she seldom reacts this forcefully.

“Mom,” we whisper to console her, “we’re coming back.  We’re just going to run some errands, real quick.”  Explaining that she will see us in the morning doesn’t work because she doesn’t understand the word or concept of “morning” anymore.  We lie to help her know that we are not abandoning her.

“We’ll be right back,” we each say as sincerely as we can.

Instead of being placated, she responds by shaking her head even harder and this time almost yelling, “No you won’t.  You ALWAYS do this.”

“Mom,” Sara whispers, looking her in the eye, “we’re coming back.”

Our mother continues shaking her head, and I grab her by the shoulders.  “Mother, we are coming right back.  We have things to do tomorrow, so we can have a ‘girls’ day’ with you.  You want to come with us for that tomorrow, right?”

Her shaking slows, but does not stop, as if she is still not convinced that we aren’t leaving her for good.  We move toward the front door and point to our father, who happens to be sitting on the couch and talking to his mother in the living room.

“Go sit with Dad,” Sara prompts.

“Come here, Carol,” he responds from the other room, “let the girls go have fun.”  His voice is strong and authoritative, and our mother begins to pout as she leaves the hallway.  She walks slowly to the couch and sits, eyeing us the whole time as we take the opportunity to sneak out.

I am the last one out, and in the narrowing space between the door and the jam, I see my mother, still glaring at us from the couch, her eyes squinted as they convey a mixture of anger and hurt.