Chapter 3
“Mom!” I called, opening the door. “I’m home.
” I’d heard the television while my keys were in the lock, so I knew she was awake.
It was nine o’clock in the morning, so that wasn’t always the case.
This had been the longest I’d stayed at my childhood home since I left for college ten years ago.
I still called Mom every Wednesday evening and visited for a long weekend once a quarter, but I’d been here for two weeks now. It felt like twenty.
“No need to shout,” Mom said from where she lay on the couch, her feet propped up with pillows, her rented wheelchair close by. “I have a headache.”
Maybe it is from the sheer volume of the television, I thought, but didn’t say out loud. I picked up the remote from the coffee table and clicked it down several notches.
“Well, now I can’t hear it,” she said.
“Didn’t the doctor say to limit your screen time?”
“What would you have me do then, Sutton, stare at a wall? I can’t work, I can’t read, I can’t scroll on my phone.
” Mom was one of the administrators of the local school district.
She obviously wasn’t going back to work anytime soon.
She’d been working there for over twenty years. She’d built up some time off.
“You’re right. I get it,” I said. “How was your night?”
“Terrible,” she said.
“I’m sorry. When’s the last time you took some pain medicine?”
“Ask that woman you brought in.”
“Right,” I said. Where was she? Wherever she was, she was probably done with my mom.
I headed for the kitchen, which was empty, and then to the back of the house, past the room I was staying in, my childhood room, and then on to my mom’s room. Lucy was folding a clean basket of towels.
“Hi,” I said. “You don’t need to do laundry.”
“I had time. You’re early,” she responded. “I thought checkout wasn’t until eleven.”
“I was up,” I said. “How did it go?”
“Great,” she said. “Your mom is a sweetheart.”
I laughed, but when she didn’t join me, I stopped and nodded slowly. I was glad, but that hadn’t been my experience over the last two weeks. Either she was lying or Mom saved her special attitude for me. It could’ve gone either way. “Did you fill out the medication schedule I left?”
“I did. It’s in the kitchen. We were right on time for all doses. Her next one is in two hours.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Perfect.”
“You have me for three more hours. What else can I do?”
“That’s okay. You can leave. I bet you’re exhausted. I don’t know if I could do an overnight shift.” I’d worked many late nights at the restaurant but never any all-nighters.
She lifted the stack of towels, and I directed her to the linen closet in the hall. “Call me anytime,” she said.
“Thanks again.” I walked her to the door, where she collected her bag of medical supplies and personal belongings and left.
“I can take care of myself,” Mom said as soon as the door was shut.
“I know,” I said, because it was pointless fighting her.
But really, she couldn’t. Aside from her concussion, which brought on bouts of dizziness and nausea, she’d had a big surgery that left most of her right leg in a cast. She also had a laceration across her abdomen, caused by the seat belt, that was closed with upward of thirty stitches and one across her forehead from the steering wheel.
Her left arm was splinted. She’d spent a week in the hospital, in and out of consciousness, and now she was acting like she was perfectly fine.
I didn’t understand how she could say she could take care of herself when I’d been lowering her onto a toilet since she’d come home.
“You didn’t wash your hair today?” Mom asked, giving me a once-over.
I had washed everything else the night before in the shower, scrubbing until I was red and blotchy. But she was right, I hadn’t felt like blow-drying my hair, and it was still stiff with product. I’d pulled it out of the ponytail, creating a poufy monstrosity. “I didn’t.”
“You need to. It looks crusty. And your face looks swollen. Did you drink too much last night?”
“Not at all,” I lied, because I didn’t want her to think she was right. “Are you hungry?”
“That woman fed me.”
“Her name is Lucy.”
“If she’s not coming back, why do I need to know her name?”
My mom hadn’t always been so … bitchy. Sure, she was hard on me growing up, expected a lot.
But she hadn’t turned grumpy with me until my dad left when I was thirteen to go tour with a symphony in Europe.
She hadn’t said it out loud before (surprisingly), but I got the feeling she thought that was somehow my fault. She may have been right.
He never wanted to be a father. He was a brilliant violinist and I was a surprise.
Cramping everyone’s lifestyle. I was twenty-eight now.
My mom could’ve joined him many times over at this point.
But she hadn’t. They had never gotten a divorce.
They just existed separately. Both still said they were married, even though his visits home dwindled to nothing over the years.
I didn’t call him after the accident, but Mom had. He seemed concerned. He seemed sad. He didn’t come home.
I picked up a plate from the coffee table and carried it to the sink, where I rinsed it and loaded it into the dishwasher. I sprayed and wiped down the counters, then made myself a cup of coffee, heavy on the creamer.
“I need to make some phone calls for work, Mom,” I said. “Just ring the bell if you need anything.” I’d gotten her a bell. One of the many mistakes I had made since being here. She abused it.
“Turn my show back up,” she said as I headed for the hall.
Instead, I doubled back and handed her the remote. She was cranking up the volume before I’d even made it five steps.
Like I did on the daily, I’d already talked to Raya when I was at the hotel, but now was a more appropriate hour for other calls.
My first one was to a server who I was hoping could cover for another server who’d called in sick.
It took me three calls before I found someone.
The morning didn’t get any better as I dealt with a vendor that didn’t have our order and my mom’s ever-ringing bell requests.
The most recent one was to close the blinds, but not all the way, because she wanted some light.
I swear I twisted the adjusting stick one millimeter to the right and one millimeter to the left a dozen times before she was satisfied.
That afternoon, just when it felt like things had settled, I got the worst text of all.
Would tomorrow at four work?
It was Tara. Asking about the therapy appointment.
I could get out of this so easily. Just one text.
No was a full sentence. No, I was drunk last night, I’m not going to do this was an even fuller sentence.
I typed the words into the text bar. Her disappointed face from the night before made me hesitate.
“Sutton!” Mom’s voice, along with three sharp shakes of the bell, sounded down the hall. “Sutton! I need to go to the bathroom.”
I took in a deep breath.
“Sutton! I need to go now!”
I deleted the words I had just typed and instead wrote, Yes, tomorrow works.