Every single damn thing I’ve done to help Mom isn’t working. I have to do what I’ve always dreaded: leave work before I’ve finished a job.
I need to hold Mom’s hand. I need to look into her eyes and rub her shoulders. We’ll figure out this latest bump in the road together just like we always do. I’ll buy her a present, tell her funny stories, make her laugh with silly jokes and impersonations of pompous people. Maybe Mom and I will just play out the oh-so-popular mother-daughter frustration game with each other. ‘You don’t visit me enough,’ she’ll complain.
‘I’m paying your medicals,’ I’ll counter.
‘I’ll go without,’ she’ll say, sticking her chin out defiantly the same way I do when I’m wound up.
‘You’re going nowhere. You’ll stay here and get the best care,’ I’ll say.
‘You don’t get to decide that,’ she’ll retort.
‘Yes, mom,’ I’ll say. ‘Actually, I do. Because someone in this family has to be the adult and that falls on me.’
She’ll start crying and I’ll feel like the world’s biggest asshole. I just love figuring out thorny, awkward problems with anger – said no one ever. And yet through laughter or sadness or anger we might not always get a happily-ever-after but we reach some kind of temporary fix. We deal. We survive. We live to be a family for another day.
I walk to the closet and pull out my suitcases. I rip my clothes from hangers and pitch them inside the bags. What went wrong with Mom? She was doing so well. Maybe I should have stayed behind? Maybe I should have taken her to that lake house? Maybe this whole thing is my fault.
There’s a knock-knock-knock on the door. “What?”
“Me,” Nikki says.
“Come in.”
She enters, juggling two frosty long-necked beer bottles in one hand, holding a box of pizza in the other. “You probably already ate all the fancy food at the party. Just in case.”
“I seem to have missed the fancy food.” I accept a bottle from her and take a swig. I yank open the armoire and pull out folded tops, bras, and underwear.
“You’re leaving?” she asks.
“Yes.” I walk into the bathroom, and jam cosmetics, my toothbrush, and shampoo into a toiletry case.
She stands in the doorway. “Why?”
“Emergency back home.”
“Does Jake know?”
“I texted him.” I pause and look at her, regret eating me up inside. “I feel horrible leaving like this but an emergency came up with my mom.”
“You have to go,” she says. “I’ll drive you to the airport. Do you have a ticket yet?”
“No.”
“I’ll get you one.” She pulls out her phone.
“Thank you,” I say, my mind spinning. What if this really is Mom’s bad split? The one that puts her back into crazy land for good. What if the past two years she’s spent getting her brain zapped and popping new experimental drugs has been for nothing?
I am overwhelmed. I sit down on the floor next to the suitcases and plant my forehead in my hands. “Would you tell Jake I’m sorry? I think he’ll hear it coming from you. I think you’re the one person here who he genuinely cares about.”
“Make that two people.”
Jake is standing in the doorway, concern etched on his face.
“I’m sorry,” I say still seated as exhaustion bears into my bones. The years of worrying about Mom and Ruby. The years of trying to make everything okay. The years of covering for the fact that my mom can just lose it and we don’t know why. It’s embarrassing and it’s tragic and we love her and she loves us and yet the whole thing is a big mish-mash.
I had hope – real, pinch me, I-can-feel-it hope – for the last two years that things could heal, and things could be better for Mom. But apparently, I’m just fooling myself because it’s looking more and more like things will never be better.
The perfect storm is here. The moment I’ve been dreading, where real life intrudes on work life. Just like the car aimed at the Wolfe boys thirteen years ago it’s on a collision course and it’s too late for me to stop it. I feel like an imposter. I’m letting Mom down. I’m letting Jake down. I’m letting Ma Maison down. Considering there’s a shuffling of ownership in a few days, I might even be out of a job and letting myself down, too.
‘You’re being too hard on yourself.’ Hope admonishes.
‘Disagree,’ Queasy says, stumbling about my stomach like a drunk on a bender. ‘Smart girls don’t take shit for granted.’
I haven’t been able to break through to Jake. I haven’t been able to track down his bitter belief that’s undermining him.
He walks into the room. Movie stars are supposed to arrogant, egotistical assholes. I never would have called it in a million years that he’d be so sweet, so caring.
“I’m leaving you high and dry and I feel horrible,” I say. “I’m not normally the person who promises the world but then abandons any and all on a whim.” I swipe a hand through my hair and rack my brain trying to think of the right thing to do, or say, and find a way to make this up to him. “I’ll call you when I get back home. We’ll figure it out. I promise.”
“Of course, we’ll figure it out,” he says. “I’m coming with you.”
20
Broken
BROKEN
“No. Stay here. People need you to be here.”
“That’s the point, Evie. For the most part, they don’t. I ask myself every single day why I’m staying here. Why I’m even doing any of this.” He takes my hand. “I want to come with you.”
His hand is so big and warm. I’m supposed to be the healer and yet he heals me with his kindness. “Why?”
“I know what it feels like when your world is ripped out from underneath you.” He looks into my eyes the same way he looked into the eyes of the girl in the movie. Except this is real life and he’s not acting and neither am I.
I am just Evie.
He is just Jake.
We are just two people who happened to meet because he is broken and maybe if we’re both lucky I can still help him heal.
“When you want to help, and you want to say the right things, or just say anything, but it feels too big and you don’t know where to start? I’ve been there,” he says.
He gets it. I relax for the first time since I got the news. I relax since the first time I found a blue box on my bed filled with cut hair. “Okay.”
We take a red-eye, and the next morning I’m back at the Institute outside of Milwaukee. I told Jake the nuts and bolts about the accident on the plane home.
Now, I sit across from Ruby in the dining room on an uncomfortable teal-colored vinyl chair. “Mom was doing well,” I say and chew on a ragged fingernail.
“Yeah, things change. What’s up with you landing here at the Institute with Jake Keller? Just when I thought I’d seen it all, you throw me another curve ball. How do you even know him?”
“He’s a client. Tell me more about Mom.”
“I got a phone call from the doctor. He said Mom’s moods were growing increasingly erratic. He thought something might have triggered her.” Ruby uncrosses her long legs. “Remember I told you she was hiding pills? I called but you never picked up.”
“You know I turn off my phone when things get busy at work.”
“I get that Jake Keller’s a big client but you act like every client’s a huge deal.”
“It’s my job, Ruby. It pays the bills.”
“With the exception of Jake Keller, corporate consulting’s just work, Evie. It’s not like you’re a brain surgeon, flying off to a war in a foreign country to rescue damaged, broken, people.”
It’s all I can do not to slap her. “I help people.”
“You crunch numbers for bigwigs. You assist them with industry trends and forecasts.”
“It’s a little more than that,” I say.
“Get real. Do you even remember what it’s like to walk among average people? People who wonder if their credit card is going to b
e accepted when they buy groceries? Normal people with normal people problems?”
“You’re the last person allowed to judge me.” I stand up and pace the room. “Isn’t Mom always triggered? Isn’t that why she’s here at the Institute? Isn’t that what all the therapy is for? Everyone’s trying to find ways to ‘un-trigger’ her?”
“Yes and no,” Ruby says. “I came by to see her a week ago and Mom kept talking about a letter. Some letter was bugging her.”
Oh, hell no. My skin prickles, all the little hairs on the back of my arms standing straight up. “What do you mean, ‘letter’? What kind of letter? Did someone say something about me in this letter?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t read it.” She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Besides, it’s not always about you, Evie. I asked the people here– the aides, the caretakers. They said Mom’s had a few visitors, but no new correspondence. No one’s sent her anything in months except for you and me.”
“Jesus Christ, Ruby. I pay for your college. I pay for Mom to be here. Medicaid Part B doesn’t spring for pudding cups, drugs, group therapy, macramé classes, and brain-zapping magnets. You know what?” I stalk toward the dining room’s double doors and throw one open so hard it practically flies off its hinges. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to find out what’s really going on with Mom because the only time anything gets done in our family is when I step up to the plate. And for the record, Ruby? It’s not about me. I wish it were about me. But it’s never, ever about me.”
I sit across from Mom in her tiny room. She’s so tiny, frail, her salt and pepper hair unkempt, her nails ragged. She looks like hell, dark bags around her eyes from being pumped up on anti-psychotic meds. She sits in a vinyl recliner, deliberately clicking the remote at the TV. I could read all my email by the time she scrolls through three channels.
I reach for the remote. “Let me do that.”
“No.” She pulls away from me. “I’ll do it.”
If I had just taken her to that lake house maybe she wouldn’t have had this episode. Maybe I let her down. Maybe I fucked things up yet again. How many ways can I fuck things up? How many ways can I break people?
“I’ve got this,” Mom says. “I’ll get CNN on this TV if it kills me. Isn’t that anchor with the muscular arms and shoulders handsome?”
“Yes.” I sigh.
“This is just a temporary setback,” Mom says. “Stop worrying.”
“Ruby says you got upset after you read a letter. Do you still have it?”
“I think so, yes.”
There’s a knock on the door. A woman wearing floral scrubs peeks in. “Maureen?”
“Come in,” Mom says, smiling at her.
She takes Mom’s vitals. “How are you doing this afternoon?”
“Fine,” Mom says. “Better now that my daughters are here to see me.”
“Nice. I noticed you have company.” She hands Mom a pill and a cup of water. “You know the drill.”
Mom drops the pill in her mouth.
“I’m Evie. Thanks for taking such great care of Mom.” I look at her nametag. “Dot.”
“Absolutely.” Dot watches as Mom swallows. “She talks about you. A lot. She said your job was high profile but I still can’t get over you showing up here with Jake Keller. Someone talked him into signing autographs in the patient’s lounge. He’s so down to earth.”
“I know, right? Mom said something about a letter,” I say. “Can I see it?”
“Up to Maureen,” she says, re-filling Mom’s water.
“I’m her proxy.”
“Evie can see anything,” Mom says. “Look. I finally got my channel on the TV!”
“Awesome,” Ruby says and enters.
Dot pulls open one of the dresser’s drawers, and hands me a small plastic bin. “Maureen’s correspondence. We don’t throw anything away.”
I take the container and sort through her mail: birthday cards, Christmas cards, Easter cards, Get Well cards all from Ruby and me. There are also solicitation letters addressed to Mom from charities, and letters from a few from folks whose names sound familiar but I don’t really remember them. Then I find an envelope with a name that I do remember.
Kyle Monroe.
We lived with Kyle for nine months when Mom was dating him. She was breaking up with Kyle that cold winter day she had the manic episode. The day we ran over the Wolfe brothers. The day that changed our lives.
The envelope is open, and I pull out the paper, worn and weary around the edges. My heart beats faster, like I’m back on that cold winter day in Wisconsin watching Mom squeeze over-stuffed grocery bags into our beat-up car. My stomach cramps and I break out in a sweat.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t look at this letter,’ Queasy says.
‘Maybe Ruby should look at this letter,’ Hope says.
But I’m the older sister and I have to be the strong person. I have to be rock for Ruby as well as for Mom. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate.
Dear God:
This one scares me. Hold my hand. Walk me through it. And this I ask for in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
I cross myself. And then I read.
Dear Maureen:
* * *
I hope you don’t mind that after all these years I’m writing to you. Don’t ask how I tracked you down here. You know I was always good with that kind of stuff.
* * *
It’s been thirteen years since we spoke. And I finally did what you asked. I went to therapy. I’ve been counseled by smart people with degrees. They’re the experts, not me. They say it’s never too late to make amends. That it’s good to reach out to those you might have harmed because of your addiction. So, I’m reaching out.
* * *
We were living together. You, me, the girls, as a family for almost a year, and then one day out of nowhere you started acting funny. Suspicious. You started asking too many questions, and picked fights. You accused me of sneaking around, of doing horrible things and bam, out of nowhere – you took the girls and left.
I’m shivering, the little hairs on my arms standing straight up and my lips are burning like I accidentally brushed them against hot sauce, the kind Kyle liked with his taco chips when he watched football games.
The accident was awful but you know, Maureen, the Wolfe brothers weren’t the only ones hurt that day. The cops tracked your phone records, saw we were texting and questioned me. I was just a guy working in a hardware store doing his best to make a living and provide a home and some money for you and the girls.
* * *
And the worst of it was, I had no time to explain to you what happened. No time to explain to you that in spite of all your poking, prodding, and all your questions, nothing happened.
I rub the bridge of my nose as bad feelings, horrible feelings, surge inside me. Something is off. Like bugs crawling on my skin. Like an uninvited hand grazing my bare leg.
Don’t freak out but I checked up on the girls recently. Ruby’s in college. From what I can tell by sitting next to her at lunch in the cafeteria one day, she’s still a smart-ass just like when she was six-years old.
* * *
But Evelyn. Well. Evelyn’s a whole ‘nother story. She’s grown up to be just as beautiful as I imagined. I follow her on social media. Her posts aren’t private. Did you know that?
* * *
I even wrote her a few letters, kind of like the one I’m writing you. Like a secret pen-pal. After all these years I didn’t think you’d mind.
My hands are shaking.
“Are you okay?” Ruby asks.
“I don’t know.”
Don’t forget, Maureen, I didn’t know what it would be like to care for a family. I was ten years younger than you. Practically a kid myself when we took up. Ruby had that mouth on her. Evie was so precocious. I didn’t plan on screwing up my lower back at work. I didn’t plan on taking the dru
gs for the pain. You have to remember I wasn’t myself.
* * *
I looked but never touched, Maureen. You can’t fault a guy for that. Besides, that was thirteen years ago. A lot of time has passed. Just because one is tempted doesn’t mean one acts on that urge. You’re Catholic. You, of all people, should know that temptation is human.
Nausea consumes me.
Nausea is me.
I can’t feel my hands.
I can’t feel my feet.
I sit down on the floor because of the rest of the room feels unstable, the air precarious, like the walls and ceiling are caving in and will soon suffocate me.
This is my amends, Maureen. I looked but I never touched. I was stronger back then. Life changed and took a turn, and here I am. I hope that whatever they’re doing for you in that clinic is helping. I was always fond of you.
* * *
My best to you. My best to the girls.
* * *
I’m sorry for any and all grief I unintentionally caused you.
* * *
Best,
* * *
Kyle Monroe
21
Puzzle Pieces
PUZZLE PIECES
‘Breathe,’ Queasy bites like bile eating my gut. ‘You are not a rickety shed.’
‘Breathe,’ Hope says. ‘You survive the storm that blows through.’
“Mom?’ My hands won’t stop shaking. “You never told me why we left the house so suddenly the day of the accident.”
“You know why,” she says, and aims the remote at the TV again. “Bipolar disorder can work like that. You swing in one direction then the other. I made up my mind to break up with Kyle, there was no changing it. I was done. We were out of there.”
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