Page 35 of Fatal Collision
She collects a stack of files and walks around the counter. I follow her down the hallway toward my mother’s room. Daylight is bleeding through the shut blinds in her darkened bedroom. The flowers I got her the other day sit on the windowsill.
Nurse Madsen turns the blinds to let more light into the room. “She’s comfortable enough for now.”
That’s all we can ask for at this stage. The cancer is terminal, and no one knows how long she has left. It could be weeks… or months. There’s no way to tell.
She gives me one last smile when I sit down, then leaves the room. Mom barely stirs as I reach for her hand, smoothing my fingers over her bony knuckles. She used to be so radiant and full of life. Even when things were hard, Mom stayed strong for us.
“Hey, Mom.” I kiss her knuckles, wishing she would open her eyes and smile at me like she used to. It has been a long time since she really looked at me. It has been an even longer time since we spoke. I miss thedays when I felt like I could tell her everything. Mom is more than just a mom. She’s mybest friend.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here yesterday.”
The constant sound of the heartbeat monitor will stay with me forever.
At first, when Mom was admitted, I hated that sound, but now it reassures me, because I know there will be a day when the steady beep ceases… A day when silence falls like a blanket of snow in winter.
“Something came up, and I?—”
Tears blur my vision and prick my nose. I squeeze her fragile hand, wishing I could rub warmth back into her skin. She has lost weight in the last few weeks. Her skin is gaunt and has a yellow tint.
“I wanted to be here.”
My quiet voice rouses her, and I sit up straighter when she slowly turns her head on the pillow. It takes her a moment to focus, her shaky hand reaching for me. She’s squinting, as if the sun hurts her eyes, so I shift forward to block it out as a tired smile spreads across her lips.
“Hi, baby,” she croaks.
“Hi, Mom.” Tears burn my eyes again as I press her hand to my cheek and tenderly kiss the inside of her fragile wrist. “How are you feeling?”
She shakes her head weakly, attempting to smile again, but she’s too exhausted. “Tell me about you and your siblings. I want to know about my family.”
For the next few minutes, I update her on what’s been going on at home, leaving out the negative details. I don’t want her to worry about us. She listens until she no longer does. I can tell that she tries to stay present, but her body is too weak, and she’s soon asleep again. I keep talking because I like to think that some part of her deep down can still hear me. Some part of her listens.
Wiping my cheeks dry, I rummage through my bag until I find the tattered paperback ofEmmaI brought with me and open it to chapter nine. The spine is damaged, and I’ve earmarked pages in almost every chapter. It’s a well-loved copy, in other words, and one I’ll cherish once Mom is gone.
Mom sleeps peacefully as I lean back in my chair and begin reading aloud.
An hour later, I give Mom a kiss on the forehead and head out. I need to get some sleep.
Chris sits on the floor outside with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands tangled in his matted hair. He runs his fingers through the messy waves, tugging at the disheveled strands, and when he sees me, he quickly jumps to his feet.
“You could always visit her, you know?” It’s hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “She’d like that.”
Chris shoves his hands into his pockets and scuffs the floor, then shrugs. “You know I can’t see her like that.”
“Get over yourself,” I snap as I walk past. Mom hasbeen in the hospice for months, and he hasn’t visited once. Is that how he wants her to die? Missing her son?
“Do you think you’re the only one hurting?” he calls out after me, and I draw to a halt.
It takes everything in me to control my breathing, to not succumb to the pain that’s pressing on my chest, right in the center.
I spin around. Chris looks wrecked, but I don’t care about his emotions for once. Mom is dying, yet he’s burying his head in the sand, pretending everything is fucking okay.
Nothing is okay.
I storm over. “For months, I’ve had to do everything myself because you weren’t there.”
He clenches his jaw, staring at the off-white wall. “I can’t watch her deteriorate.”
“Well, tough. What else are you going to do? Sit out here while Mom slowly dies? She misses you.”
