I’ll tell her soon. When I get back.
I’m nervous, too, about leaving her with Joanne. Joanne isn’t family. She can’t be trusted to care about my mom like I do.
“Hey, Mom?” I’m not sure what brings it into my mind. “You haven’t seen the flayed man recently, have you?”
The chair squeaks. She twists and untwists her ankles. I want her to reassure me that no one strange has been around, imaginary creature or otherwise.
“Don’t talk about him,” she spits. “It’s bad luck.”
Her hands, too, start to twist and untwist. I should leave it be. But delusions are rooted in reality. If someone’s been trying to get into the apartment, I can’t leave town. Joanne can’t keep her safe like I can.
“So you have seen him?” I ask, trying to make it sound gentle.
She rockets upright, no longer docile. “Of course I’ve seen him. He’s cutting pieces out of me. He’s making me like this. Don’t talk about him!”
“Mom, he’s not—” Don’t say it. So I fell for her mind games again, worrying about someone spying on her when she’s really only after someone to blame.
“He is!” she shrieks. Her face is red with fear and fury. “He knows things, Ellis. He knows about you!”
I think of the other night, of kissing Veer as the desert watched. “What does he know about me?”
“He knows that you’re doing this.” She gestures to the Post-its that I’ve already needed to replace around the room.Keep the TV volume below 10.Check if the dishes are dirty before you put them away. “You need me to be weak, you need me to need you. You won’t let me get better! You won’t let me do things on my own!”
“Nobody is doing anything to you.” She’s confused and inventing explanations for the things that scare her. But it still hurts, like a loose tooth torn out. “You’re sick, okay, Mom? It started about two and a half years ago, and it’s been getting worse, and it’s not me. I’m not doing anything to you, I’m doing itforyou. I love you. Remember? I’m doing this because someone has to. Who the fuck else is going to? Uncle Bill?” My voice hitches. Don’t cry. Not now. “And, you know what? It’s a lot, and sometimes I don’t know how to help you, so can you please just let me go up north and fix things. When I get back, we can sit down and read your medical records, we can make a plan if you want to go out more, whatever you want. Just, please, Mom. Please.”
I’m breathless, my mouth sour. I don’t even know what I’m begging for. I just want her to understand.
“Fuck you, Ellis,” she spits. Her eyes are bright and for a second, there’s a flash of the real her, the one whose mind is sharp and tongue is sharper. I almost feel relief.
Then the words register.
“Fuck you,” she repeats, and my mom never swears at me, never, or she never has but now she does. “I raised you to be respectful, and I was so patient even when you talked back, even when you were a real brat. And you were a real brat. You know that?”
My breath clogs my throat. I know, I know, I know. The fact that it still makes me angry, that it turns me against her just like she always claimed, is proof that it’s true.
“You’re a grown-up now, and you think it’s okay to tell your mom she’s helpless and then waltz out the door for days on end? You really think I’ll believe you’re off on some purehearted errand? You’re just like me. You’ll do whatever you want.”
She, too, is best at getting angry out of nowhere. Maybe that’s where I learned it.
“And by the way, I feel fine. Maybe there’s something wrong with you. Ever considered that? Maybe you’re the problem. Maybe you’re putting this all on me, like, like, like . . . you know what I mean. You spent all that time studying mental disorders. Don’t you think you might have a mental disorder? You’re obsessed with me, with controlling me. You never let me do anything, you resent me for, for, for . . .” She trails off, breathing hard.
“Mom,” I try. “Mom, I don’t. Please. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, you will be sorry.” Malice in her eyes. Then, abruptly, it fades, and her face goes slack and devastated.
“Ellis?” Her expression is pitiful. Confused. “Baby, are you mad at me?”
“No. No, of course not.”
She squints at me. “Yes, you are. I can tell. You’re always so mad at me. Why can’t you tell me what I’m doing wrong? Why do you have to punish me?” She sniffs. “I tried so hard, ever since you were a baby, and you always pushed me away. I know I wasn’t always a good mom, but I was doing my best. I just wanted the best for you.”
“I know.” Please, Mom. I know.
“You know.” Her tone turns flat, contemptuous. “You know, you know. You always know best.” She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, and it comes away smudged with pink lipstick. “Why do you hate me? Just tell me, and you can go. Leave, do whatever you want. Just tell me. Please, baby. I need to know.”
Even sick, she still knows how to manipulate me. She’s known my soft parts since she held me as a baby, and she’s kept them within reach ever since, so she can poke at them to remind me of what I owe her. It would be too simple to say that the last few years have loosened her tongue and sharpened her edges. Wasn’t she always like this?
The truth is, I don’t remember anymore.
