What do I have of my mother's?

I do not have her eyes: a faraway blue-grey. Mine are hazel, like my dad's. I do not have her delusions; I probably have some of my own. I do not have her British accent anymore, like I did in kindergarten.

My mother died two years ago. We got a call on Thanksgiving day from my mom's boyfriend in England, where the two of them had been living since my parents' divorce when I was a junior in high school. I was upstairs and heard my little sister crying, and my first thought was that something had happened to the cat. My father told me the news: John's phone call had not been a Thanksgiving greeting.

How was I supposed to feel? Shocked, certainly, because she was only 45 years old. They think it was a heart attack, or a blood clot in the lung. My mother was overweight and not very good at taking care of herself; she hadn't really taken good care of herself in years.

But she was in England, her home, among friends. As much as I am glad to be alive, I'm somewhat sorry she chose to have children, what with her own childhood and mentality in such pieces as they were. My parents married young: my father was 20, my mother was 22.

What do I have of my mother's?

I might have a hint of her smile. I know I have some of her naivete. I do not want to remind my father, brother, or sister of her, though. One of the reasons I wear contact lenses rather than glasses is to avoid looking like her.

My mother's father might be dead, also. I have no idea; I haven't spoken to him in over six years. My grandfather was supposedly molested by a man staying with his family when he was a little boy, but that is no excuse for what he did to my mother, Or for what he did to me, my siblings, and my cousins. Why did my mother subject us to this man, knowing what his perversions were? I am still angry at her for this.

She claimed she didn't remember what he did to her until she started having nightmares at the age of 30. But I started showing strange behaviors when I was maybe four years old, indicating the cycle was continuing. Why didn't this jog her memory? Why was I still subject to sleepovers at Granddad's house until my preteen years? Why didn't I speak up sooner?

What do I have of my mother's?

I have some of her fear. Not her paranoia, but the healthy, self-preserving fear of her father. Being 3,000 miles away from this man who might not even be alive helps, but I cannot help but wonder how many other people he victimized. His wife, my grandmother, had a day care for a while. A day care! Luckily, it was shut down when my father took my siblings and I to the police so we could explain exactly why our grandparents should not be permitted to be around even one small child, much less a large group of children.

One of the girls my grandfather baby-sat for as a child ended up becoming a bus driver. She was arrested several years ago for writing young male passengers love letters in blood.

My cousin Michelle, whom I love dearly, did not get counseling, as I did, to deal with what happened to her as a young girl. She has a little girl of her own now, and has given up a second child for adoption. The fathers of both children are nowhere to be seen, and are probably not paying child support. Michelle is an incredibly intelligent and kind person who cannot hold down a job. Last time I talked to her she was working at a gas station, hoping she wouldn't get fired for being late.

Michelle's brother, last I heard, was in the hospital after taking an overdose of Tylenol.

What do I have of my mother's?

More importantly, what do I have that my mother did not? I have a father who has always looked out for me. I have had the benefit of help when I needed it. I have had people who believed me when it was important to do so. Valerie McLean had none of these things. I still feel burning inside when I think of her, though, because she let things go on. Because she refused to take the medication she needed to act normal, to be a competent parent. Because she didn't stop drinking, even after I had her sign a "contract" when I was in high school, wherein she promised not to hide alcohol and lie about it anymore. Where is the line drawn at which somebody is or isn't responsible for their behavior? My mother repeated, "I love you, I love you", over and over again, to me, my siblings, and my father, but yet her actions were anything but loving.

I like to think that my mother loved me. I think that she was failed, in part, by the system that was supposed to help her. After a second suicide attempt, she was hospitalized, and they let her out far too early, saying she was "fine". She was anything but fine when she wasn't supervised, though: she could not be relied upon to maintain her own medication. The health care system threw their hands up in the air and gave my mother back to her family to deal with, when she still had problems impervious to love alone. Love is powerful but it can't cure a chemical imbalance.

So now I am here in the United States, with a good job, mental stability, and a loving family. My father re-married, and he and my stepmother are beautifully compatible. My mother's ashes are scattered in England, where she was happiest. What do I have of my mother's, indeed?