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“You always said you wanted to become a musician. This could be your chance.”
“Mama, he plays the drums, as I’m sure a million people in California do. No, we’re not moving. End of story.” My arms fold, demanding this conversation stop.
Mama remains quiet, lowering her brows and retaining a concerned expression. She’s deep in thought, staring at the two of us with her motherly stance. She knows we’re angry, she knows that all we know is this house and her. Change doesn’t exist in our world, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.
“If you’re hired for this job, I’ll reconsider selling the house. Perhaps we can rent it out to a family, and that can pay for the facility.” She clears the plates off the table and places them in the sink. Running the water slowly, she turns back around with a stern look on her aged face. “Otherwise, I’ll put it on the market.”
I want to scream at her. Tell her to stop being selfish and think about our needs. It isn’t just about the house, it’s about her. I need her. The thought of her Mama being alone terrifies me. Yet deep inside, underneath all the resentment and rage, I know that she wears the burden on her shoulders every day, and no matter what we do, nothing can erase the diagnosis we were given.
Mama has early-onset Alzheimer’s disease, and nothing in the world can stop it.
Not me.
Not Flynn.
And no amount of money in the world.
Chapter Two
I am taking the mature road and said yes to moving to California.
That lasted one day.
I spent hours researching places to rent before stumbling on crime statistics, which had me retracting my words faster than you can say ‘gunshot wounds.’
Apparently, it’s too late. Mama put a down payment on a small condo in the facility and bought us one-way tickets to Los Angeles. For weeks, I tried to find another job, but no matter how many interviews I have been to, the reality is that nothing pays as much as the jobs in California.
The change brought on a new wave of emotions. I mourn the life I once knew. The nights are hard, lying in bed and counting down the days until this room becomes a distant memory. I fall asleep dreaming about a different time when things weren’t complicated, and life was just simple.
Flynn barely says a word, keeping quiet and distancing himself from me like this is all my fault. Instead of spending these last moments with Mama, he chooses to hang out with his deadbeat friends down at the local billiard place. I don’t bother to scold him like I normally do. Leaving Mama behind is punishment enough.
My time is filled with tying loose ends at my current job and countless interviews for this new role. The recruiter, Jan, preps me as much as possible, giving me a head start when it comes to the interview process and what the role entails. I did pass the first round of interviews which were conducted over video conference. It lasted for two hours, question after question. By the end of it, I was beyond exhausted. Never have I experienced an interview so formal.
There is still a chance I won’t get the job, but as Mama points out, I have more opportunities in Los Angeles than I will in this town, and it isn’t just about me, Flynn has a talent which needs nurturing.
So, it comes to this—the final goodbyes.
Aside from when my grandparents passed away, I’ve only ever said goodbye to one person—my father. I was seven years old when he officially left for good but I barely knew the guy. He had worked on an oil rig somewhere in Asia and came home every couple of months. My grandparents didn’t approve of him. They thought Mama deserved better and someone not Korean. My grandpapa’s words to his only daughter still ring in my head, “You have Russian blood. How dare you dishonor us and marry a Korean!”
Despite his racial slurs and creating this great divide between himself and Mama, he loved Flynn and me like his own. His death was like the loss of a father, and at the age of fifteen, my coping mechanism was not of mature thinking.
I did things I shouldn’t have.
Boys, weed, and anything I could get my hands on that involved danger.
My dad made an appearance a year later, showed me photographs of his new family like I would be excited to know that I have a sister he actually spends time with. Flynn was different. He craved a father figure in his life and begged to move to Hawaii with him. Stupid moron said no. Mama was thankful, and for the next year, we dealt with Flynn and his anxiety. The doctor suggested he take medication, and for that, I hated my so-called father and welcomed the goodbye.
This isn’t a real goodbye, though. This is a see-you-soon type of goodbye. Maybe that’s why I don’t shed the tears or drink the entire bottle of wine like my best friend, Phoebe. This trip to California will be short term—a year max. I will return once I’ve saved enough money to keep the house and maybe start my own business or something that will allow me to take care of Mama.
This isn’t a goodbye forever.
“I hate this…”
Phoebe throws a pile of clothes into the suitcase in her normally overdramatic way before pretending to faint on my bed. The bedposts creak from the sudden weight of her body while I choose to ignore her plea to make me stay home, carefully organizing my precious belongings into a separate carry-on bag.
“You only hate it because you’ve got no one to vent to on Friday night while drunk on cheap champagne you bought at Billy’s.”
Phoebe sits up, then lays back against my pillow with her ginger hair in a tangled mess. Whenever she gets frustrated or angry, she unknowingly bites her hair while silently trying to regroup her thoughts.
