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“Jess-i-ca Ma-rie Gray.” His bark turns to a growl on the last syllable. “Get back here.”
“No.” Holding firm, I turn in the middle of the archway. “I’m not your boot to boss around.”
“You’re not my marine. You’re my daughter.”
My daughter. What a joke. “Let’s be honest. I’m just an inconvenience you got stuck with.” I back all the way out of the kitchen.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he yells.
I’m gonna do more than walk, I’m gonna run. Right to Mom. Where I should’ve gone a long time ago.
chapter 62
Gabe
“Let other people do the work.”
~ Meredith Morgan
(played by the award-winning Meredith Wade)
Raising Ryder: Episode135
Nine hours. That’s how long it took me to park outside The Oasis and call my sister after delivering a very pissy Kim to her red-eye.
Seven miles down I-20—on my tenth replay of what went down with Jess and why she cut me loose—that eighteen-wheeler that drove onto my chest the day I abandoned Mom at The Oasis finally crushed me. The pressure punctured my lungs and cut off my breath until I cranked an illegal U-turn and headed back to Dallas. It still took all night of driving nowhere to find the strength to walk across the hot coals leading to Mom’s hell.
With my sister squeezing my hand, this time I make it beyond the gates, past the bench, and through both sets of security doors. But it feels like a wasted victory the second I falter in front of Mom’s room. It’s not that I don’t knowwhatI’ll find inside, it’s that I don’t knowwhoI’ll find.
Coley slumps against the wall next to me, rubbing her arms, even though the heat has to be cranked past eighty. Old people get cold. One more kick at my permanently bruised gut. Mom’s not old. She may never get old. Early onset doesn’t come with a long life expectancy. We’ll be lucky to get ten years.
“It gets easier the more you come.” The sincerity in my sister’s voice says she almost believes it.
“How doesthisget easier?” I gesture at the zombie-like shuffle of the residents coming back from dinner. The décor might be upscale hotel, but the vibe is rent-for-the-week motel despair.
The smell is the worst. It should be Ben Gay, bleach, and decay. Not lilacs, sugar cookies, and coffee. The faux homey feel makes the back of my neck clammy. Because it’s not home. And we should be home. Not here in the middle of an Alzheimer’s apocalypse.
“If I miss a week”—my sister straightens, tugging the waistband of her jeans higher over hips she barely has—“sometimes I forget she’s not... normal.”
“Are you okay?” I don’t want to start a fight. Not when I came to work things out, but she looks like she’s crossed the line from starving super model to concentration camp survivor. Except she has hair.
“I’m good. You’re here.” She shrugs. Then ruins her casual move when her eyes brim with tears.
And I see, really see, the dark circles under her eyes that bleed through too many layers of concealer, the pale skin spotlighted by overzealous blush, the tremble in her lips, and how impossible this has been for her.
“I’m an ass for not coming.” I pull her into my arms. An even bigger ass for wanting to leave.
She smashes her forehead into my shoulder, curls her fingers into fists and presses them against my back.
I hold her tight, rub her back, let her cry it out, a drop in the bottomless bucket of things I should’ve done before. She’s my sister. I love her. I’ve lost everyone else. I don’t want to lose her too.
When the tears stop, she leans back, digs a tissue out of her back pocket, and holds it up. “Memory Care Center Survival Tip Number One—Kleenex. Number two is waterproof mascara.” She pats under her eyes.
“I think I’m okay on the mascara as long as I don’t come straight from the set.” I take the tissue and wipe near her chin. “Besides, men don’t cry.”
“Huh.” She brushes a finger across my cheek, and it comes away wet.
I wipe away tears I don’t want to own up to with my shirt, then take her hands. Even bone thin, she looks so much like Mom it throws me. I clear my tightening throat. “I think I need to see Mom alone the first time.”
