More Than Me
“I am so sorry, Mister Cortero. I didn’t. I just. He just…” she stutters trying to find an excuse.
“It’s fine Carmen. No need to explain. I need you to call Mark, have him send Mr. Cavanaugh a bonus and I need you to locate the top three mental health doctors in the city and get me an appointment tomorrow. Say noon.” I can see the confusion on her face as she tries not to ask me why.
“That will be all Carmen.”
“Sir, yes sir.” she walks out, and I turn in my chair overlooking my view of the city from twenty-five floors up. I am coming, Corazon, and this time, there are no more excuses. You are all mine.Crystal“Mom, I’m home.” I call out walking into my childhood home. I always dread coming here. Not because I have bad memories or anything, even though a lot of my memories are not so pleasant, to say the least. No. I dread coming here because I never know what I am going to find when I do come here. I don’t know what shape the house will be in. What her state of mind is going to be and how I am going to deal with it all.
It wouldn’t be as difficult if I could afford someone to come in here at least twice a week to make sure she has taken her medicine and to clean up a bit. But even that is too much for me. On a secretary’s salary, there is not much I can afford. Which is why I find myself coming here once a week to clean, check up on her and make sure all sharp objects are still put away. Luckily, our next-door neighbor has known our family since I was a baby, so she and her husband stop by every day. I wish I could, but I work almost every day and if I came here as often as I should, I would never see the man that stars in my dreams and gives me something to hope for.
It isn’t until I cross through the kitchen that I notice something is off. “Mom!” I scream now starting to panic. The house is clean, dishes put away, and no clothes laying around. Not to mention she is not roaming around yelling at someone not there. I hurry up the stairs, my mind now playing tricks on me and find her sitting in the chair in the corner of her room, rocking. Looking off into the abyss. “Mom?” I whisper, not sure how to approach her. She continues to rock not acknowledging me until I get right up on her. “Mommy?” She turns and smiles.
“Crystal, my darling. Where have you been? I have been waiting for you all day. I thought you were going to come when that nice gentleman showed up with all those people. I was thinking, we could get this big house, hire a maid, a gardener, and even a cook. Can’t you see it? It could be a Victorian themed house, with old eighteenth century art. We could find classic English teacups and….” ah, so she is in one of her happy, frantic, anything is possible moods. Though this is better than her manic, violent moods, she is still a bit much to keep up with when she is like this. She often talks about people that don’t exist and make up stories of visitors and ideas.
“Mom, there is no man.” I tell her rubbing her back.
“Yes, there is. He was here, just seconds ago, with a bunch of people. They cleaned the house, looked around, cut the grass and brought me dinner. It was a delicious broccoli cheese quiche. He said to leave you some in the fridge. Such a handsome gentleman. Spanish men always seem so distinguished. Don’t they?” My body begins to hum and prickle as I start to believe her. I know it is impossible, seeing as how I have never mentioned my mom or my life outside of the one we share night after night, but my heart knows, what my mind can’t catch up too. It just can’t be.
“Mom, did this man have a name?”
“Of course, he did, silly girl. Everyone has a name.” she shakes her head at me and goes back to looking out the window. I find myself getting anxious, hoping she finishes the thought and tells me the name.
“Mom.” I say trying to get her to look at me. After waiting a few minutes, I accept that she is done talking. Walking out of the sitting room, I look through the rest of the house, for clues...anything to tell me if what I am feeling is true. The only thing I see is a clean house, and a fridge full of food. I can't stop shaking my hands, the itching going up my arms, as the need to be in his arms begins to overtake me. Deciding to go next door to the Houston’s, I ring their doorbell.