The Stuffed Bunny

I found it under a pile of clothes she'd left behind. The morning of the accident she’d left the pile of laundry on the bed to fold after work. The laundry was never folded, she never made it to work, and I will never see my mother again. 

I watched her, lying helplessly in a hospital bed. I was wishing, hoping, praying for her lifeless body to flinch or move or do something besides being entirely still. But I knew that was not going to happen. The worst part was, it would not happen because of me, my selfish attitude, and my stupid, stupid stuffed bunny. 

Just hours before, I walked into the kitchen in a fury. My little sister, Lily, was sitting at the brand-new kitchen island eating her bowl of heart-healthy Cheerios before her first day of 3rd grade. She was small for her age, which made my parents obsess over her even more for how “cute” she was. I didn’t care that it was her first day of school or that she was always seen as the “innocent” little sister. I marched over to her, ready to rain my anger all over her parade.

“What did you do to my bunny!” I demanded. 

I held up my small, tattered, 17-year-old stuffed bunny my grandfather gave me on the day I was born. It was covered in blue paint from her so-called “art project” the night before. 

“I didn’t do it,” Lily screamed back at me. 

Before I could respond, my mother interjected from the other side of the kitchen island. 

“Leave her alone Jess, she didn’t mean to ruin your bunny,” she said. 

My fury for my sister deflected to my mom faster than I fell to the ground when I was learning to ride my bike for the first time. 

“Why are you always so fast to defend her?” I said. “Just because she’s younger doesn’t mean she can do whatever she wants whenever she wants!” 

“Jess,” my mom started. 

“No, don’t talk to me. All you ever do is defend her, even when you know she’s wrong!” 

“Jessica Marie Samuel don’t you dare talk to your mother like that,” she yelled. 

“I can’t even look at you right now! Sometimes you make me wish that I wasn’t a part of this stupid family and you weren’t a selfish mom who always chooses Lily over me!” I screamed as I ran back up to my room and slammed the door. 

I heard my mom leave for work that morning at 7:45 rather than 7:30 as usual. I assumed she was helping Lily get ready for her first day, so I didn’t think anything of it. She knew to leave me alone when I was angry, so she left without saying goodbye, which I was honestly thankful for because I didn't feel like facing her right now. She is always so quick to defend my sister, even when she knows Lily is in the wrong. Sometimes I feel like my mom doesn't even care that I am her daughter too. From the day Lily was born, close to nine years ago now, I have felt as if I was second in my mom’s eyes. I always had to try ten times as hard to even compare to my little sister, which is ironic, because I became a part of this family first. Lily would draw a picture of a ladybug, which in my opinion looked like a pile of spaghetti and red sauce spilled all over the floor, and my parents would applaud her for her talents. I would come home every semester with straight A’s, placing me on the Highest Honor Roll, and my parents wouldn't even turn their heads in my direction. I would be greeted with a “Very well Jessica,” or a “Thank goodness you take after your father’s study habits,” and nothing more than that. For the last 9 years of my life, I have always felt second, and as if nothing I do will ever be good enough for my mother’s unreachable standards. 

I left for school that morning in a much worse mood than usual. As much as I don’t like how my mother makes me feel sometimes, I still hate when we fight. 

Third period came around and science class hit me harder than it usually does. I took a seat in my routine spot, right next to the radiator that just so happens to buzz extra loud every ten or fifteen minutes. I choose this seat purposely so that if I ever start to doze off in class, the radiator noises wake me up. The room is always darkened, just like it is today, since we watch a lot of movies in class. My classmates took their places around me while I began to think about what topics might be on the class agenda for the day. 

 I have always loved science, it’s something that comes naturally to me. I would like to study Environmental Science in college since I’ve always loved animals and being outdoors. The first 10 minutes of class crept by, and finally, after what felt like an eternity of talking, Mrs. Porter started to play a video about the cycle of life. While talking about natural selection, a clip of a small bunny came across the projector. It caught my attention, and I immediately thought about the interaction I had this morning with my mother. In my fit of rage, I left my stuffed bunny on the counter, leaving it to become prey for my little sister (once again) in the cycle of life that is my household. I thought about my poor bunny, being left for dead on the kitchen floor, all because my mother had to (once again) take Lily’s side over mine. I thought about texting her, telling her how much I hate when we fight, but my arrogance got in the way. Plus, we aren’t allowed to use our phones in school anyways. Ignoring her and everything that happened that morning seemed like my plan of action, at least until the end of the school day. 

Science class came and went, and I was on my way to fourth period when Mrs. Hall, the Front Office Assistant, came over the loudspeaker. She has a loud, scratchy, annoying voice that makes you want to scream at the top of your lungs “stop talking,” even though she can’t hear you. Usually, she comes over the speaker, calling some delinquent student to the office because they missed one too many classes. But today, her tone was different. Her voice was not loud, it was not scratchy, and it was not annoying. Her tone was somber, and fearful, like she wanted nothing more in the world than to not be saying the words that were coming out of her mouth.

“Jessica Samuel, please report to the front office, Principal Harley needs to see you,” she said. 

My gaze shot up from the cold hard ground and I met the eyes of what felt like the entire school. People I didn't even know seemed to be staring through my soul, almost like I was invisible. I’m not a nobody at this school, but I’m also not one of those girls who pretends to be friends with people I hate just so I seem more popular. I simply exist. But today, I was doing more than just existing. I became the center of attention. My brain quickly returned to square one, and I was reminded of why I was no longer a nobody. The principal wants to see me. But why? I go to class, I’m a good student (the definition of good may be considered loose here), and I’ve never gotten in trouble. I’m not even sure the principal would know my name. But he wanted to see… me?  

I walked down the hallway for what felt like an eternity. I thought back to last week, when I accidentally tripped over a small one-gallon trash can in the corner of the science labs, and I was in too much of a rush to clean up the mess of frog carcasses from the dissection class that used the space before me. Was I in trouble for my clumsiness and laziness? Did he find out I was the one who spilled the trash? I walked, and walked, and walked, and considered turning around and hiding in the bathroom stall on the fourth floor for the rest of the day. No one uses that bathroom because no one willingly chooses to walk up all those stairs. No one would even think to find me there. Before I could make a run for it I ended up rounding the corner and met the eyes of Mrs. Hall. 

“Jessica,” Mrs. Hall started, “Principal Harley is waiting for you in his office.” 

She motioned towards a large, somewhat daunting door that was cracked open. I began to walk towards it, terrified of the possible wrath that could come hurtling towards me from Mr. Harley. I pushed open the door, and flinched, preparing myself for what was to come. Instead, I was met by Mr. Harley’s kind eyes, as well as our nicest school counselor, Mrs. Burns. She has always been one of my favorite teachers. She radiates warmth and makes every student she talks to feel like they are the most important person in this school. But today, right now, she was not radiating warmth. Instead, she had a frown on her face, as if she had done something tragic and felt an immense amount of guilt. I closed the door behind me, and Mrs. Burns patted the cushioned chair next to her, asking me to sit down. I sat, trying hard not to cry out of pure confusion and anxiety. 

“Jessica,” Mr. Harley began, “I got a call from your father. Your mother has been in an accident. She is at the hospital right now.”

My mind went blank. That trashcan I knocked over was now a minor blip in time, and I started to cry. I wish I was in trouble, I wish I was expelled, and I wish my teacher reported me for talking too much in class. I wish that I was sitting here, in this room, for any reason but this. 

“Your aunt, Maggie, is on her way to pick you up right now,” Mrs. Burns added. “I am so sorry Jessica.” 

“My aunt? But I haven't seen her in years,” I thought to myself. 

My Aunt Maggie, my mother’s sister, lives just five minutes from us, on Lakeshore Road. We never see her, or her husband, my Uncle Dale, because she and my mother have very different views about the world, as my mother explained it. 

The next 30 minutes were a whirlwind. I was escorted to my aunt’s car, and she embraced me harder than my mother had ever hugged me. She was sobbing uncontrollably, and part of me wanted to tell her to shut up. I really don’t know why. She’s never done anything wrong to me, but her loud, obnoxious tears made me want to slap someone. 

“Please, for the love of God, stop crying so loud,” I thought to myself. 

We drove 15 minutes to the hospital, where I became instantly overwhelmed by the amount of nurses running in and out of the Emergency Department doors. My aunt grabbed me by the hand, not in a caring or loving way, but in a way that made me feel like a lost 3-year-old being dragged through the busy grocery store by my mother on a late Tuesday afternoon. 

She sat me in a chair in the lobby as if she knew that I didn’t have the consciousness to find myself a seat. My father, standing at the help desk, with Lily in his arms, collapsed into Maggie’s arms. They never seemed to like each other much, but right now, that didn’t matter. I stood up and walked towards my father, hoping that a hug from him would make all this chaos go away. 

“Jess,” my dad said with a shaky voice. I’d never seen him cry before, and I didn’t think today would have been the day. He was a software engineer — Built tough, and extremely intelligent, which meant he showed few emotions. He grabbed me tight and held me close, so close I could only smell his cologne, and not the stench of hospital. I’ve always hated hospitals, and so has my mother. I guess that’s one thing we have in common. 

My father let me out of his grip and I stepped away from the help desk. The nurse behind the desk looked at me as if she knew what I was going through, and as if she could read my mind. But in reality, she had no idea. I was angry, I was scared, I was confused, and then I realized no one had even told me what had happened yet. I grabbed the hem of my dad's shirt and gave it a small tug. He turned towards me, with sorrow in his eyes.

“What, what happened,” I said.

“The nurses won’t tell us much,” my dad began. “All I know is that your mother was in a car accident on her way to work today. The car was totaled, and the collision was with an 18-wheeler that swerved lanes because of the heavy winds on the highway.” 

Tears began to form in my eyes. An 18-wheeler? How did it not crush her entirely? Who found her? Who called 911? Is she okay? Does she know where she is? Is she scared? 

Before I could begin to come up with answers to my questions a tall man in a long white coat appeared at the desk. 

“Mr. Samuel, please follow me,” the doctor said as he ushered our family into a small consultation room that was tucked just behind the welcome desk. 

Lily and I followed closely behind our father as if we were scared to get lost in the 10-second walk from where we were standing to where the room was. When we finally made it to the room, all I could think about was how much the room smelt like death. Loud, dark, and scary death. The pale green color of the walls made me feel as if the world was caving in on me. I didn’t even bother sitting down, so I clung to my father’s left arm and waited, for what felt like an eternity, for the doctor to speak.

 “I am so sorry, but your wife did not make it. The impact of the accident was too much. She was gone before we could begin examining her,” the doctor said. 

My heart sank to the floor. My dad collapsed to the ground, landing on his knees. My aunt turned away from the doctor and held her face inside her shirt, sobbing hysterically. Lily looked at me, confused, wondering why everyone was crying. I grabbed her before I could shed another tear. I held her tight and did not let go for a very, very long time. My little sister was old enough to understand what death was, but still too young to understand that death was permanent. To her, mom was napping, and I wished that was the truth. 

“Hold it together for Lily,” I thought to myself.

The next hours blended together. My dad, sister, aunt, and I left the hospital, without my mom. We arrived home that night, and the house was filled with silence. None of us wanted to speak, none of us had anything to say. I walked in the front door and avoided the kitchen, the last place I saw my mother, at all costs. I walked upstairs to my room and noticed that the pile of clothes on her bed was unfolded. My mom never left clothes unfolded, unless she was legitimately out of time and had somewhere to be. I was pulled towards her room, which is a place I would not usually spend a lot of time. It was never the most welcoming place, in my opinion. I pushed open the door so I could slip through. The lamp on her side of the bed was left on. Her glasses were sitting on the nightstand next to her favorite comfort book, Where the Crawdads Sing. She always told me I should read it, but my stubborn self never gave her, or Delia Owens the time of day. I walked towards the bed and placed my left hand, still wet from wiping tears off my cheeks, on the pile of clothes. I bent down onto one knee and smelled them. I don’t know why, but I wanted to smell her. I instinctively stood up and started folding the clothes. I’ve never once helped with laundry, but I felt as if my mother's routines should be carried on. I picked up the first shirt, her purple “Mountain Momma” shirt that she bought when we went to visit the White Mountains last summer. I made fun of her because I thought it was corny, but she didn’t seem to mind. I picked up each piece of clothing, one by one. Eventually, I got to the bottom of the pile. I picked up what I assumed was the last piece, her favorite gardening pants. To my surprise, there was one more item underneath. 

My stuffed bunny, no longer covered in blue paint, stared back at me from the bottom of the pile. I burst into tears. I heard my mother leave for work at 7:45 that morning, instead of 7:30. Usually, I might not think much of this, but my mom was a woman of strict routine and habit. My mother, who I had ruthlessly screamed at in the kitchen that morning, was late for work because she washed my stuffed bunny. My mother, who I ruthlessly screamed at that morning, was killed in a car accident. The tears poured on, and a wave of guilt washed over me, nearly drowning me. If my mother had left for work at 7:30 that day, would she still be alive? If I had not made such a big deal over a stupid little stuffed bunny, would she be here to fold these clothes for herself right now? 

I must have been crying loud, for a while, because my dad came into the room. I was curled in a ball on the carpeted floor. The lamp was still on, her glasses were still on the nightstand, and my stuffed bunny was curled up in my hands. He knelt on the floor and held me. He held me tight, and the longer he held me the harder I cried. 

“I killed her, Dad,” I sobbed.

“Jessica, honey, what are you talking about? Your mom was in an accident. It was an accident,” my dad explained. 

“No Dad,” I cried. “She, she was late for work. She left late for work because I screamed at Lily about my stupid stuffed bunny that she ruined with her stupid blue paint. And she left home late to wash it for me even though I told her that I didn’t even want to be a part of this family! All I want to do is apologize to her!” 

I continued sobbing on the floor. My dad held me tight, like a safety blanket, stopping me from shaking. 

“Jess, sweetie, what happened today was an accident. Your mother called me on her way to work, just before the accident. She told me you fought, and she told me she washed your bunny. She loved you and Lily more than you will ever know. She was proud of you always, for being your own person. She knows that you are mother and daughter, so you are bound to fight, but that will never change how much she loves you. The truck that hit her was an accident. This is not your fault. Please, my sweet girl, don’t blame yourself.”   

I continued crying, and then Lily walked in. All I wanted to do was hug her, so I did. I wrapped her in my arms and my dad held us both. 

“Lily,” I said, “I am so sorry I yelled at you. And I am so sorry that mom is gone.” 

Lily looked at me, and without a word, I knew she finally began to understand. She hugged me back and gave me a small, soft, kiss on my cheek. 

I held the bunny close to my heart and thought about my mom. She loved me, even if my stubborn teenage self didn’t always see that. She knew me, better than I did, and probably better than I ever will. She knew to leave me alone when I was angry, and she knew I never meant the mean things I said. She loved me with small acts of kindness, like washing my bunny. 

I, a stubborn teenager, had never been good at apologies. But, for the first time in my life, it was easy. Once my dad and Lily had left, I held my bunny and looked up to the ceiling. I don’t know why, but I felt like looking up was the appropriate thing to do. 

“I am so sorry Mom,” I said with tears running down my face.

I wasn’t expecting a response, but I knew that my mom heard me. And I knew that my mom loved me.  

My mother was gone, and I still did not have the means to comprehend that. But what I did have was a realization. My mother loved me, in her own way, and I had a clean stuffed bunny to prove that.