Good Lord, I’m screwed.
First, I’m the world’s worst cook, and second... I’m overwhelmed caring for myself, let alone all of... this.
“Marie, I can’t do this. I mean, I really can’t.”
I’m practically begging her to stay at this point. If she leaves, the fate of my father is basically left to chance. Me and routinesare not well suited. I couldn’t even hold down a part-time gig, let alone something so time-consuming and never-ending.
With a sigh, she sits beside me on a counter stool. “Honey, I know this is out of your comfort zone. But that’s kind of the point.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your brother and sister... they think this is what you need. Direction, structure, and focus. Meaning something apart from your own life for a change.”
Those sniveling, dirty snitches.
I cannot believe they went behind my back to Marie about this. I know I was struggling, but aren’t all artists?
It is literally the status quo.
“You have so much potential, CC. But we all feel the structure will help you. And I really do need a break.”
I slump on the stool like she plucked the wind from my sails. And deep down, I know she is right. My siblings—who will die slow and painful deaths for this utter betrayal—I hate to admit, are not entirely wrong.
I was floundering. Nothing kept my attention. Whether it was work, guys, or whatever latest project I was trying to pump out.
Nothing.
“Think of it this way. You now have a real chance to take a break from the chaos and focus on you and your father. Find your inner peace before you find out what you really want to do with your life.” Marie dots a kiss to my forehead, like she used to when I was little, and rises from the stool.
“I’m going to head out early today and get some errands of my own done. Look through the binder. The schedule is laminated and clipped to the front cover. Start with that so you know what’s up for his next meal and round of meds, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, but the word is soft. Almost lost.
Marie disappears as I thumb through the pages, leaving me to process the world’s most subtle family intervention. And like most other interventions, I don’t get a choice. Because if I don’t comply, my father will be left alone. Or with some stranger who doesn’t understand or even care.
That thought alone steels my determination.
I huff a sarcastic laugh. That didn’t take long. And I know I’ve been played. They knew I could never say no. I’ve always been daddy’s little girl.
Setting back my shoulders, I turn to page one and start learning every nuanced detail about my father’s life.
“Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit!”
The handle of the pot of boiling water slips through my hands and hits the floor. I manage to mount a stool before the steaming liquid reaches my bare feet.
Fucking hell.
Only when I hear a faint holler from the sunroom do I clamber off the stool and edge my away around the steaming liquid studded with the potatoes I was supposed to be cooking. They now currently look like slimy, muted mounds splattered around the black-and-white tiled floor.
“Dammit, why can’t we order in like civilized people...”
I pad down the hallway as the hollering continues.
“Coming, Daddy,” I holler back, hoping he’s right where I left him before I set out on the world’s most difficult cooking accomplishment—mashed potatoes.
He’s not.
Hovering by the window and peeling off his underwear, he points to something outside as I pick up the pace, grabbing a throw rug from the sofa en route. “What are you doing, Daddy?”
