Harper scoots over and rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Jorey, but I will beat the shit out of you if you hurt her.”
I’m pretty sure I did more than that five years ago.
Chapter 7
As the early morning sunlight hits me directly in the face since I forgot to close the curtains last night before I collapsed into bed, I roll over on the small twin mattress and smother my head under my pillow. It’s too damn early to be awake after only getting a few hours of sleep. I also have a killer migraine.
Grumbling, I toss the pillow to the side and sit up, my head pounding at my temples in time with my heartbeat. Coffee and three ibuprofens will be my first priorities. Ticking through my mental checklist for the day, I reluctantly get out of bed and stretch my arms over my head.
Natalie hasn’t touched a thing in my old bedroom. The same posters hang on the walls, the same pastel pink bedspread covers the bed, the same paperbacks are lined up in a neat row on the shelf above the dresser. It’s like waking up five years in the past, a weird sort ofGroundhog’s Daywhere time loops and you relive the same day over and over again.
I grab a hair band from the nightstand and throw my hair up into a messy bun, already overwhelmed with all the things I need to do today. Find a temporary job, go to the grocery store, drop by Home Depot to get supplies so I can begin to repair the leaky kitchen faucet and re-caulk the drafty windows, weed the overgrown flower beds, watch a YouTube video on how to repair chipped and damaged drywall. Natalie’s house needs a lot of work before she can sell it. Some repairs I can do myself or figure out how to do them. Others, like the leak in the roof that has caused water stains to appear on the ceiling of the kitchen, will need professionals. And professionals cost money I don’t have, hence my desire to find a job as quickly as possible.
It pisses me off to know that Natalie still sends money to Amelia every month—something my aunt recently admitted doing when I asked her about calling a plumber to fix the broken disposal. If I’d known Amelia wasn’t lifting a finger to help our aunt, I could’ve gotten a second job or something, so I could send her more money every month. Then again, that thought may be a moot one if Natalie was just going to hand it over to Amelia anyway.
Natalie has been taking care of me and Amelia since our mom died. Unfortunately, Natalie’s selfless love enables my sister’s narcissistic selfishness, and Amelia is more than happy to take advantage of our aunt’s kindness. I could stop giving my aunt money, but that would only cause problems for her, not Amelia. I know my aunt. She’s like that tree in the children’s story,The Giving Tree. I abhor that damn story. It’s depressing. Taking advantage of someone and sucking the life out of them because you’re a selfish prick is a horrible message to send to children.
Sitting on the side of the bed, I pick up the pen and the blue journal I’d placed on the nightstand and open it to the page I’d been writing on last night. Journaling is something I started doing a while ago to help put words to the tumult of emotions I was feeling. My blue journals carry my pain and my heartbreak. My fears and my sadness. I have a large plastic bin packed with the multitude of journals I’ve filled over the years.
Opening Spotify on my phone, I pull up “Pillowtalk.” While listening to Zayn croon about fucking and fighting being both a paradise and a war zone, I work out the kinks in my neck and do anardha uttanasana, or half forward bend, yoga pose to stretch out my legs and back.
Not too long ago, I couldn’t touch my toes, but after years of yoga and stretching, I’ve gotten pretty darn flexible. Yoga also helps with my anxiety, which I have a ton of.
When I’m done, I pick up my journal and pen and walk over to the window to look across the horizon where the sun is beginning its rise. I thank the sun every morning I get to see it. So beautiful and bright. I try to be grateful for each and every sunrise I get to experience. The gorgeous pastel colors that paint the morning sky like a watercolor.
Standing before a new day, I click the pen and press the tip to the paper. I watch as the black ink carves letters into the white parchment, the words to my thoughts flowing easily from my hand. After filling half a page, I chew on the end of the pen and think about my affirmation for the day. It’s a promise I make to myself to never take another day, another moment, for granted.
Today’s affirmation:I forgive myself for my past mistakes.
Putting the pen and journal back down on the nightstand, I stop the music and make my way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing. Once it’s finished, I pour two mugs, add some sweetener, and head out to the back patio where I know Natalie will already be. She hasn’t missed a sunrise for as long as I can remember.
“Good morning,” I say, bending over to kiss her wrinkled, weathered cheek.
“Morning, sweet pea,” Natalie replies, lazily rocking back and forth in her porch rocker.
The white paint is chipping and flaking off the wood from years of being exposed to the elements and the changing seasons. I’ll add learning how to refinish wood furniture to my long list of to-dos.
I put the coffees down on the small round table and sit in the other rocker.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, handing her one of the mugs.
Natalie looks so much like Mom. When Amelia and I first came to live with her, it was difficult for me to look at her. To have daily reminders of what I had lost.
“Eh,” she hedges, which I translate into she slept for shit last night. “I’ll make sure to take a nap later.”
“I may join you.” But I know the luxury of taking an afternoon nap is not in my immediate future.
I don’t say anything when she reaches into the pocket of her robe and takes out a medicine bottle, twisting the cap off, and downing two pills with her coffee.
“Do you need me to get anything from the store for your trip?” I ask.
“I think I’m good,” Natalie replies.
Natalie is leaving in a couple of weeks for a month-long tour of Europe with her church group. The trip will be like a bucket list thing for her. One last adventure to enjoy. It’s part of the reason why I came back. While she’s away, I’m going to get her house in order so it’s ready to put on the market as soon as she returns. Could Amelia have done it? Yes. Was she going to? That would be a big, fat no.
“I think I’m going to miss watching the sunrises from here the most.” Natalie says it so casually, yet it affects me like a grenade detonating inside my chest.
She looks at me again, a sadness of inevitability clouding her pale verdant eyes. In the bright morning light, it’s impossible not to notice how gaunt her face is. How sunken her sockets look or the purple smudges underneath. The stress of her finding out she has Alzheimer’s is taking its toll. She made the decision to sell the house and live in one of those assisted medical facilities that specializes in memory care. As much as I tried to talk her out of it and promised her that I would take care of her, she wouldn’t listen. Pig-headed stubbornness runs in the maternal side of the family. It’s where I get it.
