Page 79 of Still Yours
Noa gives one last look-see at my plastic wrapping skills to cover our prepped plates and put them in the fridge, then says, “Okay! We’re done.”
I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “Can I go watch football now?”
Noa gives an amused shake of her head and takes my arm with Ma on the other side. Noa’s on her second glass, her cheeks flushed with the ruby glow of fermented grapes and her lips loose and easy in the corners.
It occurs to me I haven’t seen her this relaxed since returning to Falcon Haven. She’s always either tending to Ma or checking on her other patients, constantly in professional mode. The holidays must mean a lot to her for these needed days off, and I want to kick myself for not noticing it earlier.
Ma leans into my side, redirecting my thoughts, and I glance down at her with concern. The energy it took to stay with us all afternoon seeps out of her, and she sags against the sofa chair as I gently help her into it.
Noa notices at the same time I do. “I’ll get a Fentanyl patch for her.”
“No.” I hold out a hand to stop her, observing how fast Noa’s expression switched from tranquil to anxious. She’s snapping into nurse mode on Thanksgiving Eve, and I won’t have it. “Let me do it. I know where everything is.”
After a second of consideration where she holds my stare, Noa gives a single nod and steps aside to let me pass.
While pulling the drugs out of the cabinet, I see Noa out of the corner of my eye pull a throw blanket from the couch and lay it around Ma’s legs.
“Don’t you dare tell me to go upstairs to bed.” I hear Ma warn. “My butt is staying in this chair to watch sportsball.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Noa says. She pats Ma’s hand and sits on one side of the couch.
One side of my mouth tilts up after witnessing that gesture. It appears Noa’s learned from the best.
I head into the living room with a patch in hand. I’ve watched Noa do it enough times to ask Ma to lean forward so I can put iton her back. She does without protest, meaning she must really be hurting.
My eyes go hot. The surrounding skin tightens painfully. But I remain silent as I help my mother, and Noa watches me with gentle empathy.
All at once, it’s too much. Noa’s losses, my impending second heart amputation, Ma’s struggle. I bite the side of my cheek to stop the overflow and go to the other side of the couch, flicking on the TV to ESPN and listening mindlessly to talking heads discuss tomorrow’s roster.
It doesn’t take long for Ma to fall asleep, her soft snores reaching my ears seconds before Noa stands and gestures for us to help her to bed.
I wave her off, muttering something to the tune of, “I got it. Pour another glass, and I’ll be right back.” My heart wrenches at the sight of my mother, her tiny body disappearing into the sofa cushions.
The reality of my chest twisting every time I look at my mother from now on is like a sucker punch. I attempt to think back to all the times I regarded her with joy, all those moments I took advantage of my healthy, devoted mother as a snot-nosed toddler, bratty kid, then asshole teenager.
And now, an absent son.
It takes one slow, deep breath, and then another, before I’m able to go to my mother and cradle her to my chest. She murmurs nonsensically through her snores before going slack in my arms.
If Noa notices my difficulty, she has the decency—or kindness—to say nothing as I turn in the center of the living room with wet eyes and trembling limbs.
If anyone understands, it’s her.
I should talk to Noa. Any therapist would be on board with sharing my grief with someone who truly understands this kind of suffering.
But I can’t. I don’t know how.
I lay Ma down in her bed, covering her from chin to toe and shutting the door softly behind me.
When I reach the living room, Noa’s poured us two fresh glasses.
“Red this time,” I observe since I can’t think of anything else to say.
She responds gamely. “A good one, too. I had Maisy put a couple of bottles aside for us because it goes so well with Thanksgiving spices, but I thought we deserved a glass tonight.”
“Not going to argue with that.”
The couch sags with my weight. I grab the wineglass and down half of it.
