I hope you’re feeling OK, Mom.
Claire
Gina told me that you went to the Rose Bush Store without me. She said they helped fit you for a bra and that she even heard you laugh. I’m staying at Dad’s again.
Claire
Hi, Mom,
I’m back from Dad’s. I realized when I got there, that I wasn’t handling this right.
I’m sleeping here tonight.
Love and hugs,
Claire
Claire–Bear,
I’m sorry. I’ve been acting like I’m the only one in the world—like you don’t need me to be there for you, and that I don’t need you to be there with me. I do need you, darling, I’m just finding it hard to make the transition from being a single mother, a woman who relied on nobody for help, to a half-woman who needs her daughter to look after her.
The doctor gave me the details of a group of local women who have survived breast cancer, or who have it themselves still, like me, and Gina took me yesterday. You wouldn’t believe how many other women go through this, how many women who live round here have the same problems. One woman is only thirty and her daughter is six years old. She knows that she’s dying and she’s in despair. She held my hand and told me I had to be strong for you, that I have to include you. I held her thin fingers and she squeezed tightly. “Don’t waste time,” she said.
She’s right, Claire, I have to talk to you. I have to open myself up and I have to treat you like an adult. I’ve been holding back to keep you young and sunny and full of light, but I’ve been doing you a disservice. If I let you be a grown-up then you’ll be one, and I have to be able to do that.
I’ve been feeling very low and very frightened. I’ve been wondering what my life has been about. All those years I assumed I had to live my dreams, but it seems that those years are behind me now, that I’ve had my time and that I’ve wasted it somehow, that I’ve missed the point. I have you, my darling girl—having you has given my life meaning and joy beyond compare. But what about all the other things I wanted to do? I’ve never been to Africa. I’ve never read Proust. I’ve never learned to play the piano or even read music, those black blobs on the page that people can translate into beautiful sounds are a mystery to me and they may always be. I’ve never sky-dived, I’ve never seen the desert, I’ve never been fishing.
I know it’s not all bad news, and there is hope, but I have to let myself think about the alternative and when you smile and tell me broccoli and exercise I feel exhausted, simply exhausted. I’m not without hope, I’m just trying to think it all through.
I’m tired, really tired and I don’t feel very well today. I’ve told you as much as I can for now.
I love you,
Mom.
Hi Mom,
There were a lot of things in your letter that I found hard to read. I wanted to read about all the things you HAVE done in your life but instead you wrote about things you haven’t. And I realized I hardly know about your life. What were you like when you were my age? What did you and Dad used to talk about? Where did you two meet? Did you only marry him because you were pregnant with me? Why did you two divorce? Has it been hard to bring me up alone?
All these questions are making me cry, Mom, and I don’t know why. Perhaps they’re opening up a world I’m only just starting to see the edges of. An adult world. It’s scary and I don’t like it.
Michael and I haven’t been getting on so well. He’s not as great as I thought he was. Don’t worry about me, but I think I’m going to break up with him. Emma agrees. She says he’s HORRIBLE and I should never have got back with him!
Love and hugs, Mommy,
C
Sometimes you look so much like my mother, Claire. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that.
The support meeting is this evening. I forgot to tell you at breakfast. I’ll heat up the casserole Nicole made and we’ll go together.
Did I answer all your questions?
Love,
Mom.
I think the idea of making a photo album is great, Mom. I didn’t know we had so many family photos!
Let’s start this evening.
Thanks for bringing me to the group last night. I feel less alone—do you know what I mean?
Love and hugs,
Claire
I had so much fun, Claire. I wish I could be sitting at the kitchen table with you cutting out photographs forever. I’m looking forward to tonight.
Should we put some of your poems among the photographs?
Dishwasher needs emptying.
Love,
Mom.
Hi Mom!
I’m still laughing at the photograph of Peter sitting on your head. I wish I could remember that day!
I know that you might not get better, Mom—although it’s incredibly hard to write, I do understand that and I know why we had to talk about it last night. It would be the hardest thing in the world, but I don’t want you to worry about me. You’ve given me strength to face the future.
I will hope for the best while preparing for the worst, Mom. Does that seem like a good compromise?
Love, strength, light, and
hugs,
Claire
I just wish I hadn’t left it so long before I went to the doctor in the first place. I keep thinking maybe none of it would be so bad if I’d gone straight away. I wish I’d been more responsible, Claire, more like I would have been if I’d been a better mother.
Even the doctor says it’s unusual. It’s not your fault. And I don’t want a “better mother.” I have you.
I’m making a list for Gina, Mom. What else do we need?
Eggs
Peanut butter
Fruit
Soy milk
Orange juice
Bread
Cheese
We’re out of olive oil and vinegar. Some salad greens would be nice.
How are you today? Thinking of you, Mommy.
See you later.
xxx
Last night was fun, Mom! It was nice to see you smiling!
xxxxx
Claire, darling,
I’m feeling a little out of breath. I’m going to see the doctor again tomorrow.
James called. He asked how I was. I had to hold back tears. He seems very sweet.
Mom.
Claire, darling,
I’m spending the night at the hospital. I told your Dad. He’ll bring you to see me later.
I love you,
Mom.
Claire,
I’ll be spending another couple of nights at the hospital. Gina brought me here to collect a couple of things. Could you clean Peter’s cage before you come tonight? He’s looking a bit forgotten.
I don’t know where the future will take us, but I know you’ll be OK.
I couldn’t have a more fabulous daughter.
I love you,
Mom.
I couldn’t have a more fabulous Mom.
Love,
Claire
P.S.: I’ve made your room really nice for you. If I’m not here when you get here, I’m just getting Peter some carrots.
P.S.
I love you
Dearest Mom,
I went to the support group today and Mary suggested I write to you even though you won’t be able to read it. She said it might make me feel closer to you and there might be things I wished I could say to you.
I came to our house to write it and I’m sitting at the kitchen table. The house is going to be sold soon but right now I can almost pretend that you’re lying in your room, or you’re out at work and I’m waiting for you to get back so you can tell me about the babies you delivered, or just give me a hug. The worst part about coming here was that I looked on the fridge door for a note from you, and there wasn’t one. The door was white and empty. I cried for ages.
I miss you, Mom. I wish you were still here with us. I like living with Dad but I wish that you were still here. I don’t unders
tand why you had to be taken from me, or why you got sick, or how you died so quickly when other women survive this all the time. How could it happen like this? How could you just leave? How could you leave me? It’s like I’m mad at you, Mom. How dumb is that?
Do you remember how pretty fall was, how we looked out your bedroom window as you got sicker and watched the yellows and reds brighten the sky? You tried so hard to fight it, Mom. I hate that it was so hard for you.
Winter was long and cold. I’ve been going to school but I feel like I’m in a fog most of the time. Emma’s been sweet, so has James, and Gina has been great, Mom, you wouldn’t believe. But they’re not you. Christmas was awful.
Mary’s right. I do feel better writing to you, although it’s making me cry more than I have in months. She says it’s OK to be sad, and angry, and confused. It doesn’t feel OK. Not at all.
I suppose I should tell you that Peter’s fine. I’ve set up his cage at Dad’s and when I sit and stroke him, I remember our summer and fall together, making those photograph albums, eating dinners that Gina cooked, getting to know each other better. I can try and make myself forget about how hard it was for you at the end, but I’ll never forget how strong you were and how brave. I have a picture of you in a wheelchair at the hospital. Your eyes are so big and beautiful. You look surprised, Mom, like you were caught out. I feel like we were both caught out.
I wish we’d had more time, Mom. I guess that’s all I have to say really. I wish I’d had more time with you. But I’m glad of the time we did have. So glad. When I get back to Dad’s, I’m going to look at the albums and remember it all.
I think I’ll leave this letter for you here. In this empty kitchen. So you’ll know if you come home that I love you and I miss you. Please don’t worry about me.
Your daughter,
Claire
Dearest Mom,
It’s my birthday tomorrow. I can’t believe I’m going to be 17 already! Dad and James (he’s my boyfriend now—you remember James from school?) have got some sort of surprise planned, but I have to pretend I don’t know what’s going on. I’ll act surprised.
I kept the key from our house with me, waiting for the right moment. Today I was sitting by the river where we used to walk and I suddenly knew what to do with it. I threw it as hard as I could. It glinted in the sun, then it tumbled into the water and was gone. I felt good, Mom, for the first time in a long time, I felt good. Sitting by the water, I thought I could hear your voice in the wind, telling me you were OK.
One day, I’m going to fold this note up and put it in the river. For now I’ll keep it close to me.
I love you,
Claire
Thank you to Marguerite Buckmaster,
whom I never had time to meet.
About the Author
Alice Kuipers was born and raised in London,
England. She now lives in Saskatoon, Canada.
Life on the Refrigerator Door is her first novel.
“Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.”
Notes Between a Mother
and Daughter
This Is Just to Say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
—WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
Copyright
LIFE ON THE REFRIGERATOR DOOR. Copyright © 2007 by Alice Kuipers.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2010 ISBN: 978-1-443-40360-3
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reproduce “This Is Just to Say,” by William Carlos Williams, from Collected Poems: 1909–1939, Volume I, copyright © 1938 by New Directions Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN: 978-0-06-137049-6
ISBN-10: 0-06-137049-5
07 08 09 10 11 ID/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
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Alice Kuipers, Life On the Refrigerator Door
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