Chapter 8 Madison
Madison
There is one person other than Abuela who I can count on.
In the morning, there’s always more activity at Sunset Hills. Residents have more energy, so I see more of them up and about in the hallways. I’ve got my latte in one hand and a bag with two muffins in the other, so I wave my elbow at one lady who I know goes to Mass with Abuela.
When I get to her room, I find Manny helping get her situated in her lounger.
“Hola, Abuela,” I greet.
She smiles when she sees me, the expression lighting up her face. “Ah, mi hija está aquí. Gabriella, ven, siéntate a mi lado—”
I exchange a look with Manny, and he makes an awkward face—both because he doesn’t understand most of what she said, and because he knows what it means when she greets me as Gabriella.
“No, Abuela,” I chide gently. “It’s me, Madison.
Your granddaughter. Hijita, remember?” There’s a world of difference between daughter and little daughter to my Abuela, though I’m all she has left of the girl she loved who died too young.
I’d never pretend to be my mother, but I guess the family resemblance is strong enough to be the source of her confusion.
Abuela nods, though it’s an absent gesture, and I can see the confusion in her eyes as she turns back to face the TV. I already miss the smile. “Oh, right. Claro. Madison…”
“She had a hard night last night. She didn’t get much sleep because of that storm,” Manny explains, voice low.
I feel my lips stretch into a thin smile. I’m grateful for the explanation to latch onto, but we both know these episodes have become more frequent in the past few months. “Good to know.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Manny softly closes the door behind him.
“Gabriella, what did you do to your hair?” she chides, scowling at my head.
“I’m Madison, Abuela,” I correct again, just as gently. I place the drink and bag with the treats on her table so I can smooth back the green pieces. “You like it?”
She makes a clicking noise with her tongue and turns away.
“I brought you a treat. A cranberry orange muffin, your favorite.”
“I’m not hungry.”
I swallow, trying again. “Do you want to do a puzzle?”
“No,” she replies shortly, eyes never wavering from the screen.
“How about we go for a—”
“Shh, my programs are on,” she cuts me off.
So it’s going to be one of those days, then. I grab one of the chairs from her table to drag it next to her. I swallow a sigh, raise the volume for her when she thrusts the remote at me, then I put in one of my earphones and start the first chapter of the next audiobook SpyderMan wants me to read.
During a commercial break, she exhales deeply and glances at me sideways, like she wants to say something. I pause the audiobook and take out my earbud.
“I hate it here, mija.”
The pit deep in my stomach that started forming the day I realized she couldn’t live with me anymore gets a little wider to make room for the increase in guilt.
She agreed to this, and I found the best place I could afford, I remind myself. But I can’t help the grumble from slipping out. “Great. Glad I’m paying $8,000 a month for it.”
“What was that?” she asks sharply.
She didn’t hear me, but she heard the tone, and that’s all she needs to be convinced of the disrespect. “I said I’m sorry to hear that. Is it something going on that I should—”
“I could live with you.”
On days like this, I’m not sure if she remembers her fall. She was unconscious when I found her, and I’m not strong enough to lift her. It was one of the scariest, worst days of my life.
“We tried that, and it didn’t work. Moving in here was your idea. Remember, Abuela?”
“No,” she says, and the fact that she sounds more resigned than angry about the lapse in memory worries me more than anything else. Fiery, independent Abuela, I can handle. Confused, subdued Abuela scares me. It makes me feel like I’m losing her. “There’s so much I don’t remember. Like you.”
My heart stutters, and I swear it’s like the air’s been punched out of me. She doesn’t remember me?
“You say you’re Madison, but Madison is a little girl… Mi hijita… she’s… so young…”
“27 is young,” I agree, attempting for levity.
She barely registers the comment, muttering to herself rapidly in a wet, musical tone like she’s on the verge of tears. “Ay mi pobre hijita, creciendo sin madre… Tengo que amarla lo suficiente como para dos personas. No puedo perderla también.”
I feel tears stinging my own eyes, and I choke them back. I always have a comeback. It’s kind of my thing. The adults in my life have been telling me I had a smart mouth since I was five. But now? I’ve got nothing.
It’s so seldom that I have nothing to say, I default to the childhood comfort—un pastel for a skinned knee, hot cocoa for heartache, sweets to make the bad times feel less bad. “Do you want a muffin, Abuela?”
Her dark eyes dart towards me, meeting mine. “Cranberry orange?”
“Your favorite.”
She smiles, holding out her hand like a kid waiting for a treat. “Claro.”
We eat our muffins together in silence. When we’re done, we hold hands, and she absently strokes my knuckles, lost in her own world.
I try to plan my visits so that it’s time for me to go right about when it’s time for Abuela’s afternoon nap.
Manny appears in the doorway with some pills in little white cups on a tray and a bottle of water, which he sets down on the table as I collect my things.
Abuela doesn’t even look at me as I give her a kiss on the cheek and say goodbye.
My heart feels made of sand as I approach my car.
It’s not breaking, per se—nothing about me is fragile or delicate like glass—but my emotions feel heavy and impossible to control as they sink and shift and settle into something low and dark.
There’s a horrible looming inevitability that I just haven’t been able to make myself confront.
If I had friends, I would call one of them up at a time like this. All I want is the temporary comfort of another person who cares enough to lie to me and tell me it’ll be okay.
But here I am, stuck in a hole of loneliness that I dug for myself—because I have one person in the world and… I’m losing her.
I choke back the tears and reach into my purse to grab my keys, but my fingers close around my phone instead. I have the IRC pulled up almost before I realize what I’m doing, like my brain on autopilot knows exactly what I need.
In fact, there is one person other than Abuela who I can count on.
mermaidav: it’s been a hell of a day. Got anything that’ll make me feel better?
SpyderMan: Have you heard of William Windsor?
mermaidav: nope
SpyderMan: He was a lance corporal in the British Army from 2001 to 2009. He was demoted in 2006 for 3 months for inappropriate behavior during the queen’s birthday.
I frown, confused. I meant a job—not a history lesson. I’ll bear with him because it feels like he’s ramping up to something, but I’m not really sure how British military stories are supposed to make me feel better.
A second later, SpyderMan drops a picture into the chat and I burst out laughing.
mermaidav: Is that a goat??
SpyderMan: It is. William Windsor, the cashmere goat.
mermaidav: He looks so distinguished in his little hat! Why was he demoted??
SpyderMan: He wouldn’t stay in line and headbutted a drummer in the parade.
The laughter feels so good; I lean into it. The sound fills the car, wet with emotion, and I wipe the tears under my eyes with the edge of my sleeve.
mermaidav: Thank you. That legitimately helped.
SpyderMan: Do you want to talk about it?
Gnawing on my lip, I consider my response. It’s no bitching to girlfriends over margaritas, but it still makes me feel warm. Because he asked. He cares. He’s probably the only person in the world I would tell.
mermaidav: Do you ever wish you’d made different choices in life?
SpyderMan: Sometimes. Does this have anything to do with wanting to move to the forest and befriend crows to escape your responsibilities?
mermaidav: lol you remember that silly conversation?
SpyderMan: I remember every conversation.
My breath catches. That’s… so unbelievably sweet, I’m not sure what to do about it. Did he mean it to be sweet? I swallow and decide it’s more likely that he’s just being kind of snarky, as per usual.
mermaidav: Things are hard right now, and it’s my own fault. I just can’t help feeling that if I’d done things differently, my life would be a lot easier. If I did what was expected of me, or acted how I was always told to act, or prioritized different things... If I was someone else.
He types and deletes his message a few times, and I watch the dots dance across the screen with a mounting kind of nervous excitement. Whenever he’s extra careful in choosing his words, it’s usually a doozy.
SpyderMan: It’s possible—but that’s the problem with what if’s. The theoretical always feels possible. You’ll go mad torturing yourself with possibilities of things you can’t change.
I blow out a breath of disappointment. It’s not exactly what I wanted to hear, but he’s right, and it’s practical advice. Wishing things were different is always a waste of time. I start typing a response, but then another comes through from him.
SpyderMan: I wouldn’t trade who you are for any theoretical version of you. I like this mermaid. This mermaid is clever and resourceful. She’s daring and courageous. People like you take risks and find your own way through life. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.
My chest fills with warmth, and I wipe another tear that wells for an altogether different reason.
To have someone I admire tell me that they admire me back is one thing…
For it to be this person is another. The fizzy, floaty feeling of being seen and known and appreciated for who I am slowly melts into a dull kind of ache—because I’ve never wanted anything more in my whole life, and I can’t have him.
Fuck. I don’t want to be SpyderMan and mermaidav anymore.
I want more. I want to know who he is—I want to show him who I really am.
Even if he lives halfway across the world, or he’s actually artificial intelligence being trained on human emotions and mediocre puns…
I just want a chance to see if this is real.
Why can’t we be more?
I sigh. I know exactly why—what I do is illegal, and what he does is probably dangerous.
Even if he’s trustworthy, there’s no guarantee that there isn’t someone looking over his shoulder, like the mob or Interpol.
Any identifying detail puts not just me at risk, but Abuela as well.
Even if I’d take that risk for myself, I won’t put her life in danger.
I know it’s better this way… it’s just a bitter pill and I can’t dwell on it, or I’ll land right back in the sad place I just crawled out of.
mermaidav: How does it feel to be so sure of yourself and have everything figured out?
SpyderMan: Ha. I wish. Don’t let me fool you—I have my doubts like everyone else. I often question whether or not I’m a decent person or doing the right thing.
mermaidav: Well, if it makes you feel better, I’ve seen enough shit to know that bad people don’t really worry about whether they’re doing the right thing or being a good person.
SpyderMan: I thought I was meant to be making you feel better.
mermaidav: You did. You always do. I guess I just want to be that person for you, too. Because that’s what you do for your friends.
mermaidav: And we’re friends, right?
SpyderMan: Of course. As much as anonymous internet friends can be.
I suck in a breath. Fuck.
How does he always hit the nail on the head like that? I don’t know if the comment was meant to knock me back into place because he thought I was getting too close, but it stings. And it should.
I like him so much. And I know he likes me, but this thing between us isn’t meant to cross over into the real world. And that’s not enough for me anymore.
I need more.
But what’s a generally unpleasant, lonely-by-design internet lurker to do? Most of the time I don’t let it bother me that I don’t have people in my life.
I wasn’t going to text that guy I met in The Beanerie. He’s hotter than August in hell, but I just couldn’t see things working out between us. He’s so… normal.
I haven’t had time to do a deep dive into him, but a preliminary background check came back squeaky clean. Peter Smith, age 30, born and raised in Surrey, in the US on a visa. No shady activity. Not a cop.
The only weird thing was his lack of credit history, but there are a few reasons that could be the case—and only one of them is that credit histories are hard to generate, so new fake identities usually don’t exist in the system.
In this case, it’s probably due to the fact that he’s from another country. Not every country uses credit scores.
It was enough to convince me that he’s probably a regular guy. And, as a rule, I try to stay away from regular guys.
But I guess it doesn’t have to be that serious. I mean, Peter is both fine as fuck and into me—which makes him exactly the kind of guy you get under when you want to get over someone else.
I flip over to my texting app and pull up a blank message to Flick-the-Bean Peter, snorting a little at the contact name.
So have you tried a lavender latte yet, or do I need to be concerned that you set the bar a little too low when you promised to be more fun than your coffee order?
He responds quicker than I’d expect—I have a text waiting for me before I even get all the way home. No cool-guy prescribed waiting time to seem aloof here. I like it.
I’ll let you be the judge. You free for dinner tonight?
I smile down at my phone. He’s decisive and makes plans. That’s a heavy point in his favor. He’s not even going to waste my time texting back and forth forever. Tonight is a bit short notice, but I can make it work, as long as he gives me a few hours.
I need to shave… everything.