“Don’t you have to go to work today?” she questions, seeming as confused as ever.
“It’s Saturday, Mama.” Reaching across the white tiles of the kitchen island, I take her hand in mine. “Mama, your hand is freezing.”
I shudder at the coldness of her hand before beginning to rub both of her hands in my own. “Coffee will warm you up.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she says, shrugging and shaking her head.
I drop her hands only to move back to the counter and fill our mugs with the coffee, sugar, and cream that she always uses. Feeling as if the roles have been reversed, I place my mother’s hands around the coffee mug and hold them up to her mouth. She’s reluctant at first but eventually takes a sip.
I don’t know why, but seeing her ingest a tiny bit of coffee fills me with some relief. My heart breaks for my mother. When I first moved back in, I hoped that this state she was in would get better over time. It’s only been a couple of months, but not much has changed. Whereas she was practically comatose immediately after my father’s funeral, she now will at least get out of bed and move to lay down in the living room or sit in the kitchen for hours on end, staring at nothing in particular.
Still, that’s not much of an improvement to speak of.
I stare at her from across the kitchen as I sip my coffee. I’d initially wanted to tell my mother all about my father’s betrayal, the way in which he manipulated his will to leave her with nothing unless I obeyed his last wishes. However, staring at the woman in front of me, I know I can’t do that. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when she’s stronger.
“Mama, I think you need to see someone.” The words surprise me, but they come out forcefully and full of determination.
She wrinkles her eyebrows. “For my nails?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No, for … your grief. I’m concerned about you. Daddy has been gone for almost three months, and you can barely make it out of bed. It might be for the best if you talk to someone about it.”
She gives me a blank stare. For a long while, she doesn’t respond. Too long. She never reacts, actually, so I decide to drop it and choose another time when she’s open to the conversation.
“How about this instead … We’ll go for a walk and then come back, and I’ll order us some brunch for delivery. After we eat, I can do your nails. How’s that sound?”
She blinks. “Nails?” She holds out her hand in front of her. “You do them?”
I nod. “Yeah, I learned in college.” Sadness coils in my belly at how much of my life my mother missed. When I was sent away at sixteen, I rarely returned home. Partially because I didn’t want to and partly because my father forbade it. But I missed my mother. Even as I went on to complete my final two years of high school at an East Coast boarding school, I missed her. And when I moved in with my mother’s younger sister on the West Coast to attend college, I missed my mother. It was my aunt, Lynette, who taught me how to do my nails.
“Hey, Mama, how about we give Aunt Nettie a call today?” I ask, referring to my aunt by the unique nickname I’d given her when I first moved in.
“Lynette? She won’t want to hear from me.” My mother shakes her head. More sadness. She still thinks my aunt harbors a grudge against her. Little does she know, or maybe she doesn’twantto know that it’s my father my aunt couldn’t stand. He drove everyone close to my mother out of her life, even her own child.
A couple of hours later, my mother and I sit on the living room couch, our bellies filled with the omelets, bacon, Belgian waffle, and mimosas I’d ordered from a nearby restaurant. Well, my stomach is full. My mother had barely managed to eat half of her vegetarian omelet.
I dunk my mother’s feet into the warm water of the brown basin I filled.
“Is the water okay?” I ask, glancing up at her from my position on the cream carpet.
She nods, but her gaze is still miles away. I hope that getting her into some sort of self-care routine will bring back a semblance of the woman I once knew. For the first time, I’ve been seeing my mother with grey hairs showing and unkempt nails, wrinkled clothing. While, on the material level, those things don’t bother me, it’s the reality that I know my mother abhors moving about the world in this way. She’s just too caught up in grief to recognize it.
Grief over a man who doesn’t deserve it.
Switching my thoughts before I can become too embroiled in resentment at a dead man, I lift the pinkish-nude color I chose to do my mother’s nails in.
“It’s more of a spring than a late fall color, but I know nude pinks are your favorites,” I say as I shake the bottle of polish. “Maybe after Thanksgiving, we can do a Christmas red and green theme. We’ll have to go to a professional for that, though. I can’t do decorations and stuff. Aunt Nettie never got that far with me.”
“Thanksgiving? When is that?”
“The week after next, Mama. Remember? I told you. I think I’m going to put in an order for us at that organic food market that you like. They make an entire meal for you. It’s a little bit on the pricey side, but worth it.”
“Oh,” is all she says.
Lowering my gaze, I think about how, in the past, this woman would’ve never let catered food to be served at her holiday meals. She had to make everything from scratch. Just the way Henry aka ‘Hank’ Hinkerson liked it.
“Alright, let’s see how those—” A loud knocking at the door cuts me off.
My mother jumps, startled.
