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She’s crying again. Always crying.
I remember how my dad used to complain. You’re always fucking crying, Michelle, and when you’re not crying you’re nagging me. Useless cunt.
It should make me feel poisoned, that echo, but instead it makes me hate her.
I’ve spent half my life trying to be her helper, her partner, her boss. It’s not a job I’d wish on my worst enemy.
“I can’t,” she pleads, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “I just can’t.”
“What do you want me to do? Everything? While you sit here on Joan’s couch and cry?”
“Joan will let me stay.”
“Joan’s his mom, not yours. He didn’t marry you. He didn’t stand by you, he didn’t treat you good, he didn’t respect you or love you or even stop himself from kicking your ass whenever he felt like it. Why are you doing this? Why cling to this sick fucking memory when Frankie needs you?”
She blows her nose and lowers the tissue. Her mouth is hanging open a bit. She looks wrecked.
My hands mash the pillow. I want to do violence to something, but it’s not her. Her body is the first soft thing I remember, her smile the one I’d work for when I was a kid. Her radiance was the treat I’d earn if I made the right jokes and read her mood correctly.
I’m a dick to keep pushing at her when I know she’s not exaggerating—she really can’t do this.
“Frankie doesn’t need me,” she says. “She’s got you.”
She says it so matter-of-fact, it sounds like the clang of a cell-block gate swinging shut.
Frankie’s got me.
I had Caroline.
Not anymore.
I stand up. Pace back and forth in front of her. Jam my hands into my pockets, take them out, cross my arms, rake my fingers through the stubble of my hair.
I know where this conversation is headed, and I’m not ready for it.
“You want me to take care of her,” I say. “Until when?”
“Until I’m feeling up to it.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
She shrugs and looks at her lap. “Until I can work. Get a car, save some money up for a place.”
I bite back a laugh.
Never. That’s when she means. She’s never going to feel up to it.
I turn and look at her, wishing I could feel more tenderness—some of the friendship we used to have, if not actually love.
I do love her.
I just don’t like her or respect her or trust her anymore.
And I can’t carry her. If she’s giving me my sister to carry, I’ll take that weight on, but I can’t handle my mother, too. Not if she won’t help me.
“Fine,” I say. “But if we’re gonna do that, we’ll make it official. You give me power of attorney for Frankie. I need to be able to make decisions.”
Her eyes are huge. “I’m still her mother.”
