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Chapter 6
Quintessa
In life, when something bad happensto someone or just in general, people look for someone to blame. I blame myself for this. Like, if I was there at my mom’s house, this would not have happened. Why was she hanging pictures in the first place? Old people just won’t go somewhere and sit down, will they? And where was my father when all this went down? I know he’s just as scared as I am as we await her prognosis, but he’s supposed to be mama’s protector. This is my mama we’re talking about here. The woman who birthed me into this world. Who’s been there for me in every phase of my life. I have a special attachment to her. Why wasn’t he hanging the picture?
Dad shakes his head and says, “I told her not to hang that picture. It’s enough pictures on that wall already, but she wanted it done.”
“Why didn’t you hang it for her, Dad?”
“I told her I’d take care of it when I got back, but I guess that wasn’t soon enough for her. She justhadto do it…waited good until I left.”
“So, she was trying to hang it before you left?”
“Yeah. Ever since you moved into your new place, she’s been talking about redecorating, moving stuff around—she bought some new curtains. She was at Lowe’s last week looking at paint swatches. Don’t no walls need painting in that house.”
So, this is my fault…
I brush a flow of tears from my face and say, “I know you can’t be there every second of the day, Dad, but Mom has to realize she can’t do the same things she used to do back in the day.”
“I tried to tell her that, Quin. She just doesn’t listen. The woman is set in her ways and that’s what it is.”
“What if she broke a hip? Do you know how long it will take for her to recover from that? I don’t want that for her. She’ll be miserable being still, lying in one position, not able to do nothing.”
I drop my head again and agonize. It’s what I’ll do until the doctor comes out and gives us an update. It doesn’t help that I keep getting a visual of the accident happening – of her falling. How long was she on the floor before dad found her? Could she move? Does my mother need one of those medical necklaces that calls 911 at the push of a button?
Dad stands and paces the waiting room for a bit. He says, “There was shattered glass all around her. Why couldn’t she have just waited for me?” Agitation and fear of the unknown have him fidgety.
I say, “Dad just take a walk and try to relax, okay,” I say, but I’m not heeding my own advice. I’m not relaxed.
“Good idea. I’ll be right back.”
And now I’m alone to stress myself with worry and more anxiety.
“Gosh, Mom, what were you thinking?” I say, silently trying to talk this through.
My head hurts from crying and then there’s the tension tightening my forehead. I’m growing more and more agitated, but there’s no need to ask the nurses for another update. Dad just did that before he disappeared down the hallway.
I drop my head and rest my forehead on my hands, thinking about how mom might’ve felt when she fell, putting myself in her shoes. Gosh, I wish it was me and not her. More tears slide from my eyes.
I jump, startled when I feel a pair of hands on my knees and smell the familiar cologne of the man who’s been making himself available for me. I lower my arms and sit up to see that it’s him – Essex – on his knees in front of me, pulling me into his embrace.
“I’m here,” he says. “I got you.”
With my butt still in the chair, I lean forward to close my arms around his neck. I don’t know why, but seeing him – the concern in his eyes, and the way he pulled me into his arms – has me holding on to him like he’s my shoulder to cry on. And that’s what I do. I cry.
“It’s okay, Tessie. It’ll be okay.”
He squeezes me, assuring me of his support and just him being here has brought me a measure of comfort. My tears dry up and he releases me, staring into my weary eyes. I stare back at him. He grimaces. Finally, he asks, “Have you heard anything?”
“Not yet,” I respond. The reality that he’s here consoling me is sinking in and I feel embarrassed that he sees my bloodshot eyes and tear-stained face. Even still, my heart softens toward him. I need this consolation, and honestly, he didn’t have to show up at all. He has a business to run and money to make, but he took time out of his day for me.
He stands – my eyes feast on the dark gray, tailored suit and the way it fits his body so well. He sits next to me, taking the chair my father was occupying before he took a walk. Taking my left hand into his right, he says, “I’ll just sit here with you and wait for an update. You don’t have to talk if you’re not up to it.”
I sniffle again, clear my throat and say, “That’ll be kinda awkward, don’t you think?”
“Okay, then. Talk to me. Tell me what happened?”
“My dad said she was talking about hanging a picture on the wall. He told her he’d do it when he got back because he was on his way out and when he got back an hour later, she was lying on the floor next to a stepladder. The picture never made it on the wall. Glass was shattered on the floor around her. She’s just so…so…hard headed.”
