Mothered (68)

“The difference, hon, is I don’t want you to die. I just want to jar your memory, so you remember what you did.”

“Because you’re trying to help me.” The sarcasm she oozed was thick as an oil spill, but none of it touched Jackie.

“Exactly.”

“We’re not having this conversation again.” Grace dropped onto the bed, weary, cautious to maintain a safe distance as she considered her options. It was the middle of the night, and she was possibly infected by the virus, but could she run out to a twenty-four-hour store? At the top of her shopping list was a lock to keep Jackie out of her room (especially while she was sleeping) and maybe a weapon (if not an actual gun). Where was the nearest twenty-four-hour Walmart? It probably wasn’t crowded this time of night, and she could wear two masks to ensure she didn’t breathe on anyone.

Then what? Maybe Grace could go stay in Miguel’s empty apartment. But that was only a short-term solution—this was Grace’s house. It was obvious they couldn’t continue living together, and she couldn’t afford to wait however many weeks or months it would take for the senior communities to open up to new tenants.

“Do you have enough money for a hotel?” Grace asked.

“Why?” Jackie sounded suspicious.

“I think you should stay somewhere else. I was looking for senior apartments, but they’re all in lockdown. There are several hotels at the Waterfront—it’s ten minutes from here.”

Jackie rolled her eyes and snorted. “You’re overreacting. I wasn’t going to hurt you—”

“You scared the shit out of me!”

“Grace, please. Please just do this one thing for me: think about that evening.”

“I haven’t forgotten it.”

“But do you ever let yourself think about it?”

If only her mother were a ranting lunatic, a disheveled parody of someone who was severely senile or mentally ill. As much as Grace wanted to, it was hard to simply dismiss her—and Jackie wasn’t wrong: Grace never let herself dwell on Hope’s last hours on earth.

“Don’t you think I feel guilty enough? Do you think I never tormented myself? Never wondered how things might’ve been different if I’d just gone in to check on her more often?”

“Oh . . .” Jackie nodded, gaining understanding. “That’s what it became. In your head. That nonguilty kind of guilt. So it wasn’t what you did but what you didn’t do.”

Grace abruptly stood, snatched up one of her pillows and stuffed it under her arm. She started tugging on the comforter, determined to collect her bedding and go downstairs, but Jackie was sitting on it. Grace kept yanking until Jackie got up. It was ridiculous to think it was safer to sleep downstairs. Her mother could still put a pillow over her face, but at least Grace would be closer to the front door—could run out into the night calling to the neighbors for help if it came to that. She gathered the comforter into a messy, bulging ball and headed for the open door.

Jackie stepped in front of her, beseeching. “Just think about it. That evening. The details. What you were doing. What Hope was doing. There’s no reason not to think about it if you did nothing wrong. You know I never blamed you for not checking on Hope more often, never.”

After making her plea, her mother stepped aside and Grace trundled past, arms loaded with bedding. But she stopped at the head of the stairs.

“If I do what you ask—think about . . . Hope—will you get the fuck out of my house?”

“I’ll pack up and go. To a hotel, wherever you want. But you have to really try. Dig deep, and if the memory’s really gone . . . I’ll leave you alone.”

Fucking Jackie sounded completely sincere.

“Fine.” At least the end of their cohabitation was within sight.





43


Grace deliberated over keeping a weapon with her—a kitchen knife, a pair of scissors. It was a bit too easy to picture accidentally stabbing herself as she rolled over in her sleep. In the movies everyone liked to grab a heavy iron poker for self-defense, but they were all rich people with mansions and fireplaces. She didn’t even have a tennis racket with which to whack away at an intruder (or homicidal mother).

Did Jackie really believe that Grace had suffocated her sister—and that the memory could be joggled loose by experiencing just the right amount of smothering?

Good lord, they were a fucked-up pair. It wasn’t out of the question that the “therapeutic asphyxiation” was revenge for Grace threatening to “kill” her over the cat. Any reasonable person would know that “I’ll kill you” is a figure of speech, an empty warning produced by exasperation. But Jackie often preferred to react emotionally rather than logically. Like mother, like daughter?

With the comforter mostly tucked under her knees, Grace lay awake on the couch gazing toward the front window, beckoning the dawn. The porch obliterated the sky, and everything that wasn’t directly under a streetlamp disappeared in shadow. It was Crazy Cat Hour, and periodically Coco zoomed through in pursuit of an invisible gremlin. Grace tried to entice her over with a toy, dangling the stuffed mouse by its tail, but the cat preferred the gremlin.

The sofa was comfortable enough, but Grace was reluctant to close her eyes. What did people take to stay awake? Cocaine? Speed? She was too acclimated to caffeine and had no clue how to procure anything but pot.