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“I am so sorry,” I murmured, fixing her comfortably against the tree as my humanity took the wheel once more. I did not have much more time to fret over her peaceful face and pushed forward to my hometown, letting her fade from my mind.
It was a short run between our little town and Boston. Finally taking in the buildings and scenery I had not for thirty years, the tears pooled in my eyes. So much had changed. There were new, beautifully built buildings covering the once flat land and it was clear the population had exploded.
I continued along past the town until I came upon the strong brick structure of my family estate. The garden that led up to it was in bloom, Mother appearing to have added onto it at some point. White puffs of hydrangeas hugged one another as they lined the walkway and roses which had lined the walls were taller, less tame than they were the last time I saw them.
I stood at the wrought iron gate, gently pushing it open. It creaked loudly in protest.
Should I see them? Let them know I had never died? Or did I save them the heart attack and just peek? It did not seem fair to them after all this time to show up and tell them the truth, surely by now their human hearts had healed and forgotten.
Or, was it not I who had seen just how devastating the loss of one child had been for them? Slowly, I crept to the window of the parlor. It was sheathed with the white lace curtains, barely hiding its contents. A fire burned low in the room but it otherwise showed little sign of life. I moved to the kitchen window near the back of the house, to a young woman reading a book as she rocked back and forth in her chair.
Where was Mary? Was she dead?
My heart crumbled and I felt the lump rise in my throat at the very thought of Mary gone, leaving my mother and father without her.
There was a sound from upstairs, a wet choking cough. The girl rose instantly and ran with a bucket of water and rags. I followed her through the windows, digging my nails into the brick to climb up the outside wall.
I scaled the side of the house until I came upon my parents’ bedroom window. There came another pathetic cough from that very spot. I peered in the most surreptitious way. The room remained unchanged, as if I had never left, only now instead of my mother, there lay a pale, sweaty woman in her bed. Her covers had been tossed about as if she was struggling with some unseen force.
She coughed again, her chest heaving up as the woman entered the room, moving about her in an urgent fashion.
She wiped Mother down with the wet cloth, fed her water and a drug. She patted Mother until she weakly protested no one need worry. Michael, so old and weak, came into the room, asking if he needed to fetch the doctor. Michael was here, that brought me comfort to know he’d been able to return. The girl said no, and ushered him out of the room.
“Do you need anything, Edith?” she asked Mother softly, brushing her hand across my mother's forehead. I gnawed on my lip, fighting the urge to run in there myself. Mother’s face was obscured by the foggy glass and I yearned to see its tenderness.
“No, dear...” a wispy voice sounded. Unease churned within me, there had to be something I could do for her... she was my mother.
The young woman nodded and left, closing the door lightly behind her. I struggled with the war inside myself. Mother was dying, that was clear, but I needed to see her face, needed to hold her hand just once more before she left me for good.
A deranged giggle left my throat–before she left me for good,now that was a thought.The world around me seemed to collapse around that single statement. As wrong as it was, I could not hold myself back from gripping the window with one hand and shoving it open as quietly as possible. When it was open just enough, I leapt into the room, my muscles singing with the movement. Hardly a noise was made in the process for anyone, including my sick mother, to notice my existence.
When I saw her for the first time without the interference of the foggy glass, I sucked in a sharp breath through my teeth. It was far worse than I feared.
Mother slowly beheld me, every movement a struggle.
My mother—so beautiful and unchanging when I was a child—stared at me with glossed over blue eyes. The vessels in them shot, they were sunk deep in her face. Her lips were thin and as white as her skin, cracked and bleeding. Her flesh had turned to the skin of an onion, flakey and meager.
I stared, melancholy mourning skirted at the edge of my mind. Mother’s white hair flowed over her shoulders, mouth slightly open in awe and her eyes communicated to me exactly what she was thinking:
Why are you here?
“Mother,” I whispered, by her side in a fraction of a second, dripping rain water on the floor and her bed. She brought her boney, knotted hand to my cheek, brushing those trembling fingers over my skin. Her temperature was not quite high enough to be alive.
She licked her lips, though that did not moisten them a bit. No tears rolled down her onion paper skin as she tried to speak, and I knew were she well, there would be rivers of them.
For a moment, we only stared at one another, her hand to my cheek. No words felt right, no explanation felt enough. She was sick and dying, I could feel it, and yet I could do nothing. My mother was going to leave this earth and I had not been here to take care of her. The realization of abandoning her brought me a whole new round of hysterics and guilt. Always guilt.
Mother patted my cheek, shaking her head slowly and pathetically. Tears obscured my vision as I watch her mouth crack open.
“Rose,” she breathed, her voice hoarse and utterly unrecognizable.
“Yes, Mother,” I replied just as quietly, holding onto her hand with both of mine.
“Where have you been, my dear?” she asked, as if I hadn’t been gone for thirty years, dead to her. She asked it as if I’d missed dinner after playing outside too long.
“The world; more recently London,” I laughed weakly, wiping my nose. My mother let out a ragged breath, the smell of it stale and malodorous.
“My darling child; my only child, why didn't you come home?” She continued to tremble, the shape of her bones visible under the purple tinged skin.
