Mothered (74)
She almost deleted her entire cart when she saw how long it would take for everything to arrive—even Amazon’s prioritized deliveries were still taking days to weeks longer than their regular deliveries once had—but in the end, she clicked “Place Order.” If she was out of quarantine before everything shipped, she’d go out and buy what she needed and cancel the rest.
With necessities on her mind, she went to the kitchen to engage in her new hobby: assessing their food supply. She never used to stock up, but now she felt uncomfortable if the fridge wasn’t jam-packed. She was craving chilled, easy-to-eat things like yogurt and ice cream. They had neither. It was hot out, but would her mother want soup? It was an expensive, impulsive way to shop, but Grace quickly put together a Giant Eagle order of Foods for the Unwell; it was early enough in the morning that she could schedule delivery for later that day.
Coco rubbed her ankles, eager for breakfast. Grace wasn’t usually up and around at this time, but it was easier to acquiesce to the cat’s demands than to listen to her beg for an hour. She prepared a half can of wet food, which Coco greedily snarfed, and then put out some kibbles for her to munch on during the day. After scooping out the kitty litter and taking out the trash, the lack of sleep started to creep in. Grace felt a tightness around her eyes, but she didn’t want to sacrifice this quiet time to herself for the sake of what would surely be a troubled nap. Sleeping was hardly worth the bother anymore. She brewed a pot of coffee.
It was nice having the first floor to herself, not having to worry that Jackie might come down and commandeer the TV or the kitchen (or put a pillow over her face). Soon she’d have the whole house to herself again. And then, when she’d physically and mentally recovered from the havoc her mother had caused, she’d figure out her finances. Surely she wasn’t alone in her pandemic struggle; maybe the bank was offering some sort of grace period for mortgage payments. And she was ready to start driving for Shipt and/or Lyft as soon as she was done self-isolating, assuming she felt well enough. Grace carried her coffee into the living room, comforted by the sight of the nest she’d left on the couch. She curled her legs under her and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low.
She remembered Hope belting out her songs, drowning out the television.
All the shows seemed more insipid than they had, even the ones she’d always liked. They were pointless or derivative or exploitative or just plain idiotic. How had this garbage once entertained her? Grace needed distraction more than ever, but every channel she tried only reminded her of how futile her existence had become. In light of a global economic collapse, a dangerous virus, and the ineptitude of everyone’s response, the TV comedies were insufficient and the dramas were trivial.
Her left hand started scrolling through phone apps before Grace consciously decided to check on her damsels. She hadn’t interacted with any of them since Jackie made her feel like such shit about being a liar. But most of them were still calling out from the ether, begging for a response. Where r u? Worse, some of them were concerned that their charming princes were sick. R U OK? I’m so worried bout u baby.
Grace wished she had a friend out there—a real friend, someone who knew the details of her actual life. She toyed with the idea of calling Barbara. When Barbara emailed her staff regarding her decision to permanently close the salon, she’d gushed her apologies and vowed to hold a “retirement” party once they could all socialize again in person. For a few days, the emails had flown back and forth as everyone promised to stay in touch. They all agreed to keep each other apprised of what they ended up doing; they followed each other on Facebook or Instagram if they didn’t already. Several of the stylists signed their final missives with variations of “Let me know if you need anything!” And then they were gone. No longer a motley crew attached to the same workplace and schedule.
Now her former colleagues, the family she had seen every day for years on end, existed in a new category: People I Used to Work With. Except for Miguel, of course. Grace decided she would fall apart if she attempted to talk to Barbara, and she didn’t have the energy to fall apart.
The coffee was helping her feel a bit more like herself (whoever that was), but it was also increasing her awareness of being hot. She tugged on the neckline of her nightshirt, fanning herself with the material. It wasn’t necessarily the coffee’s fault—the humid day might be to blame or an undiagnosed fever or the fact that she sat encircled by her comforter—but it was becoming unbearable. Grace switched off the television and went upstairs.
She peeked in at Jackie from the hallway: she was just as she’d left her, sleeping on her side, snoring softly. Her mother looked so frail and harmless.
Instead of heading for her air-conditioned bedroom, Grace locked herself in the bathroom. She left her nightshirt atop the closed toilet lid and stepped into the shower without waiting for the water to heat up. The cool spray rained down on her. It was just what she wanted, what she needed, and she shut her eyes, luxuriating. But that proved to be a mistake—she saw bad things when she closed her eyes. Miguel on a ventilator. Hope in her bed, lifeless.
Could I have killed my sister?
As she soaked her hair, she recalled what her mother had said about finding the pillow. The blood droplets. And according to Jackie the pillow had been above Hope’s head, not beneath it. But Hope really could’ve had a seizure. And the pillow really could’ve been dislodged if she were thrashing on the bed. Just because Jackie believed a certain scenario didn’t mean she was right. It was hard to fathom that her mother had been carrying this twisted knowledge around for twenty-five years.