Page 69 of Hell Bent
“Why not?” It was almost a shout. “It’s myhouse.I’ve eaten there my whole life! Why can’t we eat at my table in my kitchen? What’s bad about that?”
“Do you think there’s food there?”
He stood still. Opened his mouth, closed it. Looked miserable.
I said, “Look. This whole thing sucks. It’s unfair, and it sucks. You shouldn’t have to do this, but it can be a hard world sometimes, and this is one of those times. It’ll be better if we’re not going into it hungry, because everything’s better if you’re not hungry. OK?”
“I guess,” he muttered. And when his burger came, he ate it all. Hunched over the table, not talking, not meeting my eyes. The second he was done, he jumped up and said, “OK. Let’s go.”
“Let’s do it,” I said.
More quiet in the Uber, and Ben staring out the window, his hands opening and closing on his backpack, faster and faster as we got closer to the house. The driver pulled into the curb, and Ben climbed out and headed for the door, not waiting for me. Used his key, went inside, dropped the backpack, slung his coat over a row of hooks that held exactly one other garment, and yelled, “Mom! We’re here!” The way he would have done for fourteen years.
No answering call, and Ben was hurrying down the hall, then through another doorway. His mom’s room.
I stopped in the doorway. The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not strong, but it was there. A sort of musty sweetness, but not a good sweetness. I hadn’t smelled it in fourteen years, and I recognized it perfectly. Ben had rocketed to a stop, because his mom’s bed was gone, and in its place was ahospital bed, the kind with rails. Beside it was a small woman, presumably a caregiver. And in the bed …
She was so small. Solange was tall like me. Strong like me. Her hair had been a glossy, curly brown, like Ben’s. Now, it lay lank on the pillow, and her face …
I’d seen her on those calls, but it was different in person. Her face was waxy, like she had completely different skin, and her eyes didn’t quite focus. And she took up so little space under the covers. So very little, like she was already only half here.
The smell. Her face. Her eyes. I was having trouble breathing, because I was seeing my dad. Experiencing the panic I’d felt in those last days like it was happening now. Smelling the scent of pity. The scent of fear. The scent of death.
Because itwashappening now.
The aide said, “I’ll leave you for a while,” and I stepped out of her way, barely able to feel my feet, unable to swallow, my skin hot and prickling.
Ben had stopped, too. He said, “Mom?” His voice broke on the word, and I saw that kid again, the one with the big teeth and the hesitant smile. The vulnerable one.
Solange put her hand out to him—an impossibly thin hand, the skin papery, the veins showing blue—and said, her voice a rasp, “Benji. Come sit by me.”
He sank into a straight chair beside the bed, and she took his hand and pressed it. Ben’s face hurt to look at. I thought that for a moment, and then thought,Why are you looking at it? Give them their time,and walked out.
Step. Step. Step. So aware of my feet. Aware of my arms by my sides, all of me feeling heavy and wrong.
The caregiver was in the kitchen. Not cleaning up, because there was nothing to clean. Sitting at the table, looking at her phone. I checked the fridge to make sure, butI’d been right, of course. Vanilla pudding cups. Applesauce cups. A container of thick soup. I shut the door, and the caregiver said, “She doesn’t have much appetite. This is one of her bad days. Pity, with her son here.”
I sat down beside her. “I’m Sebastian. Solange’s brother.”
“I know. Solange has talked about your coming. I’m Rosario.” Filipino, I thought, a compact older lady with kind eyes.
I asked, “How long have you been working here?”
“Two weeks. Fewer shifts at first, but she needs more help now.” I nodded and didn’t ask the burning question, the one you always have.How long?The answer was obvious. Not long. I asked instead, “Does she have somebody here all day?”
“Yes. Nights too, in case she tries to get out of bed and falls. We’ve just started that. She’s on the morphine now, and not always so aware.”
I couldn’t think of anything else to say and didn’t want to sit here, so I wandered around some. Everything was neat. It looked, in fact, bare, like a house staged to sell. No shelves of books anymore. No plants. I opened a drawer in the desk in the corner, and it was empty. Solange had done this. Had known she was dying fast and, with all the practicality and courage of her nature, had kept Ben from having to clean out the house. From having to make all those decisions.
Wandering around the rest of the place, unable to sit. Ben’s room, still messy and normal. Guest room, with the same spartan setup as the living room. Bathroom, with a lonely toothbrush and toothpaste on the counter. In the laundry room, stacks of the blue-plastic-backed pads I remembered, to protect the bed. A box of disposable gloves. And a big box of adult diapers. Unopened, but the need anticipated.
I put my hand on the pads, felt the squishiness of them, the crackle of the backing, and it was all there again. My dadturning his death’s head to me on the pillow, his voice a rasp, saying, “You should be in school.”
“I need to be with you,” I said.
His eyes closing, then opening again. “Promise me you’ll finish.”
“I’ll finish,” I said. “I’ll stay with you.” Holding his hand, wanting to cry, wanting not to cry. All of me frozen.
