Page 26 of The Bodyguard Affair
Here’s the point where I should take my space and set her straight. But because I’m a perpetual people pleaser, I just sitthere, nodding like a lunatic as she goes on about upcoming events we should attend together, like the breast cancer gala at the end of the summer. “Oh, and the Redblacks game next weekend. Eric can’t go. Shocker. You two can take our seats in the box,” she adds, referring to our local football team.
Cue the sweat again. “Oh, um, that’s too kind. But things are really…new with us and I’m so busy with work—”
She waves my words away like mere houseflies. “When I was in my twenties, I was busy with law school, apprenticing, and a part-time job. I barely had time to eat. But I didn’t let that stop me from dating. At one point, I was seeing four men at once, including Eric.”
“What made you choose him?” I ask, grateful for the opportunity to pivot the conversation to her.
“Well, one of the men showed up at my apartment in a fedora. So he was automatically out.” She pauses to chuckle. “But Eric. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not in a creepy way. The others were just…passive. If I was busy and didn’t call them back once, they’d give up. But not Eric. He was persistent. He left messages, purposely tried running into me at the library. He joined my study group for a class he wasn’t even in.” She stares wistfully out the window, tormented by memories of better times. For a moment, I think she’s about to cry, until she switches gears. “Anyway, sorry to call you in under these circumstances. Go home for the day. See you at the airport tomorrow for Squamish! And I’m assuming you already know, but Nolan is coming. I’ll make sure you two get to spend some romantic time together,” she adds with a wink.
My cheeks heat with the fiery flames of hell when she says “romantic time.”
Turns out, I’m going to need one more (massive) favor.
Chapter 11
Nolan
“What are you reading?” a soft voice asks. It takes a half second to register the fact that my mom is standing behind me, peeping over my shoulder.
A jolt of mortification rips through me, and I slam the book shut, face down.
Would it be too obvious to fling it under the bed? Dive over it with my whole body like it’s an improvised explosive device? Incinerate it with my eyeballs? Sadly, I do nothing but sit there, clammy, my jaw and fists clenched. I feel like I’m a prepubescent kid again, getting caught peeping at those convenience store nudie magazines under the covers at my grandma’s.
“Can you please knock?” I ask, unable to mask my irritation.
Mom rolls her eyes. “I didn’t know you were in here. I thought you went to work already.”
“I’m leaving later today. Going away for two days on a work trip, remember?” I remind her.
“Right,” she says, though I don’t think she actually remembers.
“Theresa will be here soon,” I say, referring to one of her nurses. “And I’ll finally be out of your hair for a few days.”
Surprisingly, a frown overtakes her face instead of the relief I expected. I’ve been home for a few weeks now, and so far we’ve been butting heads the entire time. She hasn’t taken well to me moving in and taking steps to establish order and routine, despite trying to keep the same schedule and rules as my sister did. Aside from accusing me of hiding her belongings (like the TV remote), she gets upset when I ask her to take her medication or to eat meals at certain times. Irritation and anger are apparently a common and normal symptom of Alzheimer’s.
In the rare moments she isn’t arguing with me, she goes in the opposite direction, trying too hard to be the mom she never was. Like the other night when she decided to have a “serious conversation about the past” before I left for work.
The moment she started bringing up how proud she was of me and Em and how she thinks I inherited her “adventurous streak,” I shut down and left. No way in hell was I sitting here, listening to her take an ounce of credit for what we’ve become. Honestly, I’d take her anger over that any day. At least I know it’s authentic.
Apparently, she’s in a rare good mood, because she circles back to my book. “Hey, that’s my book club pick!” she exclaims, plucking it out of my grip with a knowing smirk.
“Huh?” I blink up at her, only now aware that I’m a little clammy. Okay, a lot clammy. This book is steamy.
“I started reading it on my Kindle yesterday for book club. All the ladies were talking about it. It’s in the papers,” Mominforms nonchalantly, sitting on the edge of my bed, her legs dangling casually, as though buddy-reading a romance novel is a totally normal mother-and-son bonding activity. Out of pure instinct, I shift away, putting an inch of space between us as she runs her fingers over the annotated tabs I’ve made to mark any mention of potentially sensitive or procedural passages.
For the first time in a couple days, Mom seems to be having a good day, based on her playful demeanor. Her movements are relaxed and steady, expression clear, eyes bright. She’s also wearing her signature deep red lipstick, which she tends to forget most days.
“I didn’t know you were in a book club,” is all I can think to say.
“Yup. With some other ladies in my support group. Dr. Yang recommended it. To keep sharp.” She taps her head three times.
Who is this woman and what has she done with my actual mother? The one who spent most nights (and days) barhopping until she was refused service. The one who opted for months-long adventures with random men instead of being at home with her kids. The one who dressed like she was nineteen instead of thirty, and acted like it, too.
Ever since I moved back a few weeks ago, I feel like I’ve been living in an alternate dimension. Due to her Alzheimer’s, her days consist mostly of the same routine. Drinking tea in the morning, leisurely strolling around the neighborhood with her nurse, gardening and bird-watching in the backyard, followed by watching television at night. The weathered skin and yellowed teeth from years of abusing her body are the only lingering remnants of her old life—along with her obsession with all things leopard print.
When I don’t respond, she continues on. “The book is fast-paced. And sexy. Some of those office scenes…the one where they get caught in the bathroom?” She fans herself. If I wasn’t approaching a mortification-induced death before, I’m teetering pretty fucking close right now.
I sink into the mattress, wishing to disappear entirely. “Actually, I’m kind of busy. I’m heading to the airport soon so I need to start packing.”
