The Card that Wasn’t

by Donna Poole

“Oh, come on, Mary! We can do it!”

“Donna! Mom said we could ride our bikes fifteen minutes before supper. That store is fifteen miles away. There’s no way we can get there and back in time.”

“But I know we can do it if we ride fast enough. I want to buy Mom a real card for Mother’s Day.”

Passion won over logic; my sister Mary caved in, and we began pedaling the hills as fast as we could.

Strange as it sounds, I wasn’t lying to Mary. I honestly thought if we tried hard enough, we could get home in time. I was plenty old enough to know fairy tales don’t come true just by determination and wishing, but I didn’t. I’m not sure I know yet.

I can’t remember exactly how old we were when we set out on our grand pre-Mother’s Day adventure. We lived in Taberg, New York, middle of nowhere USA., when I was in fifth, sixth, and half of seventh grade. So, I must have been ten or eleven. Mary was fifteen months younger but years wiser.

The details get fuzzy. I remember we got lost; Mary thinks we didn’t. I recall getting tired and sitting on a bench outside of a closed laundry mat just as Mary hollered, “Don’t sit down!”

Mary saw what I didn’t. There was bleach on the bench, bleach on my long jacket, and soon to be bruises on my backside.

As you may guess, hours passed, and Mom panicked. I believe she called the police, the fire department, the boy scouts, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. I may be exaggerating. Sadly for us, Mom was the one who found us.

Nothing makes a mom more furious than fear. She tossed our bikes in the back of the station wagon with strength I could only admire even though I knew what was coming.

“Get in!”

In we got. It was dark outside. Our futures looked dark. We were not to have any futures; this was to be our last day of living. It had been a good life. I looked affectionately at Mary, my sister, my best friend, my comrade in crime—though usually dragged unwillingly into said crime. It had been a good life. I was sorry to get her executed at such a young and tender age. And poor Ginny, our little sister, what was she going to do without us?

Mom’s voice pronounced our death sentence. “You girls. Will go home. You will eat your supper. You will get the worst spankings you’ve ever had. And then you will go to bed.”

And then Mary, sweet, quiet Mary, who usually only got into trouble with Mom when it was my fault, spoke. The audacity! The sheer bravery! I admired her, but my hero worship was going to grow when I heard what she had to say.

“What’s for supper?”

“Boiled dinner.”

Cabbage, potatoes, carrots. Mary hates the stuff. What a horrible last meal. Aren’t people on death row supposed to get steak?

Mary asked, “Can I skip dinner and go right to the spanking and bed?”

You, dear readers, most of you, did not know my mother. You have no idea how much courage it took to utter those words. I almost gave Mary a standing ovation. Mary, who unlike myself, never sassed or talked back? I didn’t know she had it in her. My fellow innocent prisoner had, in her last minutes, spoken with a true hero’s bravery!

Mary had to eat the accursed meal, every last bite. We both got the promised spankings; Mom always kept her word. Off to bed we went. Mary may have repented; I don’t know. I did not.

There I lay, sore and angry, and thinking like a true ten-year-old martyr.

And all I wanted to do was buy her a Mother’s Day card so she’d know how much I love her, even though I disobey, drive her crazy, and talk back. We rode our bikes so far and so hard; between that and the spanking, there’s nothing on me that doesn’t hurt. I’ll probably die tonight, and so will Mary. Mom will be sorry when Mother’s Day comes, and two of her kids are gone.

I couldn’t hold the martyr’s pose long; I never could. Soon I was grinning, thinking of what a grand adventure it had been, and not regretting a bit of it, not even the bleach on the jacket I knew I’d have to keep wearing.

Mother’s Day came, and Mom still had all her children. I woke up the way I always did back then and sometimes still do, thinking something wonderful was going to happen. If it didn’t happen by itself, Mary and I could always think of a way to make it happen, couldn’t we?

Poor Mom, you always said we were going to drive you crazy. I remember telling you more than once we weren’t going to drive you crazy because you were already there. That never ended well for me.

Mom, I did love you; I still do love you, and I’ll see you in heaven someday. Maybe I’ll bring you a card, a real card, one from the store. You’ll probably look at it and ask me if I ever learned that to obey is better than to sacrifice. And I’ll have to be honest, because I can’t lie in heaven, and tell you I hope so, but I don’t know.

***

You can find my books on Amazon:

Corners Church: https://amzn.to/36ImxOj

If the Creek Don’t Rise: Corners Church Book 2 https://amzn.to/3jqarv2

The Tale of Two Snowpeople: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GJKG83R