Let’s get one thing straight: my name is Sabrina, not Sab, Rina, Sariri, or any other moronic nickname from my past. Sabrina Rollick: a dreamer, a writer, and a nihilist. I don’t dwell on regrets, or misunderstandings, or boys. All that matters to me is writing, and becoming the greatest female author this century has ever damn laid eyes on (my books, of course, not my face).
The sun shone in the café window, casting light on my journal in the most serene way, as if from a movie. I sat upright in my wooden stool, black maxi skirt flowing from the breeze of the air conditioner below my platform boots. My maroon leather jacket draped flawlessly over the back of my seat, and my green chunky sweater held my fragile body in ways my mother never could. I watched as people blabbed into their phones about nonsense. I watched teenage girls take dozens of selfies after saying to their friends “Just one more!” I let the aroma of coffee seep into my nose with each inhale, thanking the universe for this creation that gives too many unwarranted amounts of caffeine to my body.
The door opens, and my eyes unwillingly glance upwards to the ringing bell that had been triggered. In walks a tall, thin woman with bleached blonde hair covered by a navy blue cloche hat. Large sunglasses covered half of her face as if she was a celebrity hiding from the public eye. Her long black trench coat reached down to the middle of her calves, revealing nothing but the navy scarf wrapped tightly inside peaking out at the collar. I was intrigued by her presence, as I stared in wonder at this mysterious woman. She radiated confidence as her heels clanked along the café floors, head up high, ignoring all the eyes placed upon her. I couldn’t help but feel like I knew her, yet I failed to place my finger on where from. Maybe an old professor, but who knew. I went back to journaling, trying to let go of the claws gripping my thoughts asking me to remember this woman. I looked up one more time to get a better visual, but was taken aback when I saw the woman staring directly at me, jaw dropped in utter astonishment. She took off her comically large sunglasses and revealed the eyes of my childhood. The woman was my mother.
“Rina!?” She practically yelled, turning the café’s attention to me. I was frozen as if in ice, but instead in time. I tried to gather my belongings and get the hell out of this situation but failed to move even a nerve ending. She strutted towards me and began rambling about how much she missed my face, oh my beautiful face, and my hair, what have I done to my hair? When did I gain so much weight, and how come I haven’t called? Oh and did I hear about Ricky, he got married, finally, and that reminds her about my love life. Am I seeing anyone? I’m not afraid to tell her, are I? Well if I haven’t called in years I must be. “NO.” I shouted so loud the coffee on my table shifted slightly to the left. My mother stepped back, frightened, but still bold enough to bring her lips to my ear and whisper, “Let’s go now, I’m gonna have a word with you.” She grabbed my wrist and yanked me from my seat. I frantically turned around to gather my journal and coat but both were already wrapped snuggly in her right arm. She led me away from my safe space in the café, away from my freedom, and right out the door. The bell rang and sent shudders down to my heels as we stepped out into the crowded streets of Manhattan.
Who the hell does this woman think she is? She may be my mother but for christ’s sake I am twenty four years old, I deserve more respect than being dragged out of a coffee shop like a disobedient toddler. “What are you doing in the city?” I asked, secretly hoping she would say today is her last day here. My heart dropped shortly after. “Well,” mother said, “I actually moved here a few months ago. After your father died I decided I needed a change of scenery, of pace.” “And you chose Manhattan, why exactly? Are you seriously stalking me or something? God I just wish you could leave me alone for once in my life!” She stared for a moment, analyzing my tone and facial expression just like the psychiatrist she is. “This is why I wanted you to be a doctor. You just love the drama, don’t you Rina?” My eyes narrowed into a vicious gaze as she continued, “if you cared for once in your life about something other than your writing, maybe you wouldn’t hate me and understand that I’m just trying to help you!” The anger in my heart overflowed, seeping into my body as I listened to her words. My face burned with rage and my vision was clouded by scrambled thoughts. She didn’t stop rambling about my poor career choices, how I never should have died my hair or gotten piercings, and why she’s almost glad that I haven’t called. Irrational thoughts raced around in my head, creating a tornado of emotions and I just couldn’t take it anymore. My arm swung back and in an instant the palm of my hand was directly flushed into my mother’s cheek. We stood in silenced shock and gazed at each other, fear and disgust filled her eyes while mine radiated regret and anger. I grabbed my things from her arm and turned to storm away, barley hearing her slight call of “Rina, wait” softly escape from her lips.
I practically ran down the city streets as the salty sting from my tears flowed onto my lips. My intuition was the only thing that guided where my feet took me as the platforms on them stomped harshly on the cement. Each step produced a sound that beat almost as distinctly as my heart. I turned corners more eagerly than an animal desperately chasing their prey. Finally, I arrive at the only place that my body and mind wanted to be, where I could find some sort of tranquility. My breath struggled to steady as I tried not to choke on my tears and gazed up to the grey sky with a sense of longing. I knelt down on the mushy green grass and focused my eyes on my father’s grave. I simply cried to him, as my thoughts kept replaying what I had done over and over again like a broken record. Only this record wasn’t just skipping a beat, it was completely shattered.
I felt her presence approaching the second she turned the corner. My puffy eyes had finally dried up, only to now be replenished with tears of regret and negligence. My mother and I did not exchange words, but instead felt the shared existence of our mistakes and misconceptions blending into one. As I looked into her eyes I saw the truth for the first time. A woman who never had any models of motherhood, and who fought tirelessly to be treated with respect in a world built for men. I saw my reflection in her eyes as if looking into a mirror, when I realized that we are simply the same. We fight to be unapologetically ourselves but all we are met with is negative discourse. Our hatred melted away as our arms outstretched and we became one. “I love you, Sabrina” she said. My mother and I are two puzzle pieces, but I fell off the table and wasn’t noticed until the rest had been solved. I was the missing piece.
Three years ago, I was insecure in myself, my goals as a writer, and my ability to be my true self. Three years ago, when that despicable incident occurred, the entire trajectory of my life was altered. Today, I am a best selling author with dozens of young woman looking up to me with eyes of hope. Though I may have been the missing link in my mother’s life, unbeknownst to me it was her validation and love that allowed me to free myself from judgements and fears of failure. My novel, The Eyes of Reflection, opened my mind for everyone to see inside my head. And though terrifying, hiding behind the façade of being independent and confident was almost as worse as that day three years ago. And though I can say that I left that day in the past, I’m just glad I brought my mother along for the journey.