On Fridays, Mom Dies

When the war began, Mom was already dead. Not dead and buried, just dead. She died every week. She said it was good for business. She even had an unofficial schedule that repeated itself week after week, from Monday to Friday. On the first day, she woke up, fed the dog, and told us two things: that she had a bad feeling and to never forget how much she loved us. "What happened, Mom? Should I call the doctor?" my sister asked, accustomed to the unfolding of events that would culminate in her death on Friday morning. "No, sweety, I’m ok," she replied confidently, four days before certain death. "I just need to work." Then she smiled, gave us a kiss, and hurried away. Soon after, she returned to get the forgotten umbrella the one, that she leaning against the wall behind the door. She was grateful when I gave it to her and left with that strange courage with which mothers arm themselves to bear the pains of the world.

Laura and I left shortly after. At that time, we spent the day at school, where teachers tried to teach us the anatomy of the human body and how to paint butterflies while each of us was busy trying to discover the logic that rules the world of adults. It was also there that we first heard about the dangerous shadow that hung over us.

When the school bell rang for the last time, at ten past five in the afternoon, we ran home because we knew that Mom had prepared carrot cake and was about to take the cheese bread out of the oven. She always twinkled on those Monday afternoons like a star that had reached its maximum splendor.

We ate together. My mother asked how our day had been and told us about the time when, as a child, she dissuaded a friend who wanted to put a kitten in the fridge so the animal could become an ice cube, like in the cartoons. Then she would go back to the kitchen to prepare dinner while we went upstairs to do our homework. After dinner, we peppered her with questions: Why is the sky blue? Who named things? Why did Daddy leave?

She didn't like talking about Dad. But it soon became clear that she didn't expect him to come back, as she said, "Your father moved on with his life, and you should do the same.”

On Tuesday, Mom would wake up worse and almost always late. Tuesdays were also the most unpredictable days. If a circus set up in front of the house, a meteor fell in the city, or someone won the lottery, it would be on a Tuesday.  Mom woke up very unwell, so she asked me to and each of us to prepare our own breakfast. The first dog was called Benny. Benny Big Belly. When Benny Big Belly died, he was replaced by Belinha, a black, white, and caramel-colored dog. Benny Big Belly died on a Tuesday; the following Tuesday, Belinha appeared, as if she already knew that there was a vacant place that she could fill. At the end of breakfast, Mom took the second painkiller. Even though her health got worse that day, it was still a good day because she was able to talk to us. On Tuesday afternoons, she watered the flowers, which would be even more beautiful on Saturday morning.

On Wednesday, Mom could no longer wake up alone. Therefore, the day before, my sister, who had learned how to set the alarm clock, put her knowledge into practice, leaving me with the task of checking whether the programming had been done correctly. When we arrived at Mom's room, she complained of a severe pain in her head, shortness of breath, and weakness at the slightest exertion. On Wednesdays, she didn't leave the house. She also didn't eat anything, and at the end of the afternoon, when we got home from school, she would apologize because she had only managed to prepare soup for us to eat.

On Thursdays, she always got better, and, unlike what happened on Wednesdays, she didn't show any signs of pain or weakness. But one time I got the impression that she was pretending so that we wouldn't worry. I think by Thursdays, she had also forgotten that she was going to die the next morning, and she was sincerely trying to get on with life because she never talked about death. Plus, Thursday was the day she had the biggest surprise of the week.

Dad would come home, all bearded and disheveled, smelling of cigarettes, perfume, and drink. He would say that he loved her, insisting that time apart had made him realize the depth of his mistake, and he would ask to her to take him back. As soon as we got home from school, we ran to feel her hug. Mom was tense. You could tell she didn't say everything she wanted to him, at least not while we were around. Maybe they meant to  talk about it after my sister and I went to sleep. But that's not certain, because when we were already in bed, he said he was going to change, that he needed a second chance. Mom ended up giving in. I think, despite everything, she still liked him. I know this because sometimes I would get up to go to the bathroom and end up hearing one thing or another. Dad also asked for money; she gave it, and soon after he said he needed to go out to sort something out. We didn't see him again after that.

On Friday mornings, Mom didn't wake up. She always died at dawn. Therefore, we spent Saturday absorbed by the wake and the burial. On Sundays, we cried because it is always so painful to lose our mother.

The following Monday, she woke up, fed the dog, told us that she had a bad feeling, and told us never to forget how much she loved us.

That Saturday, war broke out.

Monday came, and Mom was still dead.

END