I didn’t know what to expect, but I sure as hell didn’t expect to see her sitting upright in bed, with a half smile on her face while the nurse checks her blood pressure.
“Jennifer. What are you doing here?” Her voice is different. Slower. More cautious, but shelooksbetter. No longer hollow.
“Are you…?” I get two words out as I approach her slowly, taking a seat beside her bed. I reach for her hand to hold, but she rolls her eyes and I quickly take it back.
“One-twenty-over-eighty.” The nurse smiles at us both. She writes the results before turning off the machine and removing the blood pressure cuff from my mom’s bicep.
“Am I, what, Jenna? Dying?” My mom turns her attention to me after smiling goodbye at the nurse.
Dying.
After seeing her the way that I had in my apartment, watching her collapse in front of me, I thought she was drunk or hungover, because all my life, that’s all I’d seen from her.
But I should’ve known this was different.
“No. I’m not.” She shakes her head weakly.
“Mark and the doctor were talking, and they mentioned something about a stroke, but I panicked and zoned out, so I didn’t get to hear the part where the doctor told us if you weregoing to recover fine or if you were on your deathbed.” I sigh, slumping backward onto the uncomfortable seat.
“Would it have mattered?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Of course it would’ve, but if I tell her that, she’ll mistake my kindness for weakness.
She tries to sit upright, but quickly realizes she doesn't have the strength, and slowly steadies herself back in. “If you had listened to Dr. Mansfield when he came out to talk to you, you would’ve heard him tell you that it was a ministroke. But of course, in typical Jenna fashion, you worried more aboutyourselfthan you did me.” She reaches for her cup of water with her non-dominant hand, and even that trembles. She thinks I don't notice, but I do.
I ignore her spiteful comment, and rise from my seat. Rounding the edge of her bed to help her, she tries to swat my hand away. “What are you doing?” I ask, filling the cup. “I’m just trying to make it easier for you.”
“Why?” she asks, and I bring it to her lips, tilting it back slowly to make sure none of it spills from the corner of her mouth that I haven't seen move. “You’ve never offered to help me before, Jenna. Why start now? Having a sick mom has never fit in with your lifestyle.”
That’s not true, it’s never been true.
I couldlistevery date and every time I offered her help, and how she had shoved it back in my face.
What I couldn’t do, though, is tell you how much money I’ve given her over the years.
I don’t even want to try to figure it out.
“You’re my mom.” My reply is soft, and the crack in my voice is noticeable when I remind her just who she is to me.
Who she willalwaysbe, no matter what.
“Give me a break.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “You know as well as I do that the relationship you and I have isn’t that of amother and a daughter. You want me in your life as much as I want you in mine.”
Guilt.
But not because she’s sick, and not because she’s right about me not wanting her in my life.
This time, I feel guilty for wishing that I came home a little later. Maybe the outcome would’ve been different.
Guilty for wishingIwas one of the family members the doctors tried to console while telling me they did all they could.
But I put on a brave face.
She’s not in her right mind.
“I’ll stay. For as long as you need me to,” I tell her, and her head snaps to mine, her lip slightly tugging up at the corner.
“As you should.”
