Page 95 of Bottles & Blades

I knew when her texts poured in this morning, even though I replied to the first one to tell her I would be over later.

I knew when I parked at the curb and asked Jean-Michel to give me a minute.

But the sheer volume of her anger…I wasn’t prepared.

“Who thefuckdo you think you are?” she snaps the moment I unlock the door and step inside.

I don’t immediately answer because my gaze is swinging around the house, my mouth falling open. It’s been all of three days since I’ve been here and…

It looks like a fucking bomb went off.

Jesus Christ.

I step into the kitchen and bite back a gasp. Because it worse here. There are cups and plateseverywhere. Dried food stuck to them, chunks of other food sprinkled liberally on the counter and floor. I inhale and get a hint of rotten milk and this time Idogasp.

Because the fridge door is open.

Wideopen.

“Oh, my God,” I whisper, rushing forward, stomach sinking when I realize it’s not just the fridge.

The freezer is open too, the food inside a combination of room temperature and melting.

I stick my hand in, find that the fridge isn’t at temperature either, and my eyes well up with tears.

Ijustdid their weekly shop.

And Dad’s medication, the one I paid an arm and leg for, needs to be refrigerated.

I grind my teeth together, blink back my tears, and send a text to the woman in charge of the rotating roster of nurses and caregivers, wondering how the fuck this happened.

And get a response a moment later.

HALEY: Your mother refused to let the morning nurse in. She was going to attempt again at the end of her route.

I close my eyes, strive for patience.

TIFF: Thanks, Haley. I’m here and will be here, so please apologize and tell her I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again.

She acknowledges that, and I pocket my phone, surveying the mess and trying to figure out where to start…and how to make sure Jean-Michel doesn’t see this disaster. First things first, I scoop up the source of the rotten milk—a carton that’s been opened and left to dribble out on the floor.

The house is warm, because my parents always run cold, and it’s curdled.

I gag slightly as I dump it in the sink, reach for the paper towels. “God, Mom, what were you thinking?”

“You didn’t come.”

I close my eyes, exhale quietly, strive for patience. “The nurses were here yesterday. They’re hereevery day.” I start scrubbing the floor.

“I don’t like them.”

If only this was the dementia talking and not my mom—unfortunately, it’s impossible to tell the two apart nowadays.

“Regardless,” I say carefully. “They could have made you something to eat if you just let them in. And I’m here as often as I can be?—”

“Except when you’re with that man.”

“Jesus, Mom,” I grit out, Jean-Mi’s words from this morning bolstering me. “I’m allowed to have a life.”

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