Page 7 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
My mother’s bedroom is the furthest down the hall, shadowed by darkness and a foreboding feeling that swathes the stale air like overcast clouds. There’s this inexplicable cold that leeches to the nerves leading up my spine, and my heart always seems to hammer heavier at her door’s threshold.
Cautiously, I creak the partition open, revealing the sight of her bed basking in a single square of moonlight, her hair strewn over her pillow and covering the sharp edges of her face. The musty smell of unwashed clothes assaults my nostrils, havingfestered in an air-sealed pocket for the majority of the day. It reminds me that I’ll have to help her bathe when I get back from dance—if she’s even awake.
“Mom, it’s time to take your meds,” I whisper softly, slowly inching across the unvarnished floorboards to the side of her bed.
She emerges from that cotton-fitted fortress, a thin spiderwebbing of blood vessels in her eyes and her hair a mussed state of uncombed tresses. Her bony hand feels blindly across her mattress, skeletal fingers turning upward to catch the little white pills promising reprieve.
I let them plunk into her palm, and then I set her glass of water on the nightstand. It usually takes her muscles a few minutes to cooperate, but I have to make sure she’s actually ingesting her medicine.
I love my mother, I do. But being in that freezing room with her, practically hearing the Grim Reaper’s scythe knocking on her bedside window, rips my body apart and scatters every piece of my soul beyond rescue. I know she’d get better treatment in a hospital, but we don’t have a quarter of the money it would cost for such an expensive bill. Plus, if she were to stay in a hospital, her time there would be indefinite.
“Thank you, Calista,” she replies with a painful-sounding rasp, taking a sip from her drink before setting it back on the nightstand. I bend down to kiss the crown of her head, trying to latch on to any remaining remnants of her signature rose scent before she got sick, but that version of her is long gone.
“I love you,” I tell her, though I’m not sure if it’s intended for her ears or my guilty conscience.
“I love you too. Have a good class tonight.” Her diluted smile is equal parts gracious and pained, and while I retreat toward the door, I watch as she hides herself away again, practically disappearing into her queen-sized bed.
Some days, my mother doesn’t even show herself. Some days, she won’t come out from under the covers or even look at me. As dismal as the situation is, I’m lucky she was feeling strong enough to take her medicine today. I don’t know how to make any of this better for her. I don’t know how to mitigate the years of pain that have built up—the years of pain that she’d be quick to carry herself if I was the one in her situation.
When I make my way back into the hallway, Teague is waiting for me by the door, geared up in tons of hockey padding and looking like the Michelin Man. A frown is plastered to his lips, an indecipherable expression souring his features.
Running late isn’t a rare occurrence in this household. This pretty much happens every morning before school and before hockey practice. With how busy my schedule is, I’m surprised I’m even able to take him instead of our neighbors, who step in when I’m too caught up in work.
“Come on, Squirt. We have to hurry.”
Keys jangling on my index finger, I swing my dance bag haphazardly onto my arm. But when I go to open the door, Teague doesn’t move toward the exit. He doesn’t bend down to pick up his hockey bag. He stares at me, the hard line of his brow and his matching pout both making his cherubic cheeks puff out.
A groan and a sigh merge in the tight cavity of my chest. “Teague, I don’t have time for this. We have to go. Now.”
“I don’t want to go,” he murmurs, bowing his head.
He doesn’t want to go? Are you kidding me right now?
I drop my bag to the floor, close the door, and grind my teeth hard enough to loosen a filling. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t want to go to practice today.”
“Since when?” I growl, digging the heel of my palm into my forehead like it’ll magically cure the headache solidifyingbehind my eyes. We’re ten minutes late. If I entertain this, it’ll put my entire schedule thirty minutes behind.
Hey, God. It’s me, Calista. I’m not sure what you’re doing up there—if you’re throwing your swanky Jesus sandals up on your cloud coffee table—but I really need you to listen. Please give me a break. I’m not asking for much. A small break. Something that’ll keep my blood pressure in check. I’ll literally do whatever you want. You want my unborn child? You got it. You want me to harvest the blood of virgins and sacrifice goats under the full moon? Sure thing, buddy.
“Cali, please,” Teague whines, moisture pushing against the dam in his eyes, seconds away from breaking through the crack and rushing out in snot and sobs galore.
I tame my temper, suck in a breath, and then kneel down to his height. “What’s going on, Squirt?”
Teague’s never acted like this before. He loves going to hockey practice.
“I just…can I please stay home? Or can I go with you to dance class?”
The sad, puppy dog look on his face is currently beating my heart in with a spike-studded bat. I hate it when Teague’s upset. And I hate it even more when I can’t fix whatever’s bothering him.
“You know I can’t leave you alone, bud. And I can’t bring you with me,” I admit regretfully, tucking a wily curl of hair behind his ear. “Please just tell me what’s going on.”
His entire face turns a muted red, and he shrinks under his layers of gear, refusing to look me in the eye. “Some of the kids…they…”
I nod at him to continue, the pad of my finger soaking up a rogue tear that’s made a great escape down his cheek. On the outside, I’m as cool as a cucumber. On the inside, tiny versions of me are running around in circles in my head and screaming as fire engulfs every inch of my brain.
“They what?”
