“What was that?” she asks sharply.
She didn’t hear me, but she heard the tone, and that’s all she needs to be convinced of the disrespect. “I said I’m sorry to hear that. Is it something going on that I should—”
“I could live with you.”
On days like this, I’m not sure if she remembers her fall. She was unconscious when I found her, and I’m not strong enough to lift her. It was one of the scariest, worst days of my life.
“We tried that, and it didn’t work. Moving in here was your idea. Remember, Abuela?”
“No,” she says, and the fact that she sounds more resigned than angry about the lapse in memory worries me more than anything else. Fiery, independent Abuela, I can handle. Confused, subdued Abuela scares me. It makes me feel like I’m losing her. “There’s so much I don’t remember. Like you.”
My heart stutters, and I swear it’s like the air’s been punched out of me. She doesn’t remember me?
“You say you’re Madison, but Madison is a little girl…Mi hijita… she’s… so young…”
“27 is young,” I agree, attempting for levity.
She barely registers the comment, muttering to herself rapidly in a wet, musical tone like she’s on the verge of tears.“Ay mi pobre hijita, creciendo sin madre… Tengo que amarla lo suficiente como para dos personas. No puedo perderla también.”
I feel tears stinging my own eyes, and I choke them back. I always have a comeback. It’s kind of my thing. The adults in my life have been telling me I had a smart mouth since I was five. But now? I’ve got nothing.
It’s so seldom that I have nothing to say, I default to the childhood comfort—un pastelfor a skinned knee, hot cocoa for heartache, sweets to make the bad times feel less bad. “Do you want a muffin, Abuela?”
Her dark eyes dart towards me, meeting mine. “Cranberry orange?”
“Your favorite.”
She smiles, holding out her hand like a kid waiting for a treat. “Claro.”
We eat our muffins together in silence. When we’re done, we hold hands, and she absently strokes my knuckles, lost in her own world.
I try to plan my visits so that it’s time for me to go right about when it’s time for Abuela’s afternoon nap. Manny appears in the doorway with some pills in little white cups on a tray and a bottle of water, which he sets down on the table as I collect my things. Abuela doesn’t even look at me as I give her a kiss on the cheek and say goodbye.
My heart feels made of sand as I approach my car. It’s not breaking, per se—nothing about me is fragile or delicate like glass—but my emotions feel heavy and impossible to control as they sink and shift and settle into something low and dark. There’s a horrible looming inevitability that I just haven’t been able to make myself confront.
If I had friends, I would call one of them up at a time like this. All I want is the temporary comfort of another person who cares enough to lie to me and tell me it’ll be okay.
But here I am, stuck in a hole of loneliness that I dug for myself—because I have one person in the world and… I’m losing her.
I choke back the tears and reach into my purse to grab my keys, but my fingers close around my phone instead. I have the IRC pulled up almost before I realize what I’m doing, like my brain on autopilot knows exactly what I need.
In fact, thereisone person other than Abuela who I can count on.
mermaidav: it’s been a hell of a day. Got anything that’ll make me feel better?
SpyderMan: Have you heard of William Windsor?
mermaidav: nope
SpyderMan: He was a lance corporal in the British Army from 2001 to 2009. He was demoted in 2006 for 3 months for inappropriate behavior during the queen’s birthday.
I frown, confused. I meant a job—not a history lesson. I’ll bear with him because it feels like he’s ramping up to something, but I’m not really sure how British military stories are supposed to make me feel better.
A second later, SpyderMan drops a picture into the chat and I burst out laughing.
mermaidav: Is that a goat??
SpyderMan: It is. William Windsor, the cashmere goat.
