Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(6)

It’s all I can do to keep my shoulders from slumping. “Si, Se?ora. I know.”

“Well,” she continues. “Since she was out on her own, he realized you and your father weren’t home so he invited her in until he could track me down. One thing led to another, and, well, you’ll see.”

Oh, no.

The crowd gathered near Mr. Toleman’s house part as I approach. It’s not a large group, only about seven of our elderly neighbors, but it’s a lot of people when you’re feeling self-conscious and a lot of eyes to have on you even during the best of times. And trust me, these aren’t the best of times.

I know they’re older and this is as exciting as their day gets for them, but I wish it didn’t have to come at my mother’s expense.

“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and hang on to what remains of my polite smile.

“Hola, mija,” “Hi, Sol,” “Good morning”, they all say at once.

These are people who’ve known me all my life. People who bought candy bars and lemonade from me, and whose doors I’d knock on every Halloween. These were the neighbors who attended my quincea?era, friends who clapped for me when I stepped out of my house wearing my cap and gown, and who waved to me when I left for college. They’re people who care about me and who I care about in return.

Maybe that’s why it hurts to see them now, and for them to see my mother the way she is. I avoid their stares, however well-intended and however judgmental, and race up the steps when Mr. Toleman opens his front door.

“Hello, Mr. Toleman.” I put on a brave face because I can around him. This is the same man who high-fived me every time I made honor roll.

“Hi, Sol,” he says. He frowns at the people gathered at the bottom of his stoop. “Ya should be ashamed of yourselves. Get on outta here. Can’t you see this is a family matter?”

“It involves the neighborhood,” Se?ora Montes fires back.

“No, it involves Sol’s mama,” he points out.

His tone is firm, but I think it’s his words that cause the crowd to disperse. It’s all I can do not to hug him.

“Thank you for looking after my mother,” I say when he shuts the door behind me and Se?ora Estefan.

He nods, arthritis causing a limp to his step as he moves down the dark hall. Like the other homes on the street, there’s a living room to the left and a staircase that leads up to three bedrooms and a bathroom on the right. We pass a half bath, but as we reach the tiny kitchen, he pauses to glance over his shoulder. “She didn’t seem right when she came to my door. I was afraid to let her leave.”

“Okay,” I say like I understand, even though by now I’m out of my mind with worry.

He steps aside and opens the door to his small yard. For all I was prepared to see, I wasn’t prepared to see this.

My mother, that sweet woman who used to take such pride in her appearance―who would painstakingly iron our clothes so we wouldn’t look messy, is sitting in the middle of Mr. Toleman’s yard naked, her legs tucked beneath her as she prays.

If Mr. Toleman wasn’t the man he is, he could have hurt her. He could have taken advantage of her. Jesus, anyone could have harmed her.

My eyes sting, but I refuse to break down. “Where are her clothes?” I ask, well aware of the horrible tremble to my voice.

“She buried them in the snow. I tried to keep her covered with these blankets,” he says, pointing to the pile strewn across the ground. But she keeps ripping them off.” He pauses, as if afraid to say what he says next. “Sol, from what I can figure, your mama thinks she’s at a funeral.”

A gust of wind sweeps along the row of connecting yards. It’s f*cking January and my mother is kneeling naked against the frozen earth. Her lips are blue―blue. If it weren’t for Mr. Toleman trying to keep her warm, she’d already have hypothermia.

“Please call an ambulance,” I say, hurrying to gather the blankets.

No sooner do I cover her than she yanks the blankets from her body. I’m vaguely aware of Mr. Toleman limping into is kitchen and Se?ora Estefan huddling into her gray wool coat beside me. Right now my attention is on my mother as I wrestle with how best to reach her.

“Mami? Mami, can you hear me?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, not that I really expected her to, not given her fragile state. I take a few breaths, trying to keep calm. Mr. Toleman and Se?ora Estefan are old school. They don’t like to cause a fuss, and prefer to keep family matters quiet. They mean well and, I don’t know, maybe called me first thinking I could control or somehow fix her. They don’t understand that what she needs is medical treatment, and a daughter who can get her act together enough to help her.

My mother is on anti-psychotic meds that my father and I force her to take. I’m serious, we literally have to open her mouth and pour them down her throat. She hates them because they dull her senses, putting her in a fog and making her feel “dopey.”

If she’s acting this way, she’s had some kind of breakdown, the meds aren’t working, or she’s figured out a way to get them out of her system. I’m leaning toward the latter, but that won’t help her now. Again, I wrap the blankets around her shoulders, and again she pulls them off.

I kneel in front of her. “Mami?” I say. “Mami, it’s me. Sol.”