Chapter 12
JOANNE LIVES IN THE APARTMENT DIRECTLY ABOVE ours.
I hear her sometimes, when I’m not at work, shuffling back and forth in the eye-watering hours of the morning.
I don’t think she sleeps much. I have to knock four times before she unlocks the door, and then it’s only a crack, chain pulled tight, her face wedged out of the slice of darkness beyond.
“Oh,” she says. She smells like too much skin and not enough blood. “Hi, honey.”
She shuts the door again to unlatch the chain and swings it all the way open. Stale, frigid air rushes free. I fight the urge to cross my arms.
“Hey, Joanne.” I hope my smile spans both gratitude and desperation. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure, sure.” She inches forward to lean against the doorframe, her pupils dilating as the sun hits them. Her pity stinks of iron and bile. “How’s your mom?”
“She’s okay.” Then I remember that the last time Joanne saw her, she was brandishing a wooden spoon and spitting violent fury. “Better than when you came by.”
I think Joanne can tell it’s a lie, because the pity grows so strong I can almost taste it. Brussels sprouts and boiled cabbage. Plastic bags and cellophane wrap. Behind her, the TV sings a fast-food jingle, garbled by the buzz of the air conditioner.
“That’s good.” Her sympathy makes me feel like a puppet with its strings cut. “What can I do for you?”
I explain that I have to go out of town tomorrow.
“Family thing,” I say, and she nods, because Mom’s told her stories about Uncle Bill, or at least cursed his name in front of her enough times that she’s familiar—and could she pop in tomorrow morning if it’s not too much trouble, just to make sure my mom’s okay and not too confused about where I’ve gone, and to make sure she gets her medicine.
“Two kinds of pills,” I tell her. “I’ll send you a picture of the bottles. One of each pill, you can just remind her and make sure she doesn’t double up. She also has a liquid medication.”
This is the part that scares me.
“I’ll mix it before I leave. It’s really important that she drinks the whole thing. She might not want to, but she has to take it every day. It’s for her heart.”
Another lie, but her heart is something Joanne will understand.
“Of course,” Joanne says. “I’ll make sure she drinks it.”
Behind her, Days of Our Lives lights up the TV. She glances over her shoulder, too polite to say she’s eager to get back to it but making it obvious enough to hope I’ll get the hint.
“Thanks.” She starts to shut the door, but at the last second, I add, “I’ll mix it before she goes. The medicine. I’ll text you a photo of the cup before I leave too.”
“No problem. It’s always a pleasure to help with your mom.”
There. Now we’re both lying.
“Thanks, Joanne. Take care. I’ll text you.”
The door’s already mostly shut, but I catch her “Hope your uncle’s doing well” before the scrape of the lock and the noise of the TV turned up.
Hope your uncle’s doing well. I think of the way he never finished that email, like he was in too much of a hurry to get—where? Wherever Martina went, leaving behind a car filled with blood that wasn’t hers?
I take the turn of the stairwell too tight, and the hem of my sweatshirt catches on the railing.
The stairwell windows are coated in dust the color of dead leaves, and the light that filters through is browner and weaker every time I pass.
Winds are picking up. We’ve had a lot of asthma attacks in the ED lately.
I haven’t told my mom yet, not about Brian or what happened at Uncle Bill’s house or the fact that it means I have to leave her.
It’s only a day and a half. If I leave now, I’ll get to Reno by dinnertime.
Sleep in the car, do the final couple hours in the morning, turn around and drive straight back.
I took today and tomorrow off work, so I won’t even have to head to the hospital right after I get home.
But for my mom, a day isn’t always a day. Sometimes it’s an eternity. Sometimes the length of time doesn’t matter, because no matter how short it is, it still means I’m leaving her.
My toe catches on the welcome mat, and I kick it back into place with too much force. I’m ready for tears, I tell myself. I’m ready for screaming. I will meet them stone faced because this is what I need to do, for her, for us. And because she’ll forget.
I find my mom in the living room, legs tucked underneath her like a schoolgirl on portrait day. She’s inspecting the backs of her hands, twisting them this way and that like she can’t quite understand what she’s seeing.
“My hands.” She doesn’t look up. “They’re not right.”
When I was young, my mom was so proud of her pale, smooth, wrinkle-free hands, prouder of them even than her equally wrinkle-free face.
The cloying scent of her hand cream always smelled to me like love, and like an unpaid debt.
But I’m not young anymore, and her hands, while still slender and fine boned, are traced with wrinkles and spots of discoloration.
I take a deep breath. “Mom, I have to go up to Reno.”
She doesn’t respond. Just keeps staring at her hands. She pulls on the cuticle of the ring finger, watching the skin whiten and stretch.
“Mom, I talked to a friend of Uncle Bill’s, and he’s going to help us out. To replace the vials you… never mind. Anyway, he’s up north, so I’m going to have to—”
“They don’t look like my hands.” She sounds on the verge of tears. “Am I losing my mind?”
Yes, the spiteful thing that lurks beneath my tongue tempts me to say. Yes, yes, and it’s worse every day. Instead, I fold myself at her feet and wrap her betraying hands in mine.
“You’re not losing your mind,” I assure her. “You’re a little confused, that’s all. Now, listen, I have to leave for a day, like I said, just to go see Uncle Bill’s friend, but I’ll be back tomorrow night. And I’m only a phone call away. Okay?”
“Oh.” She settles disconsolately into her chair, staring dead eyed into the black glass of the turned-off TV. “Okay.”
No tears. No screaming.
“You’ll be fine,” I murmur, squeezing her hands in mine, trying to soothe myself almost as much as I’m trying to soothe her.
“I’ll be fine,” she repeats miserably.
My legs protest as I get up, my arms growing sluggish as I sling my duffel bag over one shoulder. It isn’t fair to keep all these secrets from her. Uncle Bill is her brother, she should know if he’s missing.
I’ll tell her soon. When I get back.
I’m nervous, too, about leaving her with Joanne. Joanne isn’t family. She can’t be trusted to care about my mom like I do.
“Hey, Mom?” I’m not sure what brings it into my mind. “You haven’t seen the flayed man recently, have you?”
The chair squeaks. She twists and untwists her ankles. I want her to reassure me that no one strange has been around, imaginary creature or otherwise.
“Don’t talk about him,” she spits. “It’s bad luck.”
Her hands, too, start to twist and untwist. I should leave it be. But delusions are rooted in reality. If someone’s been trying to get into the apartment, I can’t leave town. Joanne can’t keep her safe like I can.
“So you have seen him?” I ask, trying to make it sound gentle.
She rockets upright, no longer docile. “Of course I’ve seen him. He’s cutting pieces out of me. He’s making me like this. Don’t talk about him!”
“Mom, he’s not—” Don’t say it. So I fell for her mind games again, worrying about someone spying on her when she’s really only after someone to blame.
“He is!” she shrieks. Her face is red with fear and fury. “He knows things, Ellis. He knows about you!”
I think of the other night, of kissing Veer as the desert watched. “What does he know about me?”
“He knows that you’re doing this.” She gestures to the Post-its that I’ve already needed to replace around the room.
Keep the TV volume below 10. Check if the dishes are dirty before you put them away.
“You need me to be weak, you need me to need you. You won’t let me get better! You won’t let me do things on my own!”
“Nobody is doing anything to you.” She’s confused and inventing explanations for the things that scare her.
But it still hurts, like a loose tooth torn out.
“You’re sick, okay, Mom? It started about two and a half years ago, and it’s been getting worse, and it’s not me.
I’m not doing anything to you, I’m doing it for you.
I love you. Remember? I’m doing this because someone has to.
Who the fuck else is going to? Uncle Bill?
” My voice hitches. Don’t cry. Not now. “And, you know what? It’s a lot, and sometimes I don’t know how to help you, so can you please just let me go up north and fix things.
When I get back, we can sit down and read your medical records, we can make a plan if you want to go out more, whatever you want. Just, please, Mom. Please.”
I’m breathless, my mouth sour. I don’t even know what I’m begging for. I just want her to understand.
“Fuck you, Ellis,” she spits. Her eyes are bright and for a second, there’s a flash of the real her, the one whose mind is sharp and tongue is sharper. I almost feel relief.
Then the words register.
“Fuck you,” she repeats, and my mom never swears at me, never, or she never has but now she does. “I raised you to be respectful, and I was so patient even when you talked back, even when you were a real brat. And you were a real brat. You know that?”
My breath clogs my throat. I know, I know, I know. The fact that it still makes me angry, that it turns me against her just like she always claimed, is proof that it’s true.
“You’re a grown-up now, and you think it’s okay to tell your mom she’s helpless and then waltz out the door for days on end? You really think I’ll believe you’re off on some purehearted errand? You’re just like me. You’ll do whatever you want.”
She, too, is best at getting angry out of nowhere. Maybe that’s where I learned it.
“And by the way, I feel fine. Maybe there’s something wrong with you.
Ever considered that? Maybe you’re the problem.
Maybe you’re putting this all on me, like, like, like .
. . you know what I mean. You spent all that time studying mental disorders.
Don’t you think you might have a mental disorder?
You’re obsessed with me, with controlling me.
You never let me do anything, you resent me for, for, for . . .” She trails off, breathing hard.
“Mom,” I try. “Mom, I don’t. Please. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you will be sorry.” Malice in her eyes. Then, abruptly, it fades, and her face goes slack and devastated.
“Ellis?” Her expression is pitiful. Confused. “Baby, are you mad at me?”
“No. No, of course not.”
She squints at me. “Yes, you are. I can tell. You’re always so mad at me.
Why can’t you tell me what I’m doing wrong?
Why do you have to punish me?” She sniffs.
“I tried so hard, ever since you were a baby, and you always pushed me away. I know I wasn’t always a good mom, but I was doing my best. I just wanted the best for you. ”
“I know.” Please, Mom. I know.
“You know.” Her tone turns flat, contemptuous.
“You know, you know. You always know best.” She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, and it comes away smudged with pink lipstick.
“Why do you hate me? Just tell me, and you can go. Leave, do whatever you want. Just tell me. Please, baby. I need to know.”
Even sick, she still knows how to manipulate me.
She’s known my soft parts since she held me as a baby, and she’s kept them within reach ever since, so she can poke at them to remind me of what I owe her.
It would be too simple to say that the last few years have loosened her tongue and sharpened her edges. Wasn’t she always like this?
The truth is, I don’t remember anymore.
“I don’t hate you.” I sound so tired. I sound like a liar. “How about you sit down? I’ll make you a cup of tea. You can watch something on TV?”
She hesitates a second, considering. “Okay. Tea, please.”
I want to be alone. I want to nurse my aches and my anger, and I can’t do that here, not with her around.
At least I’ve managed to defuse things. I ease my bag to the ground and turn the dial on the stove, but it clicks impotently.
I try again. Off. On. Off. The burner roars to life, flames leaping up to lick my fingers.
As I jerk my hand back, my mom says, “Ellis?”
“Yes?” And I turn around just in time to catch the sneaky, spiteful gleam at the edge of her expression.
“I don’t want you to leave.”
Her slippers shuffle on linoleum, and then she’s through the door, slamming it behind her.
I fumble with the stove, leap for the doorknob, dash after her.
A pause on the landing, the slam of the back stairs, and I catch her rounding the stairwell, almost hopping every few steps as if one of her legs has got pins and needles.
“Mom!” I shout. “Where are you going?”
She glances at me over her shoulder, eyes sparkling in defiance, before swinging the stairwell door open and rushing into the parking lot.
I nearly trip over my own feet trying to sprint down the stairs two at a time after her.
I catch the door on the backswing and hurtle into the dust and dazzle of the outside world.
For a second, everything is tinted a sickly yellow, a vomitous film spread over the inside of my eyelids, and my senses fill with the scent of disease, of dried-out flesh and decaying roots.
Then all of that is gone, and I hear only my mom’s familiar shout of triumph and a waterfall crash of breaking glass.