Page 40 of Maid of Dishonor

Sam

Saturdays area busy day for nursing homes—Saturdays and Sundays. I prefer coming on Saturdays, though, because I use Sundays to rest and recharge.

Whatever else my visits are, they aren’t restful. I love seeing my mom, but it’s also painful.

Stacy at the front desk greets me with a nod and distracted greeting, waving me on past the lobby. She looks a little harried, so I don’t stop to chat. She’s nice, though. Everyone here is nice. It’s not a particularly fancy place, but it’s warm and welcoming enough. I prefer that over bells and whistles, as long as the quality of care isn’t decreased because of it.

As always, it takes me a second to adjust to the barely concealed smell that all nursing homes seem to have—sanitizer, mass-produced food, and something that distinctly belongs to the elderly. I’m not sure what that last scent is specifically, and I probably don’t want to know. Sometimes when I’m here I wonder if the human body, despite constantly regenerating itself, just starts to smell after years and years of existing.

My mom is relatively unique here because of her age; I’ve seen a few other residents that are younger, but most of the people here are older. After the accident, we just couldn’t afford in-home care for her.

I push this thought away, even though I know that by the time I leave I’ll be swamped with the same guilt I always feel.

I pass the dining room and the rec room before turning right down a long, brightly lit hallway. The sage-green carpet quiets my footsteps, and the walls are lined with generic paintings of landscapes. Every now and then I’ll pass an open door, but I do my best not to look inside. I wouldn’t look through a stranger’s window; I figure it’s basically the same thing here.

When I get to my mom’s room, I pause outside the door. I do the same thing every week, just to let myself breathe and be calm. I probably should have my act together by now, but most of the time I just don’t.

Because I’m the reason my mother is here. I’m the reason her legs are completely paralyzed, the reason she has only limited use of her arms. The accident was my fault.

Carter doesn’t agree.Did you crash the car?he says.Were you driving the other car?And I wasn’t. But the truth remains: if it weren’t for me, we wouldn’t have been in the car at all. If I hadn’t insisted on getting frozen yogurt, we would have been at home.

I don’t really like letting people drive me places now. I prefer to be behind the wheel. I want as much control as possible while on the road.

I take a deep breath, release it, and swipe at my eyes to prevent the sting of unwanted tears. Then I knock lightly on the door before entering; she’ll be expecting me.

“Hi, Mama,” I say, my voice soft as I spot her.

“Hi, sweetie,” she says. She’s in her wheelchair parked next to the window. She spends a lot of time here, looking at the gardens below. I can’t blame her; they’re beautiful. The hydrangeas are fluffy and white, and another flowering shrub I don’t know the name of offers splashes of yellow. There’s a red brick path winding through, and I glance down at my mom.

“Do you want to go out?” I say.

“Not right now,” she replies.

Her voice is soft, but her words are articulate. She has no use of her legs, and while she retains some motion in her arms, she’s lost the use of her hands. She can still breathe and eat on her own, which I’m endlessly grateful for.

I sit in the chair across from her, taking her in. Her shoulder-length hair is the same color as mine, except hers has traces of ashy gray now. I always think she’s too thin, but the doctors and nurses don’t seem worried about it, so I try not to either.

It doesn’t work, but I try.

Her eyes are peaceful, but I’m still skeptical. Though I know I’ll never ask her, I wonder if she resents me the same way I resent myself for what happened.

“What did you do this week?” I ask her, swallowing past the knot in my throat and pulling my hair up into a ponytail to give me something to do with my hands.

She turns her head toward me. “Went on a stroll out there,” she says, nodding at the window. “It was cooler this morning.”

“And you did your PT? How has it been this week?”

She gives a slight shrug of her shoulders—one of the few arm movements she’s capable of—and says, “I’m not noticing any improvement, but they keep me coming back anyway.”

I scoot forward and lay one hand over her own where it rests in her lap. “The important thing is that you keep trying,” I say—gently, very gently, because we’ve had this conversation before, and it’s usually not well received.

“What’s the purpose in trying if it never gets me anywhere?” she says, sounding tired, her eyes out the window again.

Something tugs at the back of my mind at her words, but I can’t quite place it. Before I have time to dig it out, she’s speaking again.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” I say quickly, not pointing out that her tone of voice hardly qualified as snapping. “I know. Just…don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”

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