“Hi! How are you?” I answer, sliding onto a kitchen stool.
“Celeste, it’s so good to hear your voice. How are things going with your father?”
I pause to find something to say that doesn’t sound like I’m barely holding this house together. Literally and figuratively. “It’s going, I guess. I’m no cook, but I think he’s fed and watered appropriately.” I add a little chuckle to lighten the fact that I’m not great at this like Marie is.
“Oh hon, nobody expects you to be everything to everyone, everywhere. That’s not what I was asking. Has he deteriorated any more since I left?”
I can hear the guilt in her voice.
And I do my best not to associate my part in this with the fact that Hank Black has, in fact, been having fewer lucid moments and has been more upset lately than I ever remember.
“He has, a little. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart. Just the disease. Maybe I should come back?”
For a beat I desperately want her to.
But that’s just another selfish thought. One I should be strong enough to tamp out.
“Nope. I’ve got this, Marie. You’ve spent enough time taking care of our family. I promise if things get tough, I’ll find more help.”
“Okay . . . you sure?”
The line stays silent for a moment before I set my shoulders back. “I’m sure. Enjoy your time. You’ve more than earned it.”
“In that case, consider me your backup plan.”
“I will. And Marie?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Thank you for loving us,” I say softly, the words strangled a little as my throat tightens.
“I made a promise to your mother, and I was happy to. Love you, hon.”
“Love you, too.”
The line goes dead, and I set my phone on the countertop. It’s so good to hear her voice. Marie always felt like our second mother. And didn’t that come with its own messed-up set of baggage? Which brings me back to the first thought I had before she rang.
This house looks lifeless.
I slip off the stool and wander around the big old home. And with every step I take, I notice more and more things that need maintenance or replacing. Dust covers every flat surface, and a few webs have bloomed in the archway leading to the corridor that meets the front door.
Right.
Well, if I’m going to own this new phase of my life and step up for my father and myself, this pity party I’ve been throwing myself ends now.
The cleanup phase starts this second. And maybe after I give every room and every corner of this old house the once-over, I can leave some baggage behind. Maybe even toss it out with some of the old crap I’m sure has been hoarded since Mom died.
When I reach the sunroom, I find Dad in his reading chair, asleep. Where he is more often than not. His routine is becoming more and more simple by the day, despite his needs increasing.
With him settled, I get to work. Rummaging through the kitchen cupboards, I grab large garbage bags and cleaning products. Rags and some polish, too.
I start on the living room, making my way around the space. I leave the corner the tree sits in ’til last. The hardwood floor is littered with pine needles, fallen from the neglected tree. Another thing that needs some TLC. I sweep away the mess and water the tree. But somehow it still looks sad. I’m sure Maise would be annoyed with my lame decorating attempt. Maybe I can ask her for help bringing this tree to life.
I flick a text to Quinton asking just that.
When he replies that she would love to and is free Saturday, my face stretches with a smile that I feel all the way to my bones.
