“Yes, I couldn’t wait another minute to toss you out and watchSunsets and Sabotagemyself.”
“Paige has you hooked too?” Mom walks slowly to the door, her feeble hands shaking as she reaches for the doorknob.
A fresh wave of guilt and regret washes over me. Even though Mom’s struggled with neuropathy for years, the sight of her weakened hands and legs drives through my conscience like a runaway truck.
I caused that.
The all-too-familiar thought blankets my mind, smothering me from the inside out.I caused my mom pain.Despite the heartache these thoughts bring, I don’t fight against them—they’re the truth. Iamto blame. I delayed my mother’s cancer treatments from an act so selfish it still haunts me, and now she suffers the consequences.
“Not hooked,” I say in answer to Mom’s question. “More likeSunsets and Sabotageis the background noise while I scroll my phone. Paige and Missy are the real fans of the show. But Paige likes to recap it so we can all discuss it for hours and hours.” I force a lightness I don’t feel into my voice. Mom doesn’t need to know how much turmoil I experience when I see her in pain. She doesn’t need one more thing to worry about.
I slide my arm under Mom’s, stabilizing her as we walk to the living room.
“So, we’re promenading now?” Mom retorts in her usual way, eyeing my arm beneath hers.
When her pain is bad, I tend to coddle her. I know this, but I can’t stand by and do nothing while her hands tremble. Taking care of my mom is all I have to offer her. If it weren't for me, she might not have had to have chemo treatments in the first place, and if she hadn’t taken chemo, she wouldn't be dealing with neuropathy. I would give anything to go back and undo the past, but I can’t. So I settle for the next best thing—making sure Mom is cared for.
“Or are we going to square dance? That’s my favorite form of exercise, you know.”
The snarky comment reminds me of exactly what I came to talk to her about today. “Have you ever tried water aerobics?” I ask as we reach her craft corner in the living room. I let go of Mom's arm and quickly pick up the stack of fabrics printed with teddy bears and binkies from her chair and place it on the cluttered sewing table.
Mom takes a seat before pinning me with an incredulous look. “The old folks’ sport?”
Well, at least she admitted it was a sport. That was something. Mom is an avid walker and even started a walking group several years ago, but she recently stopped attending. If today is any indication, her pain must be stopping her. But exercise in moderation is good for her neuropathy.
“You haven’t been walking with your walking group lately, and I thought maybe you might like to try something new.”
“I haven’t been walking because Susan Parker invited her daughter to the walking group, and that girl can talk without breathing.” Mom rolls her eyes. “The social part of the group has been usurped. Now it’s just a commentary on the many ways you can use an avocado and how her favorite ripped jeans got a new rip in them.”
I laugh—I went to school with Susan Parker’s daughter, and Mom’s not far off the mark. “Then it sounds like water aerobicswould be great for you. You’ll get a new social group. And swimming is gentle on the joints.”
“You sound like a pamphlet, and I don’t need a water-aerobics class. I have a pool in my backyard.” She points just outside the glass doors to the covered pool, the mesh material speckled with leaves.
“When was the last time you used it?”
She shrugs, giving me my answer.
“Exactly,” I say, holding my ground. “You need accountability. A water-aerobics class will do that while also keeping you active and social.” I sit down on the arm of the sofa with my arms crossed.
“Are you trying to age me before my time? I’m fifty, not eighty-five. I’m not swishing around with a bunch of Q-tip heads at some recreation center.”
“Mom. You make quilts for a living and use words like ‘pamphlet.’ I think you’ve crossed that bridge all by yourself. Who knows—maybe one of these Q-tip heads will be handsome and enjoy a good hourglass quilt block.” I waggle my eyebrows.
Mom huffs out a laugh. “I’ll find myself a graying water-aerobics-and-quilt-loving man the day you start dating Paige.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and blow out a deep breath. “Mom, don’t give up so easily.”
“Then don’t give up on Paige so easily.” She pulls out two square pieces of fabric and aligns the edges.
I sigh. This particular shift in conversation has had frequent-flier miles in this house ever since Paige came back to Colorado last December. “I’m not giving up on anything. We’re just not like that. Paige is like… like a sister.” I nearly gag on that last bit. I’ve never said those words out loud, but now I know that saying them feels akin to getting fluoride trays shoved in my mouth at the dentist.
Maybe Paige and I aren’t sibling material, but I also know she and I will only ever be friends. Best friends. But telling my mom this while she’s quilting baby blankets and looking at me with those give-me-grandbabies-now eyes is not going to satisfy her.
So I say the next best thing. “I’m dating other girls.”
Not seriously, but I did go on a date a few weeks ago. I make a mental note to take a cue from Paige and date more frequently. I don’t want to get Mom’s hopes up that Paige and I will ever become a Pordan or a Jaige. Maybe a girlfriend is just what I need to keep my mom’s grandchild hopes alive while suppressing her ideas that Paige and I could ever become something more.
Paige’s future is in California, and mine is here. Eventually we will have to part ways. A relationship was never even in the cards.
