“Of course I’m worried, you’re drinking alone on a Monday night, and you won’t talk to me. How did you even get here, you’re supposed to be at Dad’s?” I’m getting frustrated. He either needs to talk to me or leave.
“So what? I told him I was going home to Mom’s.” He shrugs, turning away, trying to end this conversation.
“And that was okay with him?” I ask in disbelief. Despite their shitty marriage, they still co-parent well. I have a hard time believing Dad would just let him go home without talking to Mom first. He knows what’s happening here and that Mom is helping. “You still haven’t explained the drinking.”
“Mind your own business, I’m leaving,” he mutters, opening the door, letting the cold air inside.
“Where are you going?” I throw my hands in the air, trying to keep my voice as quiet as possible.
“Home, Logan, I’m going home,” he mumbles, stepping outside. “You remember the yellow house we grew up in?”
“Don’t be an asshole. Do you want me to come with you?” I don’t want to leave Hannah, but I don’t feel good about him being alone either. Something is obviously wrong with him. Fuck my life, it figures that Jackson would have a crisis now.
“Nah, I’m a big boy. I can find my way around the block. Besides, you have other priorities.”
“Are you sure, I don’t mind coming home with you?” I can’t go any further. My feet are bare, and my boots are at the front door. I just need him to stop moving so I can talk to him.
Maybe I should just go upstairs and wake Mom up so she can deal with whatever this is, but Grace can’t be left alone, and Hannah needs to sleep. Ugh. I’ll just text Dad and let him know what’s going on. He can handle it.
“Go back to your girlfriend. I’m fine,” he mutters as he walks away.
I watch him walk down the dark, snow covered, path before firing off a text to my dad, telling him where Jackson is and that he’s been drinking.
I shouldn’t narc on him, that’s not what good big brothers do, but he’s put me in a shitty position. Lord knows I occasionally snuck alcohol as a teenager, but he’s obviously going through something. I’ll have to make a bigger effort to talk to him and hang out more often once things settle down here. I’ll make sure to talk to Mom about him as well.
Chapter Six
While I try to care for my mom, Logan quietly takes care of me. Towels and clean clothes are left out on the bathroom counter reminding me I need to shower and change. Small meals magically appear, and water replaces the bottomless coffee. Tylenol is gently placed in the palm of my hand every four hours because he knows my head is aching. I haven’t had to answer the phone or greet the casserole ladies when they drop off food. He has even arranged for Francis to come in daily to help around the house. He is my constant, unwavering support, and I’m not sure I could survive this nightmare without him. I’m becoming overwhelmed with the number of people I have had to talk to.
When he isn’t with me, our friend Megan is. She grew up down the street with her dad and though she is a few years older, she has always been a close friend. At twenty-five she is already married to her high school sweetheart Jeff. I appreciate her quiet strength as I navigate caring for my mom and my own grief.
Beth is in and out. She’s been dealing with things at Dad’s office, helping transfer existing clients to other brokers in the agency and tying up loose ends. I honestly have no clue what needs to be done, and I don’t care. When she’s here, she spends alot of time talking privately with Mom. Mom talks to Beth more than anyone else.
I’ve repeatedly tried to engage her in conversation, but she keeps shutting me out. I asked Ryan about it, and he explained that everyone grieves differently and sometimes they subconsciously pull away from those that remind them of their loss. He said it’s not personal, but it sure feels personal. I just want my mom.
“What about this one?” I ask, holding up a modest black crape dress to show my mom. I found her in her bedroom, sitting in her bathrobe 20 minutes ago. The funeral is in a couple of hours, and she hasn’t even begun to get ready. I have shown her multiple options, and she has been indifferent to them all. I should have checked yesterday that she knew what she was going to wear. Maybe we wouldn’t be rushing now.
“I honestly don’t care what I wear, Hannah,” she says with a sigh, sinking further into a chair. “Just pick something, and I’ll put it on.”
She’s saying goodbye to her husband, I would love it if she put in a little effort to look nice.
“Okay, well, this is my choice then,” I say, laying it across her bed before returning to the closet.
“Do you want heels or flats?” No response. I may as well be talking to myself at this point.
“I think flats are the more sensible choice. You will probably be standing a lot.” I grab a pair of cute ballerina flats, and a simple black clutch and put them alongside the dress.
Opening her carved wooden jewellery box, I find the pearl earrings and necklace that my dad bought her for their last anniversary and carry them over to show her.
“I think these will look really nice with the dress, what do you think?”
“I don’t care,” she mumbles, looking down at her hands.
“I need you to care for just a minute, okay? Please,” I beg. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and try to collect myself. Being frustrated isn’t going to help get her ready any faster.
Smiling, I say, “I’m sorry. Let’s get ready so we get to the funeral home on time.”
In the week since Dad passed, I have come to realize how much he shielded me from the enormity of my mom’s mental illness. I thought I knew. But what I experienced as a child with a sick parent doesn’t even compare to what I am left to deal with now. Our mother-daughter dynamic has completely changed and I’m not sure I am up to the challenge. I can barely make decisions for myself, how am I going to support her making hers?
