Chapter 2
Chapter Two
When I told Doug I didn’t mind if I was single for the rest of my life, I don’t think I really meant it.
However, as I lean over my kitchen counter, scrolling through his Instagram feed, I’m convinced that I couldn’t have been more correct.
He’s moved on suspiciously fast. It’s been a month, and he’s already taking selfies with some brunette all over town.
Is that what he’s been up to while I’m at work? Chatting up another woman and leaving the house? He never took me to bars, restaurants, museums, or parks. Not that I ever wanted to go out anywhere. I mean, there are people out there.
It would have been nice to be asked, though.
She’s so thin compared to me. There’s a photo of her with a sleeveless top, and I can tell she works out because her upper arms are so toned.
Her skin is clear. There aren’t any dark circles around her eyes.
There isn’t one picture of her with headphones on because she doesn’t need them to deal with crowds.
Her smile shines, like she isn’t just pretending to be happy; she actually is.
Looking at the twinkle in her eyes makes me ponder when I last experienced genuine joy, and…
I can’t remember. When Doug and I moved in together, maybe?
That was four years ago. Goddamn that’s sad.
What’s even sadder is that we’d already been together for seven years when we did.
Eleven wasted years together before we ended things.
Never once did we talk about marriage. But there’s a ring on her finger. His grandmother’s. The one his mother showed me at Doug’s high school graduation party. I wonder what she thinks about Doug’s new girlfriend—sorry, fiancée.
Doesn’t matter. Miss Brunette can have him and his fucking snack-stealing, job-avoiding, couch-farting ass. Because love isn’t just overrated; it’s a trap.
I could have had a cat! A black one with giant green eyes, waiting for me when I come home from a hard day at work. But Doug was allergic, so I never got to have one.
I walk up to the whiteboard in my kitchen and update my to-do list. Adopt a cat. This list used to be where tasks went to die, but not anymore! Now that Doug is gone, I’m a new woman. I get shit done!
Like right now, I’m waiting for the bread to finish in my oven because I bake now.
I’ve also taken up crocheting, as is evident by the overflowing basket of yarn by my recliner.
Even better, I’m back to painting. I was fantastic at it throughout college and high school, but at some point, I gave up, and I can’t remember why.
No, that’s a lie; I was too tired after working all day and then taking care of Doug.
I’m saving a lot on my grocery bills now, so I was finally able to preorder Legends of Sacrifice, and—
Hold up. What’s that smell? Is something burning?
Before I can even finish processing what’s happening, my smoke alarm goes off. I put on my mitts and pull the charred bread out of the oven. How is this even possible? It’s only been in the oven for fifteen minutes.
I look at the dial. It’s on broil. I remember now that when I leaned over the counter, my butt bumped into something. That must have been it. Jesus Fucking Christ.
I turn off the oven, turn on a fan, and open the nearest window.
As I wave the smoke out, I look at the people walking down the sidewalk three stories below me.
From up here, the world doesn’t seem so bad.
It’s too much when I’m down there in it.
I only go to work because I have to, and even then, I put on noise-canceling headphones to survive the train ride home.
Fortunately, my car’s fixed up now, so I can take a break from sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers.
Just wish I had some friends…
Doug was my only social life. Maybe that was why we didn’t break up sooner.
He was familiar and predictable, which could be comforting sometimes.
Now he’s gallivanting everywhere, and it’s dawning on me that maybe he stayed cooped up in our apartment because I needed him to be here.
That was the trade-off, and probably a depressing one for him.
Could that be why he went without a job for so long? Depression?
No, it’s because he’s a lazy asshole.
Once the smoke is clear, I take a steak knife and scrape off the burned top of my loaf like I would with a piece of toast. Below the char, it’s still under-baked.
I’ve really fucked this up. Maybe baking isn’t my thing.
I’ll stick with crocheting and painting, as well as what I’m already accustomed to: computers and gaming.
Just the thought of gaming brings me a sense of peace.
It’s true that I can’t handle loud noises, crowds, and action, but it’s different when it’s on my PC.
Just like the people walking on the sidewalk below my apartment, it’s at a distance.
There’s a screen between me and the digital worlds I explore.
I control my experience there, and I can actually do something other than tolerate what’s happening to me.
I can whip out a sword or fling a bolt of lightning.
I read somewhere that anxiety is a byproduct of the modern world screwing up our natural fight or flight response.
When someone on the phone is yelling at me because my company’s software isn’t working for them, I can’t reach through the phone and punch them; I can’t even run away.
Instead, I sit there letting it happen while faking a patient, customer-service tone.
When I game, though, I can smack the shit out of monsters. I’m really looking forward to doing that in Legends of Sacrifice. The game’s beta forums are public now, so I’ve been lurking around and reading the posts. And what I’ve seen is right up my alley.
Because Mom loved reading them to me growing up, I’ve always been interested in Greek myths.
Even though this game is apparently really loose with its interpretation, it seems to be pulling out all the stops with its monsters.
There’s even a labyrinthian dungeon with a minotaur boss.
The graphics in the trailer look incredible, too.
I’ve always been more interested in gameplay than story elements, but from what I’ve read, the characters and their backgrounds are really compelling.
I can’t wait to get lost in that world because, quite honestly, this one sucks. In the meantime, I’ll be playing this cozy game Mom got me on my PlayStation. I may not be able to bake bread for shit in real life, but I’m a baking prodigy in Kawaii Boulangerie.
Speaking of baking…I sigh as I toss my disaster of an experiment into the trash can. Then I look up the Domino’s website and order pizza.
Before I can submit my order, Mom’s number pops up. I almost flick it away, but then I remember all the times she’s been there when I was down. She’s probably calling to check up on me, and I sure could use her kind words as I get over my failure as a baker.
“Hey, Mom!”
“Is this Lauren Spivey?” asks a woman who definitely isn’t my mother, causing alarm bells to sound off in my head.
“Um…yes…”
“I’m calling from Northside Medical,” the woman says. “We have a woman here who can’t seem to remember her name, but it looks like she calls you all the time from this phone. I was hoping you could come here and help us figure out some stuff.”
“She’s my mom. What’s wrong? Why is she there?”
“We’ll tell you everything we know when you get here,” she answers. “She’s not in danger, but we do need to talk to someone about what’s going on.”
Compared to how frigid Northside Medical was, the hospice feels like a warm bath. That should comfort me. I’m sure that they meant for it to. The point of hospice is to make the last days of your life nice, right? But nothing can make this any fucking easier.
Early onset dementia. That’s why she forgot who she was.
It’s really uncommon for a woman in her fifties to have dementia.
However, it turns out all those times she thought she was dizzy because of a cold or something were actually signs of a stroke.
Her MRI showed that she’d had five. Five.
Five times I’ve failed her when she’s never, not once, let me down.
Where was I when she wasn’t well? Pouting about my loser ex and obsessing over a video game that isn’t even out yet.
Creating disasters in my kitchen and wishing I had a cat.
I even let her pay for our movie dates. Jesus Christ, I’m the worst daughter in the world, just as bad as the sperm donor who walked out on her once he knocked her up with me.
Dementia alone wouldn’t have landed her in hospice care.
You can live for years and years with it.
But after suddenly getting pneumonia, Mom’s condition has progressed so fast that she qualifies for hospice.
It’s been a week, and already she can’t say much.
She sometimes manages a short sentence that doesn’t make sense, but she mostly just stares into the distance with a blank expression.
And she’s grown so thin. Growing up, I often heard her complaining about how fat she was getting, but I always thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she’s wasting away because she can’t eat without help.
Mom knows my face, though! She knows my name!
Even with her illness, when I come to her room, she says, “Lauren,” and lifts her trembling hand when my cheek gets near enough to touch.
She has trouble reaching all the way, though, so I hold her palm against my cheek and try not to cry because she can’t smile anymore.
Today, she had fever and chills. They told me somehow she’d gotten sepsis. How? How?! These are trained medical staff. It’s “under control” now, though.
I don’t believe them. I want to fight them. I want to stay in her room.
But I can’t. I have work in the morning, and they have rules.