Over Her Dead Body(33)
“I saw her two nights ago,” Nathan said. “She made me dinner. Fish—”
“With the head still on,” I guessed, and he smiled beneath shiny eyes.
“She fell asleep while I was doing the dishes. Right there where you’re sitting.”
“That’s quite a feat,” I said. This couch was the pinnacle of uncomfortable; you’d have to really be wiped. Or—as it turns out—deathly ill.
“She’s never fallen asleep like that before,” Nathan said. “It wasn’t like her.” And I knew he felt he’d missed something, a clue that death was knocking on her door. And maybe he had. In a way, we all knew this was coming. Mom was on borrowed time, staying alive by a dedicated caregiver, modern technology, and sheer will.
When Mom got too sick to take care of herself, I tried to be her nursemaid. I hadn’t figured out how to put that Stanford degree to good use yet, so welcomed a reason to delay becoming a self-sufficient adult. Charlie had a wife and kid—I didn’t even have a houseplant, so dropping everything to be with her essentially meant dropping nothing. So I moved back home. I thought it would be good for our relationship, a way for Mom and me to finally bond, but it turned out to be an exercise in self-flagellation. Because taking Mom to her appointments, picking up her meds, holding her hand on her dark days wasn’t enough for her. She wanted more from me—something I couldn’t give, even if I’d wanted to. And once she asked for it, she couldn’t take it back. Things got uncomfortable. Her request permeated the air like poison gas. I couldn’t tell her I wanted to step up but that I had a disease, too, because that would have required admitting it, which I wasn’t ready to do. So I went back to Northern California to look for a job and a life. I figured if I couldn’t help her, I should at least try to help myself.
Mom and I interviewed a half dozen nurses before we found Silvia. I knew from the vigorous way she shook my hand that she was the right woman for the job. She was older than I was but younger than Mom—probably about fifty when we hired her—and had already raised five children. I remember thinking her gaggle of kids must have whipped her into shape.
“Should we do some sort of autopsy?” Charlie asked. “Just to know?”
“Know what?” I asked. “That the terminal condition we all knew she had slowly and methodically choked the life out of her? I don’t think there is any question about that.”
“So we trust Silvia?” my brother asked.
“To not kill Mom and put herself out of a job?” I said. “Yeah, I do.”
“Did she say anything else?” Charlie asked, then tried to explain his persistent line of questioning. “I’m sorry, but it just feels so sudden.”
“I actually haven’t spoken with Silvia,” Nathan said. “We texted. She handled everything, y’know, with the body.” His voice caught in his throat. Of the three of us, he was probably the closest one to my mom. And not just because of his proximity to her house. I glared at Charlie. He got the message.
“Sorry, you’ve done enough already,” Charlie said kindly. “We’ll call Silvia once the dust settles.” Charlie looked at me and I nodded. I knew her better, I would do it. Not that I thought she bore any responsibility for this. Mom had a serious underlying condition. But I still wanted to talk to her. I didn’t want gory details, but it would be rude not to call her and thank her for all her years of service.
“I’m sorry I let this happen right under my nose,” Nathan said. “I feel absolutely awful.”
“You weren’t her babysitter,” I told my cousin. “No one expected you to be at her beck and call.” I glanced at Charlie. He was pale as milk. I knew he felt awful, too, but it wasn’t fair of us to let Nathan feel responsible—we were her damn kids. Just because he lived nearby didn’t make him her keeper.
“We should let you get home,” Charlie said to Nathan. “We have a big day tomorrow.”
We gave our good night hugs, and Charlie and I retired to our rooms. I always loved this house, with its funky sloped ceilings and moody wallpaper. It was like living in an episode of The Munsters. I was Marilyn, the “plain” one—perfectly normal to the outside world but a freak in the circus of former models and beauty queens that were ever present in our home. I can’t blame my mother for her career choice, but she had to know that seeing her obsess over impossibly gorgeous women day in and day out would obliterate any hope of me ever feeling worthwhile. That’s not why I didn’t offer to save her life, but it certainly contributed to why I physically couldn’t.
The door to my room was closed. I don’t know why that made me uneasy—there were no more dead bodies to find. I cursed my nervousness, then opened the door with a twist of the antique brass knob.
Moonlight streamed in through lacy curtains, pooling on the varnished rosewood dresser tops, making them shine like caramel-covered ice rinks. The dense ruby carpeting had crisscrossing vacuum cleaner lines, and the bed was made and pillows fluffed. I expected the room to smell like old pond water, given that it had likely been sitting empty since my visit last summer, but I was greeted by a lemony Lysol scent. I suddenly felt the urge to laugh. Because of course Mom had kept my room in pristine condition. Everything she touched was perfect. Except for me.
I flopped down on the bed and closed my eyes. Lying there, I felt the gentle sway of just the right amount of whiskey in my veins. Too much and I spin, not enough and I self-destruct. I was pretty good at pacing myself these days, but I had a fifth in my suitcase in case I needed a booster. As I rode the gentle rocking of my whiskey life raft, I remembered the day we found out I’d gotten into Stanford. Mom was so proud of me. She’d even made a cake—red velvet with cream cheese frosting. She never made cakes, not even on our birthdays—those were store bought and served on paper plates. But I’d finally done something worthy of dirtying up the kitchen. Of course I never did deliver on that homemade cake. Because even with my fancy degree, I was still a flop—all I’d done since graduating six years ago was bounce around as a freelance SAT tutor and textbook editor. Hardly the success story Mother had hoped for.