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Fiona
Dragging the brush through my mother’s hair, I adjust her head in my lap as her skull digs into my thigh; she stirs from the nap she’d been taking, giving me a deflated smile.
The new medication she’s been switched to helps with her cognitive function, but her muscular capabilities have significantly decreased, which means right now she can’t even hold her head up long enough for me to do her hair before I leave for the church.
Part of me can’t help wondering if the recent spell she went through was a side effect of the stress caused by everything going on at Ivers International, but that’s the thing about Lewy Body—it’s entirely unpredictable, attacking and retracting whenever it pleases.
At least, that’s how Kal described it to me. Said the disease has a mind of its own, and that’s why there’s no definitive answer for how long she has left with us until she enters the later stages. When that happens, he said, the body is pretty much giving up.
With no set timeline, though, we’re stuck waiting, and I know it’s killing her slowly inside, possibly more than the disease itself.
The fear of what’s to come, of not knowing when to expect it, is probably taking much more of a toll than it would if we could see the future.
My father relented when I left the office the other day, surrendering to one of my demands—the twenty-four-hour private nursing staff he hired starts tomorrow, and I can’t even begin to express my relief.
It’s short-lived, of course, when I remember the why behind my father caving.
Reaching up slowly, my mother smooths her fingertips over the crease between my eyebrows, giving the slightest shake of her head. “You worry far too much, darling.”
“Wonder where I got that from,” I mutter, setting the brush beside my leg. She’s stretched out on her bed, the television playing an episode of House Hunters on mute, the air around us still and calm in spite of the calamity within.
“You’re not supposed to worry about the things you can’t control,” she says, the ends of her words curling a bit as she tries to keep the slur from them. “Isn’t that what I always tell you?”
“You say to find something I can control and let go of what I can’t.”
“And?”
I blink. “And what?”
“Are you searching for the things you can control, or are you letting the things you can’t control you?”
Sighing, I gently lift her head, sliding a pillow beneath her neck and rolling onto my side. I smooth my hand over the silk comforter, admiring the texture beneath my hand, and remember Boyd’s words from the other night.
‘I can’t just let you distract me every chance you get.’
It’d been such a stark contrast to the man I’ve come to know that my heart is still reeling, doing its best to piece together why he’d say that, given the show he’d made recently claiming me as his. Was it all a lie, or some sick little joke?
Or is the thing I wanted to distract him from in the first place finally bearing down with its full weight, crushing him to the point of exhaustion? Have I been too much of a distraction, barring him from any sense of healing on his part?
When I chose to keep seeing him behind my family’s back, the point was to help. I thought he needed me, and I liked having him around.
But if that isn’t the case anymore, and if I can’t even trust him, then... what am I doing with him?
When help turns to hurt, it’s time to let go.
So, that’s what I did the night I walked away. I haven’t contacted him since, nor has he reached out to me.
Both of us controlling the things we can and letting everything else figure itself out.
If only my heart would stop bleeding, aching for him to come back.
If only everything was different.
“You’ll be careful today, right?” my mother asks, penetrating my swirling thoughts.
Rolling my eyes, I nod. “Kieran’s not letting me do anything dangerous. We’re just scoping the perimeter, keeping an eye on things in case something suspicious goes down.”
She exhales, pinching her eyes closed. “I know, but still. This is... well, family work has a history of getting messy, and I just want to make sure you’re prepared for anything.”
