My Mother's Hands

I guess they're mine now.

On Mother’s Day, my sister ran into a friend at the farmer’s market whose mom had also passed away. She sarcastically asked her if our mom had sent any signs, given the day. It was exactly the kind of gallows humor I love. But alas, Mother’s Day came and went without a pile of dimes, or a butterfly in my house, or a rare bird lurking outside my window. No special drawers opening on their own. No secret note from my mom emerging years after her passing. In other words, it was just a normal day.

I have a bone to pick with my mom. I met with my favorite astrologer, Meredith, in February, and she told me the veil between the spirit world and the mortal world would be paper-thin in April. I was really banking on some signs — or at least an encounter with my dead mom. But April came and went without anything. Meredith’s explanation: it’s not that my mom wasn’t visiting. It’s that I am blocked, having not honed my ability to connect with the divine, and I really need to finally meet with her friend Harry, who is a talented medium and can teach me such skills. As I told her back in February, I’ve spent my entire dabbling-in-the-dark-arts budget this year on my session with her and another with a random reiki healer who told me I had sand in my throat and colon. I wanted to email my internist about this, but instead I started working with a new therapist who suggested I stop seeing random energy healers. So.

The fact is, in the twelve years since my mom passed, I’ve had exactly one clear sign from her. On her birthday, my twin and I went to get our annual chocolate chip cookie in her honor at our favorite bakery in Chicago, and Together Again by Janet Jackson came on — a pretty obscure hit, and her song of choice to jam out to at carpool drop-off. Other than that, slim pickings. The odd dream here and there, but nothing else of note.

The only thing I actually discovered in April, while looking for signs from beyond, is that the older I get, the more I have my mother’s hands. Small, thin, bony, with short, brittle nails that break. My Grandma Eileen used to tell my mom, “You have the hands of an artist,” which I think was just what she told herself to excuse the fact that my mom never got manicures. Every time I put my fingers to the keyboard in April, I saw them: my mother’s hands. Even her middle finger, which is particularly noteworthy.

My mom had a crooked middle finger that always sat at about 45 degrees. Sometimes, when she got angry — and she was human, so she got angry — she would flick people off rather than yell or cause a scene, just to get the rage out. And I adored it, because who could take a person seriously with that crooked little finger? So there I was in the kitchen, flipping off my husband while his back was turned — needing somewhere to put my rage — when I noticed: my middle finger has now also leaned to about 45 degrees. Not a sign from the heavens. Not divine intervention. But motivation enough to keep writing, if only to keep seeing her hands.

If anyone is a doctor, let me know if this is normal.