16. Wilder
Wilder
Heat billows through the ceiling vents, cascading down my back and making sweat form under my clothes.
I sigh, wiping my forehead with my free hand as I sit in an uncomfortable chair opposite my mother Alicia’s hospital bed.
She sits on the edge, looking more worn out than usual.
More distant. Less of herself peeks through every day.
Her tiny frame sways slightly as she sits, fiddling her thumbs together. “They’re stealing my stuff,” my mother whispers, eyeing the door with wide, frantic eyes.
Today, she looks older. Her face is more drawn, and wrinkles mar her cheeks and the corners of her mouth, pulling her lips into a constant frown.
Confusion lives behind her eyes. A permanent fixture in her gaze.
It’s worse than it was when she was doing drugs and staring at the wall for hours on end. More permanent than before.
Dementia is stealing my mother away from me day by day. Taking everything she once knew and erasing it slowly. A sad decline into a darkness I don’t understand.
But then again, she was never truly my mother.
Never a woman who would walk through the door with a smile on her face, excited to embrace the two little boys waiting for her.
Sure, there was a small window where she was happy and thriving.
But that was before. Then, the thriving turned to starving and spiraling, and aching for the only thing that could make her whole—drugs.
Mack and I didn’t matter. Work didn’t matter.
The house didn’t matter. Food didn’t matter.
Only the heroin she could inject into her veins, or the drugs her then-boyfriend could help her smoke.
She had her favorites, but wasn’t picky.
Whatever took away the sadness and pain she felt on the inside. That’s all that mattered.
“They’re stealing everything, Jackson,” she whispers again, her lips pulling down further. She runs a shaky hand through her graying hair, proving how far gone she’s become.
I almost startle at the sound of my first name.
Some days when I come, she’s having a bad day and can’t remember who I am or why I’m there.
Sometimes I’m Jackson, her son. Other times, I’m Jameson, her high school boyfriend who broke her heart by running away with her best friend after getting her pregnant.
Or I’m Nick, the man who ruined her life and introduced her to drugs.
No matter what face I wear, I’m always here to visit through the good and bad times. No matter how much I don’t want to.
“What did they take this time, Mom?” I try to inject a caring tone, but it doesn’t seem to matter to her. She’s absolutely positive someone is sneaking into her room and taking things, or moving them around to confuse her.
But it’s all a part of her disease, eating away at her brain.
I roll my unlit cigarette between my fingers as she inspects the open door again with a cautious glare. Like she’s waiting for the boogeyman to jump out and take more things right before our eyes. There’s no one there, though. Not today, at least.
“Those nurses!” she hisses, pointing toward the open door with an accusatory tone. “They’re coming into my room and taking it all!”
I sigh. “What are they taking, Mom?”
Jewelry has been gone for many years. She sold anything for money. There’s nothing of value in here that belongs to her. Only clothes, toiletries, and a TV mounted to the wall. Besides, the nursing staff here has been nothing but accommodating.
My mother wobbles as she gets up from the edge of her hospital bed and goes to the wardrobe filled with her sweaters, slacks, and other essentials.
I stand abruptly, tucking my cigarette behind my ear. “Mom, you should be using your walker.” I frown when she side-eyes me with a vacant stare and her brows furrow. “The nurses said your balance has been really off lately. You need to use it so you don’t fall and break a hip or leg or something.”
From the moment I walked through the dreaded double doors of this facility, Liz, my mother’s most trusted nurse, informed me that my mother had been ill today and her balance had been worse than usual. They provided her with a walker a few months ago, and she refuses to touch it.
She stands there, staring at her clothes for longer than necessary. “They took my pink sweater, Jackson!”
“Where was it?” I ask again, knowing full well she doesn’t have a pink sweater.
Maybe she did many years ago, but I packed every single item of clothing when she moved here. I sold her house to cover the costs. I took on multiple jobs to give her the support she needs.
Then I had to go to my boss on my knees and beg for a chance at real money to support her needs.
I knew my mother wouldn’t survive outside these facility walls.
I could only do so much before she almost burned down the house, walked outside in the nude, and roamed around the neighborhood without a clue as to who she was.
It progressed so quickly that I didn’t have time to devise a plan that didn’t involve me getting tangled up with the boss and his organization.
And sometimes late at night when I’m staring at the ceiling with a million thoughts running through my mind, I ask myself why I even care so much.
Why do I want to provide for a woman who left me to rot?
Or who needed me to be the parent instead of the kid?
Why do I worry so much about her health and if the nurses are treating her with patience and care?
Why do I continually show up for someone who wouldn’t have done the same for me? Over and over again. Weekly. I’m here, talking with her when she doesn’t know who I am.
Fuck.
I pluck my cigarette from behind my ear and put it between my lips. I tongue the end, aching to feel the nicotine run through my veins.
But I don’t. Won’t. Ever again. Even if the temptation to walk out of this room and light it up to take all my worries away is too great. I won’t.
My mom moves a few pieces of clothing in the wardrobe, the hangers gliding along the metal rod, until she stops, her brows furrowing.
“I…I don’t know?” she questions quietly.
“I swear it was right here.” She nods a few times to herself and huffs, turning on her heels.
“I bet it was that man!” she hisses, pointing toward the empty doorway.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath through my nose, filling my lungs with nothing but oxygen.
“What man?” I ask around the cigarette between my lips.
This isn’t the first time she’s spoken about a man entering her room. She never specifies what her hallucination does or if they talk, but he’s always here.
“He’s tall. Has a hat and a trench coat. He used to come alone, but now he brings a friend.” She grins, almost happy-looking, considering she said the man had been coming into her room while she was supposed to be sleeping.
“He brings a friend now?” I raise a brow, impressed by her memory of him. She can barely remember she’s in a facility with other people. Now, she’s able to describe her hallucination to a T?
My mom shrugs unsteadily, returning to her bed and plopping down on the edge with a dreamy sigh.
“How are you feeling today?” I sigh, placing my unlit cigarette behind my ear again.
Like I always do now.
The constant reminder of what addiction can turn you into sits right in front of me. She’s no longer on any hard drugs. Maybe the occasional pain pill here and there, alongside her other medications, but she had an addiction at one point. And it transformed her into a person I no longer recognized.
She looks me over, taking me in, and she sighs, never truly giving me an answer. Every time I come in to see her, she’s getting worse. Her memory is failing more. She doesn’t want to eat or bathe.
And I know I’m going to lose her soon.
I wish I knew how I felt about that fact.
“Knock, knock!” a cheery voice says, knocking on the door. “I come bearing snacks! Someone said you aren’t feeling very well today, Alicia?” Liz, her nurse, steps inside with a small basket filled with packaged cookies, crackers, and small containers of fruit.
My mom’s eyebrows furrow with confusion. “I’m fine. Who are you?”
“Of course you are. I’m Liz, hunny. You remember? Your nurse,” Liz says softly, stepping into the room. “Wilder,” she greets me with a warm smile. “I was stopping by to give your mom some delicious snacks straight from the common rooms. I think some of her favorites are in there.”
My mom blinks a few times when the basket is lowered in front of her face, and she licks her dried lips. “I’m not hungry.” She turns her nose up at the basket with a huff.
“Alicia, I have your favorites right here. Chocolate chip cookies. Snickerdoodle, straight from your favorite bakery down the road. Grapes, apples, and slices of oranges. You don’t want to try a few?” Liz asks patiently with a smile.
My mom licks her lips again and shakes her head. “I said I’m not hungry.” Her teeth grit and her fingers curl into fists, turning white from the force she’s using. Anger clouds her eyes as she stares at Liz, and I know it’s only going to get worse if we continue to push her so hard to eat.
“Mom,” I sigh, taking out a snickerdoodle from the basket and unwrapping it. Cinnamon and sugar immediately fall off the delicious-smelling cookie, and instead of my mom’s stomach growling, mine does. “Try a bite of this?”
My mom sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and reluctantly opens her mouth, biting down into the soft cookie.
“It’s so good, Jackson,” she mutters, spitting crumbs everywhere.
After that, she enthusiastically eats two snickerdoodle cookies and drinks a heaping glass of milk.
It’s not the best nutrition for a snack, but it’s all we can get her to eat some days if she eats anything at all.
Liz carefully cares for my mother after she’s eaten and taken a few drinks, carefully tucking her into bed and staying until my mother’s soft snores fill the room. Slowly, we exit together, leaving the door ajar as we stand outside it.
Liz sighs. “That’s the first time I’ve seen her eat today,” she mutters, shaking her head. “But don’t you worry. She’s swallowing okay and—”
“This is a part of the process, right?” I ask, looking over my shoulder as my mother’s chest rises and falls, her eyes squeezed shut.
It’s a phrase I’ve heard over and over again with my mother’s care. Everything is just a part of the process now.
Liz puts a hand on my arm and gently squeezes.
“It is. Our next step is to ensure she sees the doctor to confirm she’s swallowing properly.
We’ll supplement with Ensure to make sure she’s getting all her vitamins, and we’re working on a new menu for her, filled with her favorite soft foods to encourage her to eat.
If we need further intervention, we’ll schedule a meeting and proceed from there, okay?
We got her. You don’t have to worry.” She offers me a much-needed, soft, motherly smile.
“Thanks, Liz,” I mumble, shaking my head. “And you’re sure no one has come to visit her?”
“No,” Liz says quickly, shaking her head. “You’re her only visitor. We’ve got surveillance cameras in every hall. We see who comes and goes, and there’s nobody but you.”
Her only visitor.
The only person who seems to care about Alicia Morgan.
Pathetic.
Liz’s words ring in my mind as I make my way out of the building and into my car. The cigarette behind my ear calls my name, begging me to light it up now that we’re out of the situation. My fingers twitch. Temptation gnaws at my insides.
But I don’t give in.
Instead, I focus on the other person in my life who seems to need twenty-four-hour surveillance.
In fact, I think he’s worse than the woman trapped in the facility until her last breath.
Fuck. Maybe I should lock him inside with her.
Then, I’d know exactly what he does day in and day out.
With my luck, he’d find a way to squeeze out a window and cause chaos through town—more than he already does.
With a sigh, I pull out my phone and open the tracking app I have installed for Malic’s sake.
A second one, since the sneaky bastard was able to disable the first. The man can’t sit still or stay put, and something has him more on edge than usual.
Even with Meredith still missing and every lead coming up short—I’m missing something.
Thankfully, Malic appears to be at home, doing God knows what.
Right now? I have class to get to.
But first, I’m stopping for a much-needed treat at the café on campus.