Why should I even try to be in a good place? Why should I do my best? Why was she dead? Why had a life that was not only her life but also my life come to such a rude end?
I'd lived for her, I'd lived to see her, and now she'd been swallowed up, gone, like Jonah in the whale, but Jonah wasn't gone, Jonah was living in that whale's belly, would she still be alive too? That was possible. Couldn't it be that the shark hadn't eaten her? That he had spat her out after swallowing her whole? Would this be theoretically possible? Why didn't I continue to believe that she was still alive? This morning, when I woke up, she was still alive. My mother was breathing in and breathing out somewhere in the world. This is what I had believed for the past thirteen years. It was usually the first thing I thought of when I woke up. I thought about how and when I would see her again, how I would be angry at first and behave defensively. I would say: now it's too late, I don't need you anymore, what you've done is unforgivable, how can you expect me to forget this? I can never trust you again, can I? You lied to me and betrayed me? Why didn't you tell me? Why did you leave? You should have taken me.
You'd say no, you’d beg me: Teddy, forgive me, I was wrong, I was wrong, I should have taken you, you're right. I missed you terribly, but I was so ashamed of what I had done I didn't dare face you. I'm happy you found me. You've traveled so far to see me. Now, you'll find me here in this shark sanctuary in Chile. You know I've always loved animals, and this is where I put all my love for you. I loved you so much, Teddy; it didn't seem like it. I know I've been the cause of your sadness, and I take 100% responsibility for it, dear, sweet Teddy. Forgive me.
I would say no or no with the n at the end. Like we say in Dutch, when we want to emphasize the No. No, no, no, I would say, and I would shake my head. Still, I would have forgiven her long ago because she was my sweet-hearted mother, sweet mom, and dear mommy. I would shake no, and I would cry. I would let the tears flow like they were now flowing on the Playa Del Ropa in Guerero, Mexico, but then I would not be alone. My mother would be with me, and she would have finally taken me in her arms. She would not have cared about my frantic but poor attempts to push her away from me. She would take my hands and take me in her soft arms and pull me towards her, and she would call me a blinker, as she called me when I was little and cried about something that had happened. Come to me, darling, dear girl. Now that you've found me again, I will never leave. I'm never going to another continent without taking you with me. I never want to travel without you again.
I would be anxious about this image, but I would swallow my distress because, of course, I wanted her to always stay with me all the time.
My imagination didn't go any further because when I was getting short of breath, I remembered that this would never happen. That a shark had eaten my mother. I shook my head.
In front of me, Sheila was doing her yoga exercises on the beach. She did it every morning. In America, she was a yoga teacher. On one of my previous trips, I had asked her if she would teach me here, but she had adamantly refused.
'In America, I teach every day, often from seven o'clock in the morning until three o'clock in the afternoon, and then in the evening, I give private lessons to movie stars or singers (It was an open secret that Madonna was one of her private students). But on vacation, I have a vacation. Of course, I do the necessary asanas daily, but I do that to stay flexible and not lose my sharpness and flexibility. Sorry, don't take it personally." She had turned around and continued with the dog's asana with the head down.
Now she turned to me. Her broad head of curls came after her.
"Hey baby, what's wrong?" she approached me and put a gritty hand on my arm. " Why are you crying? What happened?” I didn't want to say anything, but a whimper cry came out of me.
My me my my mother sorry me
Your mother? Did something happen? Is she ill?
No, I roared, she's dead
What?
I didn't feel like it. I suddenly didn't want to speak any other language than my mother tongue, which I had learned from my mother. Sheila stroked my arm. Relax, honey, she said.
Relax with honey, I thought. I liked Sheila's touch. She was tender, and I needed that. I didn't have to tell her the story of my mother and what had happened and how my mother had died and how she had left us. I could cry and moan a little in my own language and let Sheila caress me with her massive head of curls, thick lips, beautiful nose, and lithe body. She may be married, and her husband may be a lot stiffer than she is, doing his own more straightforward yoga exercises five feet away, but Sheila's gentle touches calmed me down. I sobbed and shook some more. I am sorry I said, I am sorry Sheila, it is too much, I can't tell you but your arms feel good.' I didn't say the latter, or maybe I did. I had nothing left to lose because I had already lost everything.