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I walk over to her, put a hand on her frail shoulder, gently push her back down. “It’s okay, Mom. I’m not hungry.”
It’s ironic that these are the only times I allow myself to call her this, call her Mom, out loud. When it’s all pretend and lies.
So many fucking lies. They’re getting too heavy to bear.
“You’re a growing boy,” she says, voice slurring a little. She tries to catch my hand but misses. “You need food.”
“I just ate,” I reply, and swallow hard.
She thinks she’s back at home. She thinks I’m her little boy. She has returned to the past, and I guess it was a good time, before her husband passed away and she got sick, so who am I to begrudge her that return?
Even if back then she hadn’t even met me.
“Sit,” she says, or I think she says, and then something I can’t make out. Cold fear seeps into me when I realize her speech may go soon. “Siddown, lemme…”
I go to my knees beside her, grab her hands. “I’m here. No need to go anywhere.”
Her eyes fill up. “You’re never happy, Seb. Why?” Her words are garbled, but they’re still clear, and they stab me. “What did I do?”
“It’s not you,” I tell her honestly. I know it’s not her fault.
“You need a brother,” she says.
“Yeah.” What else can I say?
“To keep you safe. When I won’t be around no more.”
“Stop, all right? Stop.” She hasn’t said anything like this before. “Is that why you took me in? To make Seb happy? I can’t…”
I release her hands and shoot to my feet.
Not sure what I expected. I mean, she’s been waiting for Seb to show up for two years now. Of course she loves him. Of course she’d do anything for him.
And if I thought she’d decided back then that she wanted one more child, for herself, for me, that was all in my mind. I had those romantic fantasies where my mom would show up and take me in her arms, say she was sorry she left me and wanted me back.
Only my real mom is dead. That should have been a real fucking important clue, right? An indication that there’s no going back. That fantasies remain fantasies.
And I can’t do this today. Fuck. Glancing at her, I find her staring blankly at the mute TV, and I know that if I stay longer, I’ll break down. I’ll beg her to see me, to realize who I am, to tell me she’ll be okay.
No fucking way. Upsetting her is the worst thing I could do, and for what?
Wiping a hand over my face, I turn around and leave. It’s the only thing I can do.
“You need to sign out,” Macy tells me as I storm toward the exit of the nursing home.
“You didn’t tell me she was getting worse,” I snap, and double back to scratch my signature in the visitors’ book.
“She’ll keep getting worse, Jarett. I thought you were aware of that.”
Of course I knew this, I’ve read all I could find on the disease, but somehow I thought she’d stop deteriorating.
Stay with me. But nobody ever stays.
“Look, sorry I asked if you were high earlier.” She turns the book back around, smooths the paper, not looking at me. “I know this is hard.”
I nod, toss the pen on the counter and make to the door. I don’t care about her apology. All I want is to get out, breathe some fresh air.
“You can talk to me, you know!” she calls out after me, and I roll my eyes, because, really?
