The People In The Black Notebook

The ringing in my ears was punctuated by the flat line sound emanating from the machine. My eyes wandered over to the moving yet straight line. With a quick glance at his wristwatch, the doctor pronounced my mother’s time of death. He nodded to the hospital staff who then wheeled my mother’s body away. Although my mother was pronounced as DOA, “Dead on Arrival”, I still needed to settle the bills for all the efforts required in attempting to resuscitate my mother. In the end, the fluids they pumped into her veins, the electric shock they sent to her heart, and the oxygen they supplied to her airways were not enough to repair what the doctor dubbed as a literally broken heart. An equally exhausted looking woman peered at me from behind the billing desk while I scrambled to hand over almost my entire week’s paycheck. I bit the inside of my cheek, wondering “Where the hell could I get the money to give my mother a decent funeral?”.

I do not recall how I was able to get home but the next day, I woke up with a throbbing headache. I went to grab some medicine and the garlicky scent of the food my Mom prepared the night before wafted through my nose when I passed through the kitchen. She told me then to pack some for lunch at work and I ignored her as per usual. To fight back the tears that threatened to overflow, I switched to solution mode. Grief has no place if my mind was pre-occupied. I scrolled through my contacts to see who would be amenable to lend me some cash, and fast. Then, an abrupt knock followed by a soft thud originated from the front door. The first thing I noticed was a manila envelope on the porch and my eyes widened when I took a peek. I hurried back inside the house and I emptied the contents on the kitchen table. It was a thick wad of cash ($20,000 to be exact) and a note which confirmed that the cash was indeed for me and the sender hoped that this would help me during this time. Compounding the mystery was that the sender seemed to know of my mother’s recent passing even though I have not yet gathered the courage to tell anyone else, as verbalizing it would cement its reality.

Once I snapped out of my confusion, my mind reverted to what it did best: plan and make to-do lists. With the cash that I now possessed, I was able to start planning the funeral. Money is so pervasive in our lives that even in death, everything was still a transaction. I looked at different funeral service packages, where your status in life was revealed in what you can afford for your death arrangements. After listening to an eager salesman, I chose an elegantly crafted and vibrant mahogany casket. If my mother could only see how much that cost, she would no doubt rise from the grave and haggle the price. I splurged for an emerald pearl granite for my mother’s gravestone and included what I remembered as her favorite bible quote as part of the engraving. This was a stark contrast to the rusted “Mrs. H Grocery” signage with the ’s’ almost imperceptible that sat atop our grocery store. It seemed absurd to spend this much for a funeral given that my mother lived a frugal life.

After all the logistics around the funeral arrangements were settled, I went to the nearby mall to pick out a champagne dress that my mother eyed on occasion but never dared to at least try on. Then, I bought my mother’s favorite rose-colored lipstick to give to the mortician. I got home and plopped myself on the couch with shopping bags still on my arms. I sighed, remembering that there were still several unchecked items on my list. As I rummaged for a pen to make some more notes, a tattered black notebook fell out from the desk. I immediately recognized this notebook which contained the open (and large) tab of all the customers in the store. I never understood why my mother never rushed a customer for the payment, despite my pestering since we were struggling to pay off our bills.

My earliest memories always included our store. As soon as my Mom was confident of my dexterity, free time as I knew it was over. During my teenage years, every hour that I was not in school, it was devoted to the store. If I was not stacking up rows upon rows of canned goods, I was either sweeping the floors or manning the cash register. I would see classmates walking in from school to buy some snacks and hanging out, wishing I could join them even though they don’t know my name. I used the isolation and loneliness to build a wall of resentment which was especially designed to keep my mother out. I directed all my anger at her for treating me like a workhorse instead of a normal human being. Every attempt she made to penetrate my fortress only served to strengthen my barriers. I audibly sighed every time she asked me to arrange the newly delivered chips. I responded with monotonous one-word answers to any question she asked me. I barely looked up from my phone or a book when she handed over my packed lunch before going to school. The regulars avoided me whenever they could and they would seek out my mother wherever she was in the store even if I was the already on the register. I rolled my eyes when she shooed me away to attend to the person who sought her out. My anger would seethe once I saw her whip out the black book - this basically meant that she was giving out the stuff for free. She would assure the person not to worry about it. “As soon as you are on your feet” was her signature goodbye. The person would then sheepishly smile and avert my gaze as I shot them daggers with my eyes. Jealousy festered as I saw customers walk away carrying their basket of goods while I remained trapped within the store’s oppressive walls.

I picked up the black notebook and pages upon pages reminded me of my mother’s apparent mission to be the local charity in the neighborhood. I noticed that majority of the products she gave away were essentials for living with an occasional lottery ticket for those who believed that lady luck could turn their lives around. I felt the sticky side of the tape peeling off from the notebook’s spine. My mother used the tape to put together the two halves of the notebook I tore apart in a fit of rage upon coming to an apartment covered in darkness because we were late in our electricity bill payment. With a small voice, my mother informed me that she was already able to borrow money, which I assumed was from one of those sleazy payday loans. Despite knowing that it was also difficult for my mother, my response was dripping with venom and accusation: “You do not make sense at all. Maybe if I was part of the people in your little notebook, I could finally feel that you are taking care of me too.”

I flipped through the entries in the black notebook, trying to put a face on the recipients of my mother’s generosity. Although the idea sounded so far out, I imagined the anonymous donor of the $20,000 may be one of the people in the list. I really only knew my mother in the context of the store. She was the type of person who would only stop working when it was a matter of life and death. In this case, it took a fatal heart attack that eventually closed Mrs. H’s grocery store. I thought that since my mother barely had anytime for other people, including me, it made sense that it could be someone from the store who felt like they owed my mother. I tried hard to recall the people who lingered in the register for a little bit too long, those who apologized profusely, or those who tried to exchange any possession they had for their weekly groceries. I wanted to identify the person who was able to give my mother what I cannot: a celebration of her life that she deserved. However, my longing for a life outside the store and my determination to keep my mother out of my life did not allow me to have an intimate look at my mother’s relationships with the people in the black notebook. I closed the notebook, feeling defeated by my fragmented memories and the fact that these people became more of a family to my mother than I was.

I held out hope that the person who gave the money would reveal themselves during the funeral. I scanned the somber faces, and I surprised myself by initiating conversation with each person in attendance. I asked subtle questions to try to guess who was my mother’s benefactor; however, this did not lead to answers I was looking for. It was instead returned with stories of my mother. In addition to their recounting of my mother’s kindness and generosity which I already knew, the people I talked to also recalled mundane accounts of her life that I was not familiar with. Two women laughed as they told me my mother became an unofficial organizer to discuss soap operas that they all watched together. I was amused by the teenager who was asked by mother for help in setting up a Facebook account (I never accepted her friend request). Another person mentioned I could always come by so he can give me tomatoes from his garden, just like he did with my mother. Their individual stories all ended with how proud my mother was of the woman I had become. An intense sorrow passed through me when I realized that I was getting to know my mother better through the lens of other people. And that it had to happen when she could only exist in my memories now. The last of the mourners trickled out but I stayed behind long after they put my mother on the ground. I brushed my hands along the engraving, tracing the letters that formed my mother’s name. Even if I was left with the question of the anonymous donor’s identity, hearing stories of my mother provided me with pieces to solve the mystery of who my mother was. The caretaker waved to me to say that the cemetery was closing. Before heading home, I took out a pen and opened the last page of the black notebook to include my name. The tears that finally escaped stained the words I could only put in writing now “Thank you, Ma”.