Author Name: Liz
Email: [email protected]
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Spoilers: Just a little for the Roswell High Books.
Summary: Some of this comes from the book, so if you haven't read
them and still want to read this, I'll explain as much as needed.
In the books, Liz had a sister named Rosa. She was good until she
grew up and got into drugs, and eventually OD'd and died. Her
parents were pretty shattered.
That's about all that's needed. As for the story, this is Liz
reflecting on why her mom is the way she
is.
Category: Liz
Distribution: All of my stuff is at <A
HREF="http://www.inficad.com/~jlaw/Liz/Liz.htm">Jessi's
Page</A> .
Author's Note: This is in Liz's POV (I know, I've really done a
lot of those lately. But they're fun :) There will probably be a
companion piece, in her mom's POV. And for those of you who are
wondering, I'm working on Secrets and Subject: A1.
My Mother's Heart
I watch her rifling through the hallway drawers, searching for
something but not quite sure what it is. The expression she wears
is all too familiar.
I stand behind my bedroom door, opened only slightly, so that I
can see her. I wonder what it is she's expecting to find this
time.
Drugs?
Hasn't she figured it out by now? God, mom, I'm not going to
screw up. Why can't you believe me? Why isn't it ever enough?
I wonder how long it will be before she can finally see that I
won't turn out like my sister. That I'm going to do everything I
can just to be her opposite. Just to please them. I wonder how
long I'll be making up for her mistakes.
My Dad seems to understand. He's moved on, in his own way. Even
though I know that he still hurts inside, he's not forcing me to
fill that empty place inside of him. Not like her.
I used to think that somehow, if I tried just a little bit
harder, if I made just another point higher on that test, that I
could finally make her proud of me. Maybe she would finally tell
me those words I'd been waiting to hear.
"Good Job, Liz."
Or even talk to me. Like she talked to her.
Doesn't she realize that it hurts me too? Every night when I lay
down in my bed, I have to stare accross that empty room and
remember. I remember the way that she used to lie there, in the
dark, talking to me.
Telling me about her dreams, her plans. How I could hear her
smile, even though I coudln't see her beautiful face. That was
before she stopped coming home at night.
I hate going to sleep now, coming back to my lonely room and just
wishing that she were still there. I hate having to think that if
only she hadn't made those bad decisions, that mom would still
love me.
Even though I know that's not true.
I should know better, shouldn't I?
Even when she was alive, Mom had never loved me as much as she
loved Rosa.
Reality is chaos, and I'm not sure that I'll ever really live
there.
She's stopped digging now, and her face has dropped. She
looks..disappointed. I've only seen her look like that when she
was talking to me. She's staring down at something, what I
imagine is just the socks. Until I see what she picks up.
It's a photograph.
I don't really need to see it to know who its of.
It's always her, isn't it?
She picks it up slowly, and I can tell even from where I stand
how old it is. The picture paper is old, faded, crinkled. Her
hand shakes as she holds it, so close to her face. I can see the
first tear as it slips down her cheek. I can feel them building
in my own.
Why, Mom? Why couldn't you love me?
I dare to open the door a little farther, needing to see it
almost as much as I know she does. I wince as the door creaks,
but she doesn't notice. She only keeps on staring, her face now
blank. The tears still pouring down her face.
I poke my head out, balancing on my toes. Just a little farther,
and I'll see. Until I can finally make it out.
Two little girls, one about 10 and the other 6. Standing hand in
hand in a yard, smiling happily at the camera. It's our old
house. And that's me and my sister.
She's touching the picture now, her finger still shaking.
Caressing the tiny duplicate of Rosa's face, the faded imprint.
I know that she believes this is all she has left--a snapshot
memory. I wish that I could show her it's not all, though. She
has me. She always will.
No matter how many times she pushes me away, I'll always love
her.
Her finger lifts from my sister's face, and moves to mine. She
hesitates a moment before she touches me, running her tear-soaked
fingertip over me, shiny dark hair and tiny body. She's sobbing
now, her body shaking so violently that I'm afraid she will fall.
She touches my picture over
and over, her movements never stopping.
I want to reach out to her.
What is it, Mom? Please tell me.
"I'm sorry, Lizzie."
Her voice is a broken whisper. My tears begin to fall.
Thank you, God. Thank you for this.
"I'm sorry, too, Mom."
She turns to me, and the picture flutters from her hand. She
covers her mouth with her hand, and her body shakes harder. She
begins to fall.
I am there to catch her.
Isn't that what daughters are for?