by Darla Cady
I was only 24 years old when we received the call. On the last day of
May, 1995. Or was it the first day of June? It was mostly just a blur.
A crash. A storm. Drowning in waves of shock. My mother…found
dead in her apartment…being treated as a homicide…blunt trauma
to the head…murder investigation…funeral plans…too badly
beaten to be viewed…her beautiful face…my Mommy…My
proud, adoring Mother. My very first best friend. My sole emotional support
growing up. Loving, enthusiastic Grandma. How will I tell my 4-year-old
son, Michael? He was her biggest little fan. They were such buddies. They
always laughed together. They cracked each other up. He dubbed her "Queen
of All Grandmas" and he was her charming little prince. She showed
prized pictures of her grandchildren to anyone and everyone who was willing
to look. What about Melody? My brand new baby girl. They just met.
My daughter will not remember her Grandma…
My first and only daughter was three months old. My son was 4. I was
already on medication, and in counseling, for severe postpartum depression
and anxiety attacks. My previous pregnancy had resulted in stillbirth,
and when my subsequent daughter was rushed to neonatal ICU at birth, it
triggered deep, intense emotions. Once again, I was leaving the hospital
without a baby, since she had to stay in intensive care. But, thankfully,
she was out in a week. She was healthy and beautiful. I, too, began to
recover. One of the greatest comforts to me was my Mom. We lived less
than two hours away, but it seemed so far, to my stressed out, postpartum
self, who needed the safe haven and support that only my Mother could
provide. Our last few telephone conversations were a glorious gift from
God. Who knew, that a few free weekends on the cellular phone would end
up creating such priceless, treasured memories. We shared sparkling words
of Love and Spirit…her joy and pride in me…in my children…her
encouraging words and prayers…her recently deepened and renewed
faith in Christ. She told me what a wonderful mother I was, to my children.
What a compliment that was, coming from her. I had just heard the comfort
of her voice on the 27th of May.
And now, I was being told that later that evening, she was battered to
death, in her own apartment. This could not possibly be real. How could
anyone do this to her? Everyone who knew my Mom loved her. She always
had a warm, glowing smile and friendly words for everyone, alike. She
taught me to have the same. What monster, what beast, what evil would
rip this precious life away…How could anyone crush such beauty,
slash the petals from this radiant rose, and leave me with only piercing
thorns?
Thorns that would viciously tear into my heart and scar it…permanently.
I felt like a little girl again.
I wanted to throw myself in the floor, kicking and screaming…
"I WANT MY MOMMY!"
But I can’t have her. Never in this world, again. Her life has
been savagely stolen. But, evil can’t touch her soul. Because she
believed in Jesus. At least I know we’ll be together again, forever,
eventually. But I hurt RIGHT NOW! I NEED HER RIGHT NOW!
Oh, God, please let her know how much I miss her…please…
Funeral. My Mother’s funeral. She was only 44. I am only 24. Prayers…scattered,
childlike prayers…to get through it. Just get me through it,
Lord, Let me survive today. Please help me, God, my Daddy…Jesus.
Closed casket. Her face, her beautiful face…too badly damaged by
the brutality of the beast…Don’t Look…nightmares for
life…if we dare to look…
We don’t…
This can’t be real…casket closed…
That’s not my Mommy in there! I didn’t even see her!
It must be a mistake! That can’t really be my Mommy! It Can’t!
MOMMY, I NEED YOU!!!!!!
Doubled over with pain, intense, excruciating pain…
far beyond words…
beyond tears…
beyond…
SHOCK…PAIN…TEARS…SHOCK…PAIN…TEARS…SHOCK…PAIN…TEARS…
Tears
Tears
Tears
My heart cries out for her.
I need my Mother.
Now.
Through a blurry veil of tears, all I see is a casket. And flowers. Blossoms
of bright, vibrant colors. To reflect her youthful beauty, energy, and
joy. White mums would never have been worthy.
I want to read a poem for her. I need to. She was so encouraging, and
admiring, so proud of my writing. I want her to be proud of me still…I
need her to. A poem written in celebration of her gift of motherhood,
and her gift of friendship. She had so much fun being my Mom, and being
my friend. How thankful I was to have her. Please, Lord, let me get
through this. Help me read it without tears…for her…and for
You.
He did.
And, I did.
A broken bit of my heart, and hers, to share.
Thank You.
What happens now? The flowers are gone. The cards have quit coming. Still,
no arrest. Barely even the semblance of an investigation. WHY?
WHY? WHY? Where is justice? Why is evil allowed to reign? You
mean that monsters can just rip mothers from daughters, and steal children’s
grandmas away, and it’s ok? There aren’t any consequences?
My Mommy is gone. If this evil remains free…who will it attack now?
Whose Mommy will be next? Whose daughter…whose sister…how
many more must be battered…abused…murdered…before justice
is done?
Whose… Mommy… will… be… next?
Darla Cady is a freelance writer living in Jefferson City, MO with her
husband, Mike, two children, Michael and Melody, and two lab/collie mix
daughters, Ginger and Rose.
|