3. Meeting De'Lacy

Miss De'Lacy opened her front door with a glowing smile and luminous gray eyes. Her chestnut hair was wrapped in a neat coiffure and her smooth and radiant features belied her late forties’ age.

She enveloped me in a warm hug. "Dalia, how are you doing, darling?"

"I'm fine, Miss De'Lacy. How's everything?"

"Oh, you know, we're just taking it one day at a time."

A small lump formed in my throat when I asked, "How is she?"

Miss De'Lacy's face fell. "She's diminishing. I don't know why, but her body doesn't seem to respond to the meds anymore."

I pinched my eyes shut and willed away the surfacing pain.

"I think she’s lost all hope and wants to go," she continued.

Miss De'Lacy was the sympathetic Christian neighbor from my childhood. Shortly after my mother had gotten infected, she'd slipped into depression and set our uninsured house to flames, in an attempt to kill herself. Fortunately, she was saved— from the fire. We were left homeless, clothes-less, penniless; and I was only eighteen then, slowly recovering from a brutal head injury. Clueless, but I’d had to make the decisions since my mom had shut down completely and abandoned her motherly duties.

In came Miss De'Lacy who'd altruistically offered to look after my mother until I could afford to do so myself. I’d reluctantly agreed. Shortly after, I began waitressing at a bistro while studying fashion design part-time in college. Then I met Cali D, who’d been substantial enough to help stabilize my life.

Retrieving a white envelope from my handbag that contained my earnings for the week, I handed it to Miss De'Lacy. "For the month. It's short one hundred. I'll get that for you by Monday."

"Dalia, I know you've lost your job and I told you I could wait," she said sternly.

"I know, but I have this now so…take it."

Miss De'Lacy pursed her lips and unwillingly took the envelope.

"And here's her meds for another month." I rubbed my sweaty palms down the front of my dress. "Can I see her?"

"Of course, darling," Miss De'Lacy gently chided. "She's your mother."

At my failed attempt at a smile, Miss De’Lacy walked off and I followed her through the charming three-bedroom house, cluttered with trophies and pictures of her children and grandchildren, and her husband who’d passed away from cancer two years ago. Miss De’Lacy was a kindhearted woman who did good deeds only because it brought her contentment. Yep, some people were like that.

She led me out into the backyard where my mother sat inert on an iron bench, vacuously staring off into De'Lacy's blooming, flamboyant garden.

She was more pallid and meager than she’d been the week before. Her hair, once a bountiful bundle of curls that mimicked mine, had dwindled into limp looseness. My heart wrenched. The woman was disappearing before my very eyes.

Theresa Dalia used to be as beautiful and vibrant as the bright yellow roses behind her. But just as a rose’s beauty fades with the progression of time, so Theresa's hue has faded by life's capricious phases.

I sat down next to her on the bench, but she didn't move, as if she didn't even notice I was there. She was doing this to herself. Not the disease. She was the one giving up instead of fighting. There were many people in the world HIV-positive, just like her, but they still lived happy lives.

"Hi, Mom," I whispered.

No answer. No acknowledgment.

"I miss you, Mom. I miss talking to you. I miss us designing and sewing together. I miss hearing you laugh. I miss your smile. I miss you," I told her softly.

More silence ensued.

The tears pooled in my eyes. "Can you please just fight? Can you not lose hope and just try? It doesn't have to be like this."

I sat with my fingers entwined, just hoping to hear her voice. The sweet, sing-song voice I haven't heard in so long.

But all she did was stare blankly into the garden, not a word. I heard birds chirping. Tree leaves shaking. The soft, almost inaudible cooing of the wind. But not my mother's voice. I waited. And waited. And waited.

With a resigned sigh, I closed my eyes and started to get up. Another day tried. Another day failed.

But then I felt her cold hand rest tentatively on mine. She still didn't look at me, though, even as she croaked, "Sewing…I miss that, too. I miss life. And I miss you."

 With my free hand, I frantically wiped my tears away, then placed it over hers. "You have life. You do. Choose to live. Please. I love you. I’ve missed you. You're all I have. Please don't leave me, Mom."

She looked down at my hand covering hers then shakily lifted it to her face, placing my palm flat on her cheek.

"Warm," she said, wistfully. "You are warm. You live." She then lifted her other hand and placed her palm on my cheek. "Feel. Tell me. Am I not cold?" Her brows furrowed as she said this and I closed my eyes and leaned in to her touch.

I wouldn't answer and say what she wanted me to say. That her touch was cold. It was, but she still lived.

"You see, honey? I'm already dead," she whispered, her voice frail and forlorn.

"No, mom!" I cried. "You're not. I can warm you. God can heal you. Please, choose life."

Eyes vacant, she just watched me. "God?"—Slowly, her head shook from side to side — "God gave me a husband who cheats. A husband who beats. A husband who infects."—She cocked her head and regarded me—"God gave me sickness so he could heal me? God gave me life so he could take it back? Is that love, darling, or is it a tease? Tell me."

What? Theresa never talked like this. No, we never cursed God. Ever. "Don't speak like this, Mom. It's wrong. You know it’s wrong."

She blinked at me. Once. Twice. Three times. And with a steely resolve, she brought her gaze back on the garden. She was done talking. And I decided not to force her anymore. She had given up, completely, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about that.

Tentatively, I laid my head in her lap, relieved when she didn't push me away. Moments later I felt her fingers in my hair, raking gently through the stubborn curls. A small smile swept across my face. I miss her so much.

We stayed like that for a while, and I allowed myself to drift off into a weary, sorrowed sleep. Induced by my mother's weary, sorrowed touch.