Noah grunts. “Not sure what normal is going to look like.”
It occurs to me that Noah didn’t have the luxury of hiding today, and his day might have been tough on the social side. “Did… were people… annoying?” For lack of a better word.
“Surprisingly, Ms. Angela didn’t come over to find out what was what.”
She wouldn’t, since she’s who put me up to this. I stay quiet on that topic.
“Grace and Alex came looking for you,” he continues, “which… okay. Didn’t quite know what to say to that.”
Alex is my boss’s soon-to-be-wife, and Grace is his cousin. They know I work at the bakery. “That’s weird.”
“The whole day has been weird. They’ll get used to it.” He clears both our plates, declares he has work to do, and goes into his office.
On the first rumble of thunder, I go upstairs, brush my teeth, wash my face, put my pajamas on, grab a pillow and a throw blanket, and cuddle on the couch, windows wide open, to the sound of the rain and the bursts of lightning, not really worried about the wind pushing water inside. I’m in need of some weather tonight. Something loud and soothing.
I barely feel him carrying me to bed, strong arms and his manly scent awakening my core before my brain has time to catch up, but it all goes by way too fast. After that, I sleep like a baby, waking up to the smell of coffee on my nightstand.Sweet.
But no Noah.
He slips out of the house before me, and it’s just as well. As newlyweds, if we were to walk to work together—me to the bakery and Noah to the store—we’d have to hold hands, which I’m sure Noah could manage. But wouldn’t we be expected to at least peck when we part ways? That would be awkward, yet if we aren’t good enough at pretending, people will start talking.
The rain is still falling steadily, and I pull on the hood on my raincoat, keeping my head down if only to avoid having to talk to anyone.
On my way to work, I can’t help but glance at the store. Although the sign on the door is turned to Open, it looks dark inside. And why didn’t they put any umbrellas in the display windows? It seems like an easy, natural thing. It rains, you show that you sell umbrellas.
At least the gutters aren’t overflowing, and the rain is already receding.
Continuing on my way to work, I send a quick text message to Mom. It’s the same message every day since she’s been diagnosed. We might have had a poor relationship in the past,but like Noah said, it can be fixed. Things between us seem to constantly ebb and flow, and at this point it’s on me to get us to a peaceful stage.
How’s it going today?
And every day, generally within a couple of hours, she answers with either a thumbs up or a poop emoji. The one time she didn’t answer, I stormed her double-wide over lunch break and found her asleep at the kitchen table, face on her arms, tea spilled. That day, something shifted in our relationship.
I didn’t see a sick woman too weak to care for herself. Beyond the filter of illness that blurred the reality, I saw the reality of my mother who didn’t have in her bones the will to fight for herself. Who never had someone look out for her when she was weak. A woman who’d been taken advantage of, and either failed to see it or didn’t know the first thing to do about it.
That day, seeing her balding head sprawled on her spindly arms, bony shoulders barely lifting with her shallow breaths, it was as if I’d bottled all the love I couldn’t give her growing up, and it was now spilling out of me. I carried her to bed, made her take her meds, spoon-fed her oatmeal. It didn’t matter that she was trying to shoo me away, trying to convince me she’d been taking a cat nap and I should try it someday.
I told her I loved her, and her answer was, “I’m sorry.”
I keep my eyes on the screen of my phone, hoping she won’t give me the silent treatment. I know I’ve changed when it comes to our relationship. I’m not sure she has yet.
Mom:
Me:
I’ll come over after work.
Mom:
You and Noah come over for dinner.
That stops me in my tracks. So many things bounce in my head, from Mom being too tired, to why does she even—but of course she does. There could be genuine reasons, such as she now has a son-in-law and not only that, but he’s a Callaway, to she-saw-straight-through-our-lie-and-what-in-the-world. The thing that sticks, though, is that Mom shouldn’t get tired.
Mom:
Cleaned the house little by little with Aunt Angela over the last few days. Shannon dropped off lasagna and Cassandra a salad.
