“Maverick—”
“Are you going to sign off or not?” I interrupted. I understood he had a job to do, but sometimes, it felt like he was rooting against me. “I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. Are you telling me that because I suck at making friends, I haven’t earned my freedom?”
And if so, that was fucking bullshit.
“No, that’s not what’s happening here,” he replied. “But I will reiterate that you’ll do better if you have a support network around you. Some days are hard, and it’s nice to have someone in your corner.”
“Mmkay,” I murmured. “I’ll try harder to make friends.”
That was a blatant lie, and I was pretty sure he knew it, too.
“You’ve done good, kid,” he said. “Keep your head down, and stay out of trouble.”
“I will.” And I meant that. I had no intention of going back to old habits. I wanted nothing to do with anything—people or habits—from my past.
CHAPTER 48
harley
Poor condition was the understatement of the century. I stood in my mother’s living room, stuck between shock and disbelief. My mother—the most neatly organized woman I’d ever met—had turned into a hoarder. An actual hoarder. My mind struggled to process that concept.
There were boxes piled everywhere, and garbage in corners where it didn’t belong. Most of the first floor was a single walking path of crap. I was scared to check the upstairs or thebasement. When the hell had she gotten so much stuff? And from where? And why? I had so many questions.
I just stood there, trying to piece together everything I was looking at. There was some kind of disconnect with this behavior—something that confused me. I’d purposefully avoided coming back here, which meant I honestly didn’t know what was going on with my mother. Her visits to the city stopped three years ago after my grandfather died, and the business became mine. The phone calls were scarce, but that was more my doing than hers. I had no desire to maintain any kind of relationship, not when I had Vivienne breathing down my neck as well. It was too much.
But looking around me, I wondered if I could’ve fixed this situation—if I could’ve done something more to spare her all of this.
Unfortunately, none of those thoughts would unbury her house. It took a few hours to walk through the whole house, but eventually, I had a general sense of what was where. However, I could’ve been wrong. She had so much stuff that it was obscene. Tupperware containers, clothes, boxes, cleaning products, toilet paper, garbage, and more. And it wasn’t just the first floor. The rest of the house was just as messy. Only the basement appeared normal. There were boxes, but they were at least organized. Everything was knick-knacks, family heirlooms, and boxes of memories.
And all of that was before we got to the actual damage done to the house. Holes in the walls, carpets torn up, pipes wrapped in tape, and that was just what I could see. It all painted a sordid image of a woman I didn’t even know. It made my head spin and my chest ache.
There was no way I could get through everything in a week.Not even close. This would take weeks if I was lucky.
Eventually, I’d have to call Vivienne to have that conversation.Eventually was the keyword.I had no desire to broach this withher, not after the way we left things. Not when I was staring down the evidence of my mother’s decline.
Instead, I calledPeaceful Pinesin search of some answers about what I was looking at.
“Ms. Fletcher, I have a couple of questions about my mother’s health,” I said as a way of greeting when she answered.
“I can do my best to answer, Mr. Lowell,”she replied. “But I’m not her doctor, who would be better suited to discuss her health with you. Dr. Argyle has been trying to get in touch with you.”
I knew that. I’d been sending his calls straight to voicemail. Every time the center’s name popped up on my screen, anxiety clawed its way through my chest. Distance brought me a sliver of peace, and I struggled to preserve that.
“Has my mother shown signs of mental decline?” I asked. I knew it was a tall ask, considering she’d only been there a week.
“I think it’d be smarter for you to talk to her doctor,” Margaret began, “but yes, your mother is showing early signs of mental decline.”
Something twisted low in my gut.
“Is it dementia?” I wasn’t informed enough about the condition to know what I was truly asking.
“Most likely, yes. But we believe it’s early, so I wouldn’t get hung up on that diagnosis yet.”
I made a face as my mind cultivated the blame I held for this. Would she have been better off if I’d been a better son? If I’d been present more? If I’d tried to take care of her?
“And could that cause hoarding?” I asked. Maybe that was too much to ask.
“It’s not uncommon,” she replied. “The two aren’t mutually synonymous. There are many reasons a person could turn to hoarding.”
