Page 63 of He Hate Me

“I’m sorry,” Brandon says, standing up. “She’s been like this more and more lately. It’s like she’s not here.” Like her body is an empty shell, I think, and the thought makes me shiver.

“She might come out of it before we leave,” he continues.

“Don’t worry about that.” I walk over and hug him from behind, letting my actions speak for me. I’m not sure I could say anything to make him feel better anyway.

Brandon’s body relaxes into my embrace, and we stay like that for a while, watching his mother in silence. I can tell he’s grateful for the gesture, even if he doesn’t say it. I take a deep breath and glance around the room, trying to distract myself from the sadness that hangs in the air. From the window, I can see the back garden. The leaves on the trees outside explode with autumn colors—red, yellow, and orange in different shades. There’s a goldfinch standing on the edge of a bird feeder that sways with their slight movements, but the bird is unbothered by its unstable perch.

Brandon’s mother suddenly stirs, her eyes flickering to life as if she’s coming out of a deep sleep. She blinks a few times, and then focuses her gaze on her son.

“Brandon,” she says, her voice raspy from disuse. “Why aren’t you at school?”

“I just got home, Mom,” Brandon says, pulling me to his side. “Are you feeling better?”

“Have I been sick?”

She looks at me for the first time, her eyes taking me in with curiosity and suspicion. “Who is that girl?”

“This is Deja,” Brandon says. He doesn’t explain who I am. But some spark of memory fires in his mother’s brain.

“You look just like Jules,” she says, cocking her head. “How is he?”

“I don’t know who Jules is,” I say, apologetically. Am I going to upset her by contradicting her? Brandon didn’t correct her about the day of the week or where we are.

“Jules and Devin, like two peas in a pod,” she says in a sing-song voice, “and then came Nia.” She laughs, the sound jarring and too loud.

I feel Brandon stiffen. Have I done something wrong? My face heats.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to her. She takes it, her hand shaking and her grip weak. It’s not just her mind, then, that’s affected, but her body, too. I don’t know why I expected her to have old woman hands. Maybe it’s hard for me to wrap my head around someone so young fading away like she is. Her nails are neatly trimmed and recently painted coral pink. I feel a spark of gratitude that someone here cares for her enough to do that and to fix her hair so beautifully.

“You’re very pretty,” she says, gesturing for me to sit next to her. “Tell me about yourself.”

I tell her about school and cheerleading, being Brandon’s math tutor, and my plans for college, though I can see as I go on that I’m losing her.

“Do you ever have dreams, dear?” she asks. I blink in confusion. “Do you ever have dreams that you’re back in the basement of the house on Goshen. You’re a passenger in your own body, and someone else is driving?”

I stare at her dumbfounded. What is she talking about? And what does she mean the house on Goshen. I lived on Goshen Ave until my dad died, stabbed in the service alley next to our house by a mugger. It had been such a shock to everyone that something like that could happen in Twin Oaks. How could she possibly know that I’d lived on Goshen unless she’d known my parents back then?

“It’s time for your medication Ms. Lindsey,” a broad woman with short brown hair and friendly eyes says, bustling into the room. She’s holding a tray and smiles when she sees us. “Hello, Brandon. Is this your girlfriend?”

“Yes,” he says, “this is Deja. Deja this is Glory. She’s the nursing assistant that takes care of my mom. She’s awesome.” He says this last sentence abashedly, as if he’s embarrassed to give the compliment but feels compelled to do so.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, still a bit shaken by Lindsey’s comment. “Did you do Ms. Bruce’s hair?”

“Yes,” Glory says. “You don’t like hair in your face, do you Ms. Lindsey.”

Brandon’s mom doesn’t answer. She looks confused, searching our faces for something familiar, I think. Just as suddenly as she joined us, she is gone. She seems to recognize Glory, or at least find her familiar, as she takes her pills with minimal resistance.

Brandon squeezes his eyes shut and watches Glory tend to his mother, wheeling her to the bathroom to get ready for dinner.

“I’ll see you next week,” Brandon says.

His mother doesn’t turn around. Glory smiles and waves goodbye.

I take his hand and lead him back down the hallway and out the front door.

“Oh, my God, Brandon. Have you been dealing with this the whole time? How long has she been like that?” I say once we’re outside.

“A few months now. You never know what it’ll be like,” he says. “Sometimes we sit and talk for the whole hour; other times, she doesn’t react to me being there, or even worse, she’s scared of me and screams for help.”