Mothers are like Fortune Cookies

“Mothers are like Fortune Cookies”

The lights blink rhythmically, disrupting my concentration.
Others in the waiting room cast irritated glances at my bouncing leg. I’ve been stuck on this stiff chair because a mother and daughter took the cushioned ones in front. How do the doctors expect me to decide in these conditions?
“Mommy, this hospital looks haunted,” the girl says.
“Hush, Melissa. We just need to know if the doctors found a new heart for mommy.” The mother tucks stray hairs behind Melissa’s ear.
“I’m hungry.” Melissa flounces.
“Why don’t you get something from the machine?” She drops a few coins into Melissa’s hand. “Maybe the sour gummies you like?”
Melissa snatches the money and rushes away.
I loved sour candy. My mom never allowed it in our house. Candy makes you fat. Fat people die early. It’s funny. The irony.
Mom looked nothing like that woman, like what mothers are supposed to look like. Plump. Kind.
Mine was all bones. Spiky inside and out.
This one, the proper mother, turns to me.
“Are you here alone?”​
“No. My mother’s inside.”
“I’m here with my daughter, too. Mine’s still small.” Her lips stretch so wide that flaky bits of skin rip into wounds. “You’re a beautiful young woman.”
“Thank you.”
Melissa returns with some gummy bears.

Why did she get a mother who stroked her hair and bought candy, when mine pushed me off when I had chickenpox?

I guess mothers are like fortune cookies. Some people get ones they need, while others get hit with a “Lower your expectations”.
I brought my mom a cookie today. She would die soon, yet she refused it. I need to fast. For the Funeral. ​
Her scornful face weakened where her wrinkles sagged.
I pitied her.
Those weren’t her last words.
They were something mean about my father, how she wanted him to know it was his fault she got the autoimmune disease that was killing her, since it started after she got pregnant.
With me.
She was getting to that part when the machines shrieked. The doctors shut her eyes and took me away.
I half listened when they told me they were sorry for my loss. One asked for my thoughts on organ donation.
She was dead, but her heart could still beat. Inside someone else.
I’d considered that possibility before. Had decided I'd donate.
My mother would hate someone defiling her body, poaching her heart. My perfect revenge for all the neglect, hatred, blame.
Now I can’t give her heart to someone else. It was meant to be mine. It loved me in its own way.
A heart transplant would mean taking her core, her last bit of love. Sacrilege.

I stand up, approach a doctor I remember from the flurry of movement following death.
“I wish not to donate. My decision is final.”
I head over to the mother and daughter.
“I’m sorry.”
I’m met with confused looks as I walk away.

Joana Ferreira