The call disconnected, and I gave myself a moment to process what I’d just agreed to. As a hospice nurse, the work I did was not only physically taxing; it also took an emotional and mental toll. I’d been looking forward to this break as a time to decompress and also catch up on some self-care.
While I was still wallowing, a message came through from the dentist asking if we could move the appointment up an hour. I checked the time; we’d have to leave in fifteen minutes. It was doable, so I responded with a yes.
With that schedule change, my wallowing was cut short. I stood up and walked into the living room, where my daughter was sitting eating ice cream and listening to her podcast. Her auburn hair fell in soft waves, framing her diamond-shaped face. She would be fifteen in a couple of months, but when I saw her, I still saw my baby.
“Hey, I got called back to work. It’s nights and I start today.”
“Okay,” Callie answered, totally unfazed by my change in schedule.
Apparently, she hadn’t been looking forward to my time off as much as I was.
“And your dentist just texted. Your appointment was moved up. We have to leave in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” she responded again.
I wasn’t completely convinced she’d actually listened to the information, but I figured I’d go tell my mother the news and then check back in with Callie.
“Oh wait!” she called when I turned. “Did you e-sign the permission slip for cheer camp? I forwarded the email.”
Callie had been in competitive cheer since she was ten and had attended the same camp for the past four years. This year, she was eligible to be a counselor working with children ages five through eight. She was excited for the opportunity, and I was excited because it would look good on her college applications.
“No, but I will.” I’d seen the email yesterday when I was at work. My plan was to empty my overflowing inbox this next week, but I made a mental note to do that before I left for work tonight.
“Oh, and remember, the payment is due for the new uniform by the end of the week,” she added.
“Yeah, okay.” The reminder only served as a sign that taking this job was the right thing to do. Teenagers were expensive.
On my way down the hall to my mom’s room, I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror and was not thrilled at what I saw. My ash-brown hair was piled on top of my head. The highlights Ri had convinced me to get six months ago had grown out into what she and Callie were now calling balayage. To me, it just looked like my roots were out of control. Two half-moon circles sat beneath my hazel eyes. And my naturally tan complexion had faded to a pale hue. My shirt was wet from the burst pipe under the sink, clinging to my sports bra that was holding on by a thread. I looked like a hot mess. I’d planned on laying out on the roof during my staycation, getting a home dye to even out my hair, and splurging on a new bra, but it seemed that would have to wait.
I continued down the hall and knocked on my mother’s door. When there was no answer, I knocked again and said her name. “Lola?”
My mother had always insisted I call her by her name. Or at least she had from the time I was two. She was sixteen when I was born. There was video evidence of her trying to get me to say mama when I looked to be about six months old, so apparently there’d been a time that I had called her that. But my father died when she was eighteen. From then on, she’d insisted I call her by her name, Lola. Well, her name was Delores, but she went by Lola. She loved introducing herself and immediately reciting the lyrics: Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets. It had always embarrassed me.
Growing up, kids at school thought it was cool that I got to call my mom by her first name. And they all thought she was cool because she was so young and beautiful. I never thought it was cool. It was the opposite, in fact.
I envied kids who had real parents. I was even jealous of Jessica Reynolds, who was raised by her grandparents. She could call them Grandma and Grandpa. I never had that. My mother was kicked out at sixteen when she got pregnant and never spoke to her parents. And my father’s parents blamed my mother for their son giving up a scholarship to Berkley to join the military so he could support my mom and me, only to end up getting killed overseas.
When I pushed the door open, I found my mother lying on her bed wearing noise-cancelling headphones.
“Lola!” I called out her name again, but she didn’t budge.
I carefully maneuvered around several piles of laundry landmines and narrowly avoided stepping on her laptop and curling iron, which were both on the floor as well. When I reached the side of her bed, I gently touched her shoulder.
At my touch, her eyes flew open, and she shrieked. “You scared me!”
“Sorry, I knocked and said your name, but you didn’t hear me.”
Her eyes dropped to my T-shirt. “Was there a wet T-shirt contest I missed?”
“I was fixing the pipe under the sink. Listen, there’s been a change of plans. I’m going to be on a continuous care job working nights, and it starts tonight. It’s eight to eight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, so I need you here with Callie.” Unlike myself, Lola had a very active social life. She went out most nights with whoever her newest ‘friend’ was. “Andnovisitors.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious,” I warned.
