Mothered (35)
“I’m fine, it’s my fault, I feel stupid. My vision gets a little fuzzy sometimes, and I know better. It can be hard for me to gauge . . . depth, on stairs ’n’ things. But it was just a soft hamper and it wasn’t heavy and I wanted to give you a hand.”
Grace sat near her mother’s feet and took a second to catch her breath. They were both talking too fast, fueled on by the fear of a close call. “Do you feel dizzy? Did you hit your head?”
“No, no. I feel fine now.”
“Can I get you an ice pack? For your ankle?”
“That might be a good idea.” But Jackie hesitated. “Maybe . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t want to be a bother, but . . . if I’m gonna lie down, I might as well settle in for the night. Maybe you could help me get upstairs?”
“Of course.”
If Grace had been stronger she would’ve picked her mother up in her arms and carried her. Like we used to carry Hope when there wasn’t a ramp for her wheelchair.
Grace understood better than ever why she’d spent so little time with Jackie over the years: her mother triggered memories. As she helped Jackie back onto her feet, Grace noticed a spot of blood near where her mother’s head had been resting on a cushion.
“Are you bleeding?”
“Am I?” Jackie started patting her skull while Grace examined it more carefully, parting her short hair to look for blood.
“I don’t see anything.”
“Nothing feels swollen, except my ankle.”
That should’ve been reassuring, except for the other harrowing possibility: the spot of blood could have been someone else’s—Bethany had been sitting there, with her broken baby.
No, that was a dream.
“Gray? You okay?”
“Yeah,” she murmured. But she wasn’t okay. Every passing hour made her more untrusting of the solidity of the world, of time and space.
Side by side in the tight stairwell, Grace let her mom use her like a crutch—one hand gripped the handrail, and the other clung to Grace’s shoulder—so Jackie could keep the weight off her sore foot. Slowly, they worked their way up the stairs. Grace spent the following ten minutes darting up and down, getting the ice pack, a large tumbler of water, an apple, a couple of ibuprofen, and finally, a deck of cards so Jackie could play solitaire on the bed.
Oh yes, this was the mother Grace remembered—quick to bark orders, unwilling to slow down to think about the full inventory of things she might need. Grace wasn’t ten anymore, and she didn’t love running up and down the stairs, especially when Jackie seemed to take it as a challenge every time Grace asked, “Do you need anything else?”
When Jackie was finally settled, Grace grabbed her phone from her room and headed downstairs for a quiet evening in front of the TV. Five seconds after she clicked on Netflix, an explosion of thunder nearly made her scream.
“Goddammit.” That’s when she remembered she’d forgotten to get the table and chairs.
She leaped from the sofa and hurried out the back door. The imminent storm added a tinge of green to the gloaming sky. The first beads of rain struck as Grace shuffled back to the house, hauling a chair under each arm.
Instead of dashing back out for the table, she stood in the open doorway. The rain was coming down harder, but that wasn’t what made her hesitate. The light outside was eerie—dark and bright at the same time. Grace usually wasn’t afraid of storms, but this one seemed different. She could imagine a monster hiding behind the curtain of clouds, sneaking along, camouflaged, waiting for the right moment to drop down from the sky.
“Fuck it.” She burst out and ran across the yard. The grass was wet and slippery, and she almost went down in a split. By the time she got the table’s legs all folded, she was drenched. It was a stupid rescue mission and there was no point in hurrying back.
What a weird day. She locked the back door and stood in her kitchen for a minute, dripping rainwater. And then the dream came back, and she half expected to see a puddle of blood at her feet. Wait—which dream was that? The dream where she’d been pregnant and lost the baby? The dream where an already-dead infant cried silently as its skin split apart?
Unsure of a hundred shadowy images, the sticky raw dough of nightmares and daydreams merged together.
Grace wasn’t a big solo drinker, but she regretted not having replaced the wine from her dinner with Miguel. Maybe there was a little of the brandy left that she kept on hand to make hot toddies. The binge-watching would be better with a bit of alcohol. But first she needed to wipe off the card table. And start the laundry. And change into dry clothes. She snapped her fingers, inspired, and bustled through the dining room to grab the mesh tote: she’d use the stain-free top sheet to mop up the water. Then lug everything to the basement. So much hassle for what had been meant as a relaxing evening.
Netflix was cycling through its screen saver images by the time Grace got back to it. With the bedding in the wash, the kitchen floor more or less puddle-free, Grace comfy in an oversize T-shirt—and her mom asleep—she curled up on the couch, gripping a tumbler with the last few fingers of brandy. She didn’t usually drink it straight, but needs must (as they say). At least one thing had sorted itself out, and maybe her periods would always be janky now. Maybe she was in perimenopause, the clock ticking faster, entering a future of deteriorating hormones.