Mothered (36)
Just as she reached for the TV remote, her phone rang.
The temptation to not answer it was strong. But Allison was technically her boss now, which made it harder to ignore her glowing name.
“Hey Allison.”
“So sorry to call at such a weird time.”
“That’s okay.”
“We’ve had two stylists cancel for tomorrow, and Saturdays are usually busy for walk-ins. I know it’s last minute, but I was hoping you could work?” Allison sounded so hopeful.
Grace wavered. She needed the hours and missed spending her days in a salon. Under any other circumstances, she would’ve jumped at the opportunity, but . . .
“My mom fell this evening. I’m not sure how she’s going to feel tomorrow, if she’s going to need help—”
“No problem, I understand.”
“I’m really sorry. I can maybe give you a call in the morning if it seems like she’ll be okay on her own?”
Allison reiterated that it wasn’t a problem but then couldn’t get off the phone fast enough to call someone else. Grace felt like crap; she hated disappointing people, and being available at the last minute could’ve earned her some bonus points after her rocky first day. She took a sip of the brandy; it went down warm and spiky, like she’d swallowed a tendril of sunshine. A yummy but slightly poisonous tendril.
Rain pelted the back windows. Finally able to relax, she was glad to be inside the cozy comfort of her house. She flipped through her queue until she found the show she wanted to watch. Just as the intro started, it abruptly winked out—along with every other light and appliance in the house. Grace rolled her eyes. And waited. She expected—hoped—the electricity would come back on momentarily.
The darkness swallowed everything. The darkness was infinite, and Grace sat there, unsure what to do.
23
Grace awakened to the sound of a jackhammer . . . no, a vacuum cleaner? It took her a minute to orient herself, the when and where and why. Then she understood the racket was the blender (the juicer?) and she’d spent another night in the living room, comforted by the talking night-light—also known as her television.
A few days ago she’d been concerned that her Saturday would be spent ferrying things up and down the stairs for her mother. In fact, Jackie had been bright eyed and bushy tailed, glib about the healing properties of spinach and eight hours of sleep, and it was Grace who hadn’t felt well. Miguel had dropped off the Nighty Night tea as promised—and a quart of hot and sour soup—and Grace had accepted the lethargy as a temporary situation, a physical reminder that she hadn’t had an untroubled night of sleep since her mother’s arrival.
As the lazy Saturday turned into a lazy Sunday, Grace heard River, a smashingly handsome alter ego, in her head. You deserve it, the downtime will be restorative, you’ll be good as new. But here she was on Monday morning, still on the couch, and the bright light indicated that it might be closer to noon. Her eyebrows felt bruised, the lingering evidence of the headache that just wouldn’t go away. A pocket of pain gurgled in her stomach and she remembered her mother warning her to take it easy with the ibuprofen or her intestines were going to bleed.
She tilted her body into a sitting position, as stiff as if she were encased in plaster. A groan escaped her mouth and she shut her eyes, pressing her thumb and middle finger against her eyebrows, trying to loosen the ache.
The grinding noise stopped, but Grace knew the routine. Jackie would flutter in in another forty seconds, offering solutions by way of the “earth’s bountiful harvest!” Grace didn’t have the energy to charge upstairs before her mother arrived with a fresh glass of pulverized vegetables. Grace had spent the majority of her daylight hours holed up in her bedroom on the computer, but the nights were more tolerable with the TV lullaby and the kitchen near at hand; she was always thirsty. The consequence of sleeping downstairs—out in the open—meant she was more vulnerable to her mother’s mothering, and it didn’t seem fair that Jackie was on a trajectory of good health while Grace was on the decline.
“Any better this morning, hon?”
“Maybe,” Grace lied, forcing herself to stand. Jackie held out her basil-green concoction. “Thanks, but I’m gonna start with water. And take a shower.”
“You sure? You don’t look any better, hon.”
“I’ll feel better if I don’t lie around all day like a useless blob.”
“Okay, well let me know if I can fix you something to eat.”
“’Kay. Thanks.”
Once in the bathroom, Grace stuck her mouth under the faucet and drank savagely. When she caught her reflection in the mirror she was surprised by the face that looked back at her. It was a younger face. With the tousled hair and muddy eyes and defined cheekbones, she could’ve been looking at herself at twenty-one, hungover from a night out and high on her independence. It was a fortifying thought, at least, even if Grace knew on some level that the reemergence of her cheekbones was a sign of atrophy.
Determined not to waste another day, Grace put on half-decent clothes (a step up from the ragged loungewear she’d worn all weekend) and a little makeup. She planned to run errands: stock up on some slightly less healthy food (Jackie’s weird diet might work for her, but Grace needed more substantial meals), pick up some wine (and maybe a little more brandy), and make a quick stop at Rite Aid (to treat herself to some new cheap cosmetics).