Page 59 of Mistaken Identity
I started the bike on that thought, then turned to say, “Hang on.”
I backed out of the driveway and waved at the neighbor, that I was fairly sure was already writing in her neighborhood app that one of the gay couple was now riding off with a woman.
It’d probably be whispered about until tonight, when I met up with Gunner on the front porch with a beer.
I gave the nosy neighbor a wave, then headed to the long-term care facility that my mother spent her time at.
When we parked, I couldn’t force myself to get off the bike.
“What’s wrong?” Creole asked.
I squeezed my eyes shut and said, “I told Dad to get a divorce from her fifteen hundred times now.”
“Maybe you should tell your mother to,” she suggested.
That was a novel idea.
“What kind of faculties does she have?” Creole wondered.
I got off the bike, then held my hand out to her to help her do the same.
When her tiny hand closed in mine, a feeling of rightness overtook me for a few long seconds before she slipped her hand free.
I took off my helmet and placed it on the handlebars before reaching out for Creole’s.
Only when she had her helmet off and I was smoothing a few crazy hairs away from her eyes did I say, “She’s fully cognizant of everything that she’s done. She knows where she’s at, what is going on. She just can’t function as well as she used to. She can’t move around easily because of her stability issues. When she shot herself, they had to remove half of her brain, and apparently that was the half that helped her with her motor skills. She can see out of one eye, but she has to have a feeding tube because she blew off her jaw, and they weren’t able to reconstruct it.”
Creole winced. “So pretty much, she’s aware. She can live. But she can’t live a good life.”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Is she better, do you think? Mentally?”
I thought about her question for a long moment before I said, “No, she is still incredibly depressed. She tries to kill herself at least once a year.”
Her mouth fell open.
“Then tell her to ask for a divorce from your father,” she suggested. “And stop coming up here. Continually exposing yourself to this toxicity isn’t doing you any favors. At some point, you have to choose you.”
I wondered if she’d ever chosen herself, or for the last few years, she’d been constantly choosing everyone else.
I looked up at the building and said, “I don’t have the money to pay for her shit anymore.”
“Because the Combs are freezing it up in court?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But, even when they’re not, I’m giving it all to Gunner for Lottie. It makes sense that Laney’s money goes to her daughter.”
“So what does that mean?” she asked. “What happens with your mom then?”
I blew out a breath. “I don’t know. But that’s why I want Dad to get a divorce from her. If he doesn’t, then he’ll now be responsible for her payments again.”
Her head nodded. “Well, let’s go tell a woman to divorce her husband.”
That’s when she took my hand, and I knew for the first time that the visit wasn’t going to absolutely wreck me.
Fourteen
I’m down for church, brunch, aggravated assault, movies, working out. Whatever. I’m a multi-purpose friend.
