Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(70)

“I like to cook,” she says, turning my way.

That flicker of hope surges. “I know. You used to fret over every meal, wanting it to be perfect and hot for Papi when he came home.”

She nods, like she’s listening. I say a silent prayer of thanks. It’s working . . . after all this time I’m finally reaching her!

I lift my hand, covering the one she’s resting against the white wicker chair. The wrinkles and veins are so pronounced, yet so familiar. I relish the feel of her warmth.

She looks at the way I hold her, analyzing the gesture as if it’s something of significance, and perhaps realizing that I’m more than just the young woman who visits her every day.

But then she returns her attention toward the water. Again, I’m not sure if she’s really looking at it, yet I speak as if she does. “The grounds are really pretty here with all these trees,” I say, motioning to the blooming pink and lavender dogwoods lining the path to the lake.

She keeps quiet yet that doesn’t stop me from saying more. “Do you remember that day you took me and Sofia to that park near Doylestown? It looked a little like this, don’t you think?” I edge closer. “But if you don’t remember, that’s okay. It was a long time ago.”

“Javier says Laurita is dead, but I don’t believe him.”

I grow alarmingly still. “What?”

It’s not like I didn’t hear her, it’s more like I don’t want to believe what came out of her mouth. Because if I do, it means that this new medicine, the one that’s supposed to keep her from turning into a drooling vegetable and give her more clarity, isn’t working.

She looks at me, smiling. “He’s just saying that because he’s mad and wants to f*ck her. Boys like doing that, taking girls into the woods and daring them to show them their titties.”

I take a few slow breaths, trying to keep the acid roiling my stomach from building. My mother doesn’t swear. Ever. She’s the person who washed my mouth out with soap when I said, “damn” back when I was thirteen and she still remembered me.

She lifts my hand, swinging it. “Laurita, Laurita,” she sings. “Won’t you help me pick the pretty flowers to lay on your grave?”

Her hold on me tightens, shooting pain into my wrist. “Mami, let go of my hand.”

“Laurita, let’s bury you deep in the earth.”

She keeps her smile, tapering her grip hard enough to tremble our hands. It hurts, holy shit it really hurts. “Mami, let go.”

She starts speaking fast, random words that don’t mean anything. I jerk my head, hoping no one notices. Violet looks over from where she’s helping another resident. Without meaning to, I give away that I’m in trouble. She motions to another staff member and hurries to the glass doors leading out to the sunroom.

“Mami, the nurse is coming. Mami, you need to calm down.” I pry my hand free as the doors swing open. “Mami, please.”

“You all right, sugar?” Violet asks.

“Fine.”

Of course Violet doesn’t believe me, and of course she looks to my mother. “Laurita is dead,” she says in English. “We need to take her to the cemetery where she belongs.”

This whole time she spoke Spanish. But now, it’s as if it’s imperative Violet understands her, and that she helps her bury “Laurita.”

“This is Sol, your daughter,” Violet says, her voice firm.

Mami turns her head, back to the lake, and back to her world.

“I don’t think the antipsychotics are working as well as they could,” Violet offers.

“It’s too soon to be sure,” I respond. “Perhaps a different dose or-or maybe she’s restless.” I’m not one to stammer, but stammering beats crying which is what I’m ready to do.

Violet nods, yet offers no hope, nothing to kindle that spark I so badly need. “I brought an album with me,” I say, motioning to my heavy bag. “Pictures from when I was little. I was hoping to show them to her so . . .”

My voice trails when I realize my mother is crying, tears releasing in tandem along her cheeks. “This might not be a good day for a visit,” Violet says.

“But I have to visit,” I insist. “It’s the only way she’ll ever know me.”

Violet looks at me, probably in the same way she’s looked at other family members who she thinks harbor false expectations. But I’m not one of them. I can’t be. I need my mother, and more importantly, I need her to get better.

“I hear what you’re saying,” Violet says. “And can sympathize with what it means to you.”

“Good,” I answer, forcing a smile. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I lift my bag, swinging it over my shoulder as I walk away. I’m trying not to move too fast or too slow, working to keep my steps natural and pretend like I didn’t just receive yet another emotional ass-kicking. Somehow, I manage to hold onto my smile, through the heavy metal door leading out of the locked unit, past the reception area where a few of the staff are gathered, and to the front porch.

I cut a hard left when I see another family walking up the wide wood steps, reaching for my phone and pressing against my ear as if I just received a call. “Hello?” I say, pretending yet again.