“Two kinds of pills,” I tell her. “I’ll send you a picture of the bottles. One of each pill, you can just remind her and make sure she doesn’t double up. She also has a liquid medication.”
This is the part that scares me.
“I’ll mix it before I leave. It’s really important that she drinks the whole thing. She might not want to, but she has to take it every day. It’s for her heart.”
Another lie, but her heart is something Joanne will understand.
“Of course,” Joanne says. “I’ll make sure she drinks it.”
Behind her,Days of Our Liveslights up the TV. She glances over her shoulder, too polite to say she’s eager to get back to it but making it obvious enough to hope I’ll get the hint.
“Thanks.” She starts to shut the door, but at the last second, I add, “I’ll mix it before she goes. The medicine. I’ll text you a photo of the cup before I leave too.”
“No problem. It’s always a pleasure to help with your mom.”
There. Now we’re both lying.
“Thanks, Joanne. Take care. I’ll text you.”
The door’s already mostly shut, but I catch her “Hope your uncle’s doing well” before the scrape of the lock and the noise of the TV turned up.
Hope your uncle’s doing well. I think of the way he never finished that email, like he was in too much of a hurry to get—where? Wherever Martina went, leaving behind a car filled with blood that wasn’t hers?
I take the turn of the stairwell too tight, and the hem of my sweatshirt catches on the railing. The stairwell windows are coated in dust the color of dead leaves, and the light that filters through is browner and weaker every time I pass. Winds are picking up. We’ve had a lot of asthma attacks in the ED lately.
I haven’t told my mom yet, not about Brian or what happened at Uncle Bill’s house or the fact that it means I have to leave her. It’s only a day and a half. If I leave now, I’ll get to Reno by dinnertime. Sleep in the car, do the final couple hours in the morning, turn around and drive straight back. I took today and tomorrow off work, so I won’t even have to head to the hospital right after I get home.
But for my mom, a day isn’t always a day. Sometimes it’s an eternity. Sometimes the length of time doesn’t matter, because no matter how short it is, it still means I’m leaving her.
My toe catches on the welcome mat, and I kick it back into place with too much force. I’m ready for tears, I tell myself. I’m ready for screaming. I will meet them stone faced because this is what I need to do, for her, for us. And because she’ll forget.
I find my mom in the living room, legs tucked underneath her like a schoolgirl on portrait day. She’s inspecting the backs of her hands, twisting them this way and that like she can’t quite understand what she’s seeing.
“My hands.” She doesn’t look up. “They’re not right.”
When I was young, my mom was so proud of her pale, smooth, wrinkle-free hands, prouder of them even than her equally wrinkle-free face. The cloying scent of her hand cream always smelled to me like love, and like an unpaid debt. But I’m not young anymore, and her hands, while still slender and fine boned, are traced with wrinkles and spots of discoloration.
I take a deep breath. “Mom, I have to go up to Reno.”
She doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring at her hands. She pulls on the cuticle of the ring finger, watching the skin whiten and stretch.
“Mom, I talked to a friend of Uncle Bill’s, and he’s going to help us out. To replace the vials you… never mind. Anyway, he’s up north, so I’m going to have to—”
“They don’t look like my hands.” She sounds on the verge of tears. “Am I losing my mind?”
Yes, the spiteful thing that lurks beneath my tongue tempts me to say. Yes, yes, and it’s worse every day. Instead, I fold myself at her feet and wrap her betraying hands in mine.
“You’re not losing your mind,” I assure her. “You’re a little confused, that’s all. Now, listen, I have to leave for a day, like I said, just to go see Uncle Bill’s friend, but I’ll be back tomorrow night. And I’m only a phone call away. Okay?”
“Oh.” She settles disconsolately into her chair, staring dead eyed into the black glass of the turned-off TV. “Okay.”
No tears. No screaming.
“You’ll be fine,” I murmur, squeezing her hands in mine, trying to soothe myself almost as much as I’m trying to soothe her.
“I’ll be fine,” she repeats miserably.
My legs protest as I get up, my arms growing sluggish as I sling my duffel bag over one shoulder. It isn’t fair to keep all these secrets from her. Uncle Bill is her brother, she should know if he’s missing.
