Kellen
Iknock softly on Mom’s bedroom door and step back as the nurse answers. She’s an older woman in her fifties named Eunika with a heavy Polish accent and a stern glare. Exactly the kind of woman I’d trust with my mother’s care.
“How’s she doing today?”
“Today is a good day,” Eunika says, crossing her strangely muscular arms. “Do you want to see her?”
“I was hoping I could wheel her out back and talk.”
She nods slowly and I think there’s the barest hint of a smile on her lips, although maybe I’m imagining things. “Still early enough. Not too hot. Come in and ask, I think she’ll like that.”
I follow her into my mother’s room. Hugh is away attending to the construction business which means he can’t hover over my shoulder and make sure I’m not fucking him over. Which obviously I want to.
But right now, I just want to sit with my mom and talk like we used to.
Some part of me breaks to see my mother this way. Wizened, older than her days, eyes somewhat blurry and blank, but she recognizes me when I approach her bed and she smiles. So many memories come back with that smile, and I feel like a little kid again, looking up as she strolled along the gardens with me, laughing at my nonsense jokes and encouraging me to tell more stories. She was always encouraging me at whatever I did back then and it was like water to a man dying of thirst, just that small bit of approval and love.
“Mom,” I say, kissing her cheek.
“Kellen. Where have you been? I feel like we haven’t talked in a long time.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that we spoke just yesterday.
“I’m home for a visit. Do you want to sit out back with me? It might be good to get some fresh air.”
She smiles, brightening just a touch. “I love the way the gardens look right now. Have you seen them? They’re so lovely, even better than when you were young.”
“I have.”
“Aren’t they beautiful? It’s all thanks to that new girl. What’s her name again? I have it on my tongue but I can’t quite get it out.” She laughs, covering the fact that it obviously bothers her that she can’t remember.
“Tara,” I say, feeling a pulse in my guts. Mom knows Tara very well—Tara was around constantly back when Cait was alive, and it’s just one of many signs pointing toward my mother’s illness that she can’t remember.
“That’s right, Tara.” She frowns slightly as if trying to recall something, but shrugs it off. “Let’s go sit out back then.”
Eunika helps me get Mom into her chair. Together, we wheel her into the elevator, ride it down, and head out onto the porch. The morning is warm, but not overbearing and we sit in the shade of an awning, Mom’s chair placed at the balcony so she can see the cacti and bushes artfully arranged in geometric shapes down below. Some of the cacti are in bloom and little yellow blossoms burst out here and there, contrasting with the reddish-brown soil and the deep green flesh.
“Lovely,” Mom says once Eunika gets her settled and heads inside, though still within shouting distance. “You know, before that girl got here, this place was a mess and we barely had any cactuses. Can you imagine, a garden out here without cactuses?”
“Tara,” I remind her. “And she’s good. I think she really cares about the plants.”
“She must.” Mom shades her eyes, squinting, and smiles brightly again. “Speak of the devil, look at that.”
I follow Mom’s pointed finger and spot Tara standing down at one of the far beds meticulously pruning back some bushes that got a little too aggressive. She carefully picks up the clippings, places it all into a big bag, and probably plans on composting everything later. She moves with a surprising grace and beauty, and I’m struck by her all over again, how she seems to flit through the gardens like she was born in them. Mom lets out a happy sigh.
“She’s been here a while, hasn’t she?” Mom asks suddenly like she realizes that she’s having a hard time remembering and she’s just trying to grasp at whatever she can. “I feel like it’s been a long time, but I’m not sure. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Seven years.”
“That’s right, your father let her live in the cottage.”
“Why did he do that? I never found out.”
Mom tilts her head like she’s hearing a far-off conversation. “I think he felt sorry for her.”
“Doesn’t sound like him.”
“He was mourning something. Someone. I can’t remember who.” Her frown deepens. “Your father never did anything out of kindness or without some ulterior motive.”
“No, he really didn’t. It must’ve been hard being married to him.”