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"Thank you, darling," she breathes out, and her eyes flutter closed, lashes casting long shadows down her gaunt cheeks.
"Anything for you, Mom," I say softly, the words a soft exhale against the sterile scent of medicine and the underlying taint of sickness that no amount of cleaning seems to erase. My gaze lingers on her resting form, on the rise and fall of her chest, now showing signs of a little relief, a touch more even, a touch less desperate.
I sit there in the half-light, the quiet punctuated by the distant hum of the hospice breathing machinery, and let myself believe, just for a moment, that miracles are still a thing. I need a shower.
I walk into my room, the shower's promise of a brief respite tantalizing my senses, like the steam that will soon billow around me, but the chirp of my phone redirects my attention to an unwelcome annoyance.
It must be one of my siblings checking in before bedtime or something. With one hand already reaching for the bathroom doorknob, I reach into my bathrobe pocket and withdraw the phone, then throw it on the bathroom floor as if I just got a jolt of electricity.
My pulse picks up its tempo as my heart rate picks up speed, and a strangled cry escapes my lips.
NOOOOOO. What does he want now? What will it take for Liam Dexter to leave me alone?
I pick up the phone, fingers trembling, and I can’t tell if it is from anger or dread.
"Tony. This is Liam. I know it is late. I need to speak with you. It's about your Mom. Text OK if it is okay, and I'll be there in 5 mins."
My thumb hovers over the screen, a tremor of frustration running through it. Annoyance bubbles up, hot and acidic, biting at the back of my throat. Liam.Dear God . . .
"Doesn’t the devil ever sleep?" I mutter, fury dripping from each word like water from a leaky faucet. The man's knack for intrusion is impeccable, almost as sharp as the pang of disdain I feel every time I see his name.
My fingers rake through my hair, pulling at the roots, the tension there mirroring the knots in my stomach.
"WTF.I need a shower,”I smack my forehead repeatedly with the heel of my palm, a futile attempt to knock some sense into the situation—or perhaps just to distract myself from the dread that tightens around my heart like a vice. Liam, the man with blood on his hands, now claims to have words on his lips that could offer hope for my mother. The irony isn't lost on me. It's vile, this game of fate.
"Can't you just leave me alone?" The words are a hiss thrown at the silent phone. It doesn't respond, of course—it's just an inanimate harbinger of unwanted news, after all. But it's not the device I'm angry at; it's the man behind the message, the one who never seems to grasp the concept of boundaries or decent timing.
"About Mom," I repeat to myself, though, chewing on the inside of my cheek. He saw how distressed I was at the church. Might he know something that might help?
"Ohhh, Mom . . . " I trail off, the anger subsiding into a dull throb of anxiety.What could he possibly have to say that wouldmatter now? What could anyone say? We are at the 11thhour, judging by her condition this evening.
"OK," I finally type out, the letters appearing stark and lonely on the screen. My thumb hovers over the button, again, indecision clawing at me for a split second, but then, I hit send.
***
The car's interior envelops me in its stale familiarity—a cocoon of vinyl and faint traces of cheap convenience-store lavender air freshener. I shiver, not just from the cold that seeps through my light, overly worn T-shirt, but from an inner chill that has nothing to do with the weather.
My fingers trace the steering wheel's worn grooves, the same ones I've gripped in moments of anger, joy, and now, apprehension. Thoughts of Mom, her pain-twisted features, her whispered pleas for relief, and her subtle sighs of resignation invade my mind like unwelcome specters.
"Damn you, Liam," I whisper to the emptiness around me. The loathing I feel for him is a living thing, coiled tight in my chest, but it's her—the woman who gave me life—whose fading breaths now dictate my every decision. It's for her. I sit here, doors unlocked, waiting for the devil himself to offer salvation.
Headlights pierce the darkness as a car I cannot see approaches mine, and soon, Liam's shadowy figure approaches my passenger side car door. His knock on the passenger window is soft, tentative, almost apologetic, and I press the button, the window sliding down with a whirr.
"Tony," he begins, as he settles into the passenger seat, his voice tinged with an emotion I can't place, "I'm sorry for this intrusion."
"Save the pleasantries, Liam. It is late," I cut him off, unable to keep the tremor from my words. "What about my mom?"
I never know how to behave around Liam. I want to hate him all the time, but sometimes, the compassion I see in his eyes chip away at my resolve.
People make mistakes, and he has always maintained that my father’s death was an accident. Should I forgive him? Doesn’t our society, in its collective wisdom, extend forgiveness to offenders for actions devoid of malicious intent.
A level-minded individual might say, “It is time to forgive now, for it has been fifteen years, and hate only eats at the hater,” but such universal assumptions are only easy to embrace in the abstract. This is personal, raw, and far from a societal abstraction. This is my father we are talking about.
I sit here quietly, grappling with the echoes of resentment I feel and the whispers of compassion I detect from Liam; the line between condemnation and forgiveness blurry.
The truth is, forgiveness isn't a switch to be flipped; it's a maze of emotions, a journey with no clear path. Right now, I stand at the crossroads, uncertain whether to take the path of forgiveness for my mom’s sake or to let the shadows of resentment linger a while longer because my mother has reached the end of her road anyway. I am a nurse, for all intents and purposes. I know enough to read the tea leaves.
“Tony . . .” Liam clears his throat, bringing me back to the present.
