Until I turn around, finding Mom curled into a ball on the couch, crying her heart out.
15
I feel frozen,watching Mom break down on the sofa. Did something happen after I left the hospice center? Was she just coming to terms with reality?
I kneel beside her and rest my hand on her trembling shoulder. "Mom," I utter.
She pulls in a deep, shuddering breath and pushes herself up, running a tissue beneath her eyes. "I’m sorry," she says.
"You have nothing to be sorry about," I say, trying to soothe her. "Did something happen?"
Mom shakes her head as another tear skates down her cheek. "I’ve been in shock for the last couple of weeks, and it’s breaking me now."
"It’s okay to cry," I tell her, rubbing my hand over her tense shoulder.
"It’s not supposed to be like this," she says through her wheezy breath.
"No, it’s not, and it’s not fair."
Mom lifts herself from the couch, steadying herself by the armrest. "I need to go to bed," she says.
"I’m going to stay with you, okay?"
She presses her lips together with an attempt to form a small smile. "Okay," she says. I follow her upstairs and give her a few minutes to get ready for bed, while I do the same. The question of what hurts more: losing the love of your life or losing a parent plays through my head, but she’s been with Dad since they were twenty, and it has been a lot of life.
I turned on the TV in their room and put on some reality show, which will hopefully bore her to sleep or distract her until she falls asleep. The silence has never been her friend when going to bed at night. It’s when the thoughts are the loudest.
I curl my arm around Mom’s back and rest my head on her shoulder until I hear her breaths elongate. Knowing she’s asleep will help me sleep, but knowing she’ll wake up with a clear mind for less than sixty seconds before reality hits her again, makes my heart hurt for both of us.
I can count the minutes I slept last night, but I’m sure it didn’t add up to a full hour. I must have watched six solid hours of trash TV, possibly without blinking.
Mom stirs just after six, and I wait for her to wake up before moving or talking. "The worst part is waking up," she says.
"You forget for a short minute."
"I know," I tell her.
"The unknown is almost too much to bear," she says.
I notice she skips the process of ironing her outfit, curling her hair, or putting on makeup. I’m not much better, though my morning regimen isn’t asconsuming as hers.
We take one car today. I drive Mom’s Lexus as she stares out the window, her eyes lost in the blur of trees we pass. Holiday jazz is playing faintly on the radio, but it’s hard to hear beneath the heat pouring from the vents. I wish I had the right words to offer her some semblance of peace, but nothing can offer a positive light on what we’re about to face today.
"You went for a long walk with Benji last night," she says through a winded sigh.
"Brett was waiting on the front step when I got home. We took a walk together.”
Mom deliberately turns her head and leans back into the seat, glancing at me with a half-smile I notice from the corner of my eye. "Tell me something good, Melody."
"He brought an old bottle of Quinn Pine and told me to try it because Dad poured his love into the ingredients ten years ago, and it was something he wanted me to understand about Dad’s passion. It was very thoughtful.”
"The timing is terrible," Mom says. "But, take the friendship and support for now. Let those ingredients sit for a while, sweetie."
"I was thinking the same.”
Mom places her hand on my knee. "I love you, honey. We will get through this, somehow, some way."
"I know.”
