Chapter 4
JORDAN
· PRESENT DAY ·
“Mom. It’s me,” I say as I bring in Mom’s mail from yesterday and put it on her tiled counter.
I take off my work bag and place it on one of the weathered chairs at the table then glance around the empty kitchen. Nothing marks my mom’s presence but an open box of granola. I refold the top of the cereal box and walk to the pantry before noticing that the expiration date on the box was three days ago, so I trash the granola, making a mental note to pick up a new box for her at the store.
“Mom?” I call, a bit louder, while inspecting the contents of her pantry. Several cans of food have also passed their expiration date. Just last year, I heard some radio commentators talking about someone in Denver who died from eating expired pancake mix. My mom’s been through too much to go out because of old food. I toss the cans and add them to the growing grocery list.
Apparently I need to go through her pantry more often. How many expired things has she eaten lately?
When the silence looms for too long, I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room, fully expecting to see my mom knee-deep in her sewing supplies, but the room is vacant of all but its craft corner, television, and time-worn sofas.
I glance at my watch—eight-thirty. Mom always quilts at this hour. My chest begins to tighten. “Mom?” I yell. My feet quicken along with my pulse.
I push open doors, ducking my head inside room after room, running now. “Mom!” What if she’s sick or injured? What if she’s unconscious somewhere, and I’m not there to help her? “Mom!”
I open the door to the study and find Mom at her computer. Her auburn hair is pulled back in a big hair clip, and she’s still wearing her PJs, which is unusual since she’s usually up and ready before sunrise. Mom leans forward, and the wrinkles around her eyes deepen as she smiles at her computer screen, which is just inches from her face.
I let out a long breath, and it feels like I’m breathing for the first time. She’s okay. I lean my head against the doorframe, letting my pulse regulate. Paige and my mom are going to be the death of me. This was twice in twenty-four hours that I thought one or the other was in serious trouble.
Just then, Mom’s deep-brown eyes connect with mine, and she yelps.
Her yelp makes me yelp.
Her hand presses over her heart, and she takes out a pair of earbuds. “Jordan! Are you trying to scare me?”
“Scare you?” I step into the room. “You scared me . I was yelling for you—why didn’t you answer?”
“Oh,” she says, “it’s this darn TV show Paige has me hooked on.”
My eyes widen. “You’re watching a TV show?” Never, in all of my memory, has Mom ever sat down to watch a TV show.
I squint at the computer screen, which features a paused image of a girl with a dirty face and tattered clothes. The island setting behind her reminds me of Sunsets and Sabotage —one of Paige’s favorite reality shows.
“Yes, Paige came over on Wednesday and made me watch an episode of this show with her. Now, I’m hooked. The brat.”
A smile breaks across my face. Paige, you brilliant thing, you. Just last week, I told Paige how I wished my mom would slow down and take a break. Rest and my mom aren’t exactly friends—they’re more like neighbors who only ever see each other on trash day. This TV show must have been Paige’s way of getting Mom to sit still for longer than it takes to down a bowl of expired cereal.
Mom places her earbuds in the desk drawer before standing slowly. Too slowly. Her hands grasp the chair for stability, and I can tell by the deep lines in her forehead that gripping the chair is taking a toll. Her pained response is worse today than usual, which means her neuropathy must be flaring up.
Many cancer patients who get chemotherapy typically experience some form of chemotherapy-induced peripheral neuropathy, but most people’s symptoms fade in the months following their treatment. Unfortunately, as we’ve learned the hard way, Mom drew the short straw and is one of the few who experience neuropathy for years—if not a lifetime. While the intensity of her symptoms fluctuate from day to day, Mom’s hands and legs are frequently a cocktail of pain, numbness, and burning sensations, none of which are ideal for balancing on her feet.
I hold Mom’s elbow until she is fully standing. At five-three, she’s nearly a foot shorter than me.
“If you wanted my chair, you could have just told me,” Mom says. “No need to pull me out of it.”
“Yes, I couldn’t wait another minute to toss you out and watch Sunsets and Sabotage myself.”
“Paige has you hooked too?” Mom walks slowly to the door, her feeble hands shaking as she reaches for the doorknob.
A fresh wave of guilt and regret washes over me. Even though Mom’s struggled with neuropathy for years, the sight of her weakened hands and legs drives through my conscience like a runaway truck.
I caused that.
The all-too-familiar thought blankets my mind, smothering me from the inside out. I caused my mom pain. Despite the heartache these thoughts bring, I don’t fight against them—they’re the truth. I am to blame. I delayed my mother’s cancer treatments from an act so selfish it still haunts me, and now she suffers the consequences.
“Not hooked,” I say in answer to Mom’s question. “More like Sunsets and Sabotage is the background noise while I scroll my phone. Paige and Missy are the real fans of the show. But Paige likes to recap it so we can all discuss it for hours and hours.” I force a lightness I don’t feel into my voice. Mom doesn’t need to know how much turmoil I experience when I see her in pain. She doesn’t need one more thing to worry about.
I slide my arm under Mom’s, stabilizing her as we walk to the living room.
“So, we’re promenading now?” Mom retorts in her usual way, eyeing my arm beneath hers.
When her pain is bad, I tend to coddle her. I know this, but I can’t stand by and do nothing while her hands tremble. Taking care of my mom is all I have to offer her. If it weren't for me, she might not have had to have chemo treatments in the first place, and if she hadn’t taken chemo, she wouldn't be dealing with neuropathy. I would give anything to go back and undo the past, but I can’t. So I settle for the next best thing—making sure Mom is cared for.
“Or are we going to square dance? That’s my favorite form of exercise, you know.”
The snarky comment reminds me of exactly what I came to talk to her about today. “Have you ever tried water aerobics?” I ask as we reach her craft corner in the living room. I let go of Mom's arm and quickly pick up the stack of fabrics printed with teddy bears and binkies from her chair and place it on the cluttered sewing table.
Mom takes a seat before pinning me with an incredulous look. “The old folks’ sport?”
Well, at least she admitted it was a sport. That was something. Mom is an avid walker and even started a walking group several years ago, but she recently stopped attending. If today is any indication, her pain must be stopping her. But exercise in moderation is good for her neuropathy.
“You haven’t been walking with your walking group lately, and I thought maybe you might like to try something new.”
“I haven’t been walking because Susan Parker invited her daughter to the walking group, and that girl can talk without breathing.” Mom rolls her eyes. “The social part of the group has been usurped. Now it’s just a commentary on the many ways you can use an avocado and how her favorite ripped jeans got a new rip in them.”
I laugh—I went to school with Susan Parker’s daughter, and Mom’s not far off the mark. “Then it sounds like water aerobics would be great for you. You’ll get a new social group. And swimming is gentle on the joints.”
“You sound like a pamphlet, and I don’t need a water-aerobics class. I have a pool in my backyard.” She points just outside the glass doors to the covered pool, the mesh material speckled with leaves.
“When was the last time you used it?”
She shrugs, giving me my answer.
“Exactly,” I say, holding my ground. “You need accountability. A water-aerobics class will do that while also keeping you active and social.” I sit down on the arm of the sofa with my arms crossed.
“Are you trying to age me before my time? I’m fifty, not eighty-five. I’m not swishing around with a bunch of Q-tip heads at some recreation center.”
“Mom. You make quilts for a living and use words like ‘pamphlet.’ I think you’ve crossed that bridge all by yourself. Who knows—maybe one of these Q-tip heads will be handsome and enjoy a good hourglass quilt block.” I waggle my eyebrows.
Mom huffs out a laugh. “I’ll find myself a graying water-aerobics-and-quilt-loving man the day you start dating Paige.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and blow out a deep breath. “Mom, don’t give up so easily.”
“Then don’t give up on Paige so easily.” She pulls out two square pieces of fabric and aligns the edges.
I sigh. This particular shift in conversation has had frequent-flier miles in this house ever since Paige came back to Colorado last December. “I’m not giving up on anything. We’re just not like that. Paige is like… like a sister.” I nearly gag on that last bit. I’ve never said those words out loud, but now I know that saying them feels akin to getting fluoride trays shoved in my mouth at the dentist.
Maybe Paige and I aren’t sibling material, but I also know she and I will only ever be friends. Best friends. But telling my mom this while she’s quilting baby blankets and looking at me with those give-me-grandbabies-now eyes is not going to satisfy her.
So I say the next best thing. “I’m dating other girls.”
Not seriously, but I did go on a date a few weeks ago. I make a mental note to take a cue from Paige and date more frequently. I don’t want to get Mom’s hopes up that Paige and I will ever become a Pordan or a Jaige. Maybe a girlfriend is just what I need to keep my mom’s grandchild hopes alive while suppressing her ideas that Paige and I could ever become something more.
Paige’s future is in California, and mine is here. Eventually we will have to part ways. A relationship was never even in the cards.
The alarm on my phone buzzes. “I gotta go.” I kiss my mom on her forehead and retrieve my bag from the kitchen chair, looping it around my head and across my chest.
“Already? You don’t usually leave so soon,” Mom mumbles with a sewing pin in her mouth, making her words nearly incoherent. Luckily, I’ve learned to interpret pin-in-mouth—my mom’s been speaking it since before I was born.
“I need to pick up something for Paige before work.”
Work. I scrub a hand through my hair, feeling the day’s exhaustion before it has even begun. Today, Rob and I have to finish the conversation I cut short when I left to pick up Paige last night.
My thumb fidgets with the strap across my chest. I have to tell Rob we are not expanding the business to the West Coast, even though the thought bites at me like a Colorado winter. I can already see the disappointment on Rob’s face. Sometimes I hate being the boss.
I take one last look at Mom. Her fingers tremble as she pushes each pin through the joined fabrics. My heart physically aches watching her struggle so much to do something she loves.
I caused that.
The thought instantly hardens my resolve, turning it into stone. No matter what Rob or anyone else thinks, I am making the right decision to keep the business local. I could never leave Mom.
“Go get your girl,” Mom advises before pressing the sewing pedal, bringing the sewing machine rumbling to life.
I shake my head, knowing she won’t let the relationship-with-Paige conversation rest until I’m dead or married to someone else. “I’ll send you the info for the water-aerobics class,” I say, but Mom doesn’t seem to hear me over the roar of her sewing machine.
Knowing Mom, I’ll bet that was exactly what she was going for.