Chapter 10
“I thought the physical therapist said you could use this arm now,” I said, wrapping a towel around her body because my first attempt to move her from the shower stool to her wheelchair was a series of slippery fumbles.
“He said that I could try more, but it still hurts.”
I just wanted her to help brace herself. She was like a floppy fish, offering little to no help in my attempts.
“I hate this chair. And I hate that you’re in here invading my privacy.”
“Mom, I’m not looking, I’m just helping.
Once you start using your arm and you’re less dizzy, maybe I won’t need to be in here.
I don’t want you to fall.” I had spent the morning doing phone interviews for the server position.
They hadn’t gone well. And this wasn’t a good follow-up activity to help lift my mood.
“You don’t have a great bedside manner. It’s a good thing you didn’t become a nurse, like Tara. She’s a sweetheart.”
“She is,” I said. “And yes, I’m glad I’m not a nurse.” If this caretaking gig proved anything to me, it was that. I finally got a good grip with the towel, and I moved her to the chair.
She settled in. “You’re going to blow-dry my hair too? I’m cold.”
“Yes, I am. Do you want to get dressed first?”
“Of course I want to get dressed first.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
The house wasn’t made for a wheelchair, and that was never more apparent than when trying to squeeze her chair out of the bathroom. Every time it nicked one side or the other of the doorframe, and every time she complained about the paint job she was going to have to take on when I was gone.
In her room, I dug through her drawers for the things we needed and proceeded to wrestle her into her clothes. At least that’s how it felt, like a wrestling match. Like she was fighting the process instead of making it easier. It was worse than clothing a squirmy baby.
As I kneeled on the floor in front of her, pulling a sock onto her one exposed foot, I felt a hand along my cheek. I looked up at her in surprise.
“You’re a pretty girl,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom.” A compliment from my mom was rare, and I felt my cheeks heat a bit from it.
“But that color looks terrible on you,” she said.
I looked down at the burnt orange T-shirt I was wearing. “Noted.”
“I used to be young and pretty.”
“You still are,” I said. My mom was a striking woman. At sixty-one, she had white hair that she kept shoulder length and icy blue eyes. Her skin was soft like rose petals, and she smelled like rose petals too.
“Cherish your looks, you won’t always have them.”
“But we’ll always have our winning personalities,” I said, mostly as a joke because I was feeling far from charitable lately, and my mom, well, she was a grump. But that wasn’t new.
“I should call your father,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Tell him what’s going on.”
I wondered how often she called my dad. When I had lived here, it had been at least once a month. Sometimes he’d call as well, but not as often. “You should.”
I pushed her to the vanity in her room and retrieved the blow dryer from the basket on the floor.
When I finished drying her hair, my phone was buzzing on the counter in the bathroom where I had left it. I could hear it from where I stood. My heart nearly stopped in my chest when I saw the name scrolling on the screen: Nate.
I answered it quickly. “Hi, hello,” I said, sounding breathless.
“Hey,” he said. “When will you be home?”
My heart thudded heavily in my chest. I wasn’t sure why. I’d already established that Nate wasn’t getting any second chances. Not after how he broke up with me. I only needed to be shown a red flag once. “Uh … why?” I asked.
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to get back together or anything. I just left some stuff in your apartment that I need. Can I use my key and let myself in?”
The feelings seeing his name on my phone had elicited, whatever feelings those were, drove off a cliff and crashed into the rocks at the bottom where they belonged. “Oh, yeah, of course.”
“Thanks.” He paused. “How are things? With your mom?”
I glanced over my shoulder. She was messing with her hair in the mirror of her vanity. I walked out of the bathroom, out of her room, then into my room. “Okay … hard.”
“Is she not doing well? Complications?”
“No, she is. It’s just hard to be back, I guess.”
“For sure. I don’t know that I want to hang out in my childhood bedroom for very long either. I bet you miss your memory foam mattress and your five-star hotel sheets.”
Because he thought all I cared about were my belongings. “Yeah … how are you?”
“Good. Got back on the dating apps. I forgot how atrocious those things are. But hey, I need to run. Oh, did the meat guy work out?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” he responded. “Bye.”
“Bye.”
I set my phone down and braced myself on the dresser.
I didn’t miss Nate. I didn’t. I missed being home.
I missed things being easy … or easier. I missed having a person to do life with.
Even if that person told me that it seemed like I was doing life alone and not including him. I really was. I could do life alone.
I did not miss Nate. At least that’s what I was trying to convince myself.