dots

by Angie M. Brashears

  I close my eyes and remember the sterile room that never felt clean. There was always a cloying smell of Pine-Sol, with a musty undertone, like it never fully dried after it was washed. That smell will always stay with me. To this day, I won’t reuse a wet towel because I can’t stand that fucking mildew smell.

  The molded plastic chairs, unyielding sharp edges with a butt imprint. Built, I think, to discourage visitors from staying too long. A fight for life and death was occurring in that room, and spectators were not encouraged to take part.

  But I did. I stayed by her side until the very end. Someone had to. No amount of fidgeting could keep my butt awake after a session in that chair. I wasn’t a visitor. I lived in that room with my mother, until she left and I got evicted. Only grievers here, mister.

  The constant soundtrack that summer, playing till it wore itself out, was my mother’s moans. Unnoticeable at times, low in the background, sometimes faint, but always there. The pitiful wails of my dying mother. I would know that sound anywhere. It plays on a never-ending loop in my brain.

  Thanks Spin Show, I think, following my heart back to her bedside and paying her memory its due.

  The moaning was the worst. Sometimes I think if she would just scream and let it out, maybe then she could get a moment’s peace. No matter how much comfort and love I give, it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t know me anymore.

  “Can’t you give her anything?” I demand of the nurse. Courtney. My Gram’s favorite and on the shortlist of those she’s offered me up to. “Wait until you meet my grandson. He’s got a heart of gold, and boy, is he smart. He’s graduating from college soon.” It’s hard not to feel like a horse on an auction block when Gram’s on the job.

  But now, it’s just us. No buffer. Gram’s not here.

  Courtney looks too long in my eyes, like we’re actors on a soap opera, maybe General Hospital. I see that her lips are high-glossed to a sheen and her hair’s different. I make a point to not notice that’s she’s fixed herself up and get back to the issue at hand. “Maybe something to help her sleep? Or calm her down? God, I can’t stand this!” I ram my fists against my eyes, wishing I could snuff out the image of my dying mother. I rub them past the point of pain, and when I do glare at the nurse, my eyes feel tired and fiery.

  At the mention of medicine, Courtney remembers she has a job to do. She checks her watch. “It’s a little early, Mase. But I can give her some Dilaudid. I’ll give her some Ativan, too. Then she’ll really be able to rest.” With a purpose now—to dope my mom up to the gills—she patters out.

  I hold my mom’s hand, kissing it tenderly. “I’m here, Momma.”

  She simpers and continues to moan.

  “The nurse is getting your medication. In just a minute, you’ll feel better.”

  I wish I could swallow my own lie. Even I know it’s not physical pain that she’s crying about. I’ve made sure of that. If her medication is due in four hours, I’m at the desk at 3.5, requesting that they get it ready. Let her get addicted, I don’t care. I just don’t want her hurting. Will not stand by and let her tears be about pain. At least I can control that.

  These tears? Not so easily managed. Each one for my dad, his obvious absence and complete radio silence. If he were here right now, I’d kick his ass in and staple him to the damn bed. “It’s coming, Momma,” I whisper, stroking her hand.

  Last week, I’d been alarmed at the change in her. Unable to breathe, not knowing any of her family, including her own son.

  How did she just forget us? I’d asked the doctor.

  He stared over his glasses at me. To see if I was serious, I guess. I hold my arms out and shrug.

  “It’s the cancer, son. It’s moved to her brain. Lord willing, it will be quick. It’s just a matter of time.”

  Shell-shocked, that was how I felt when I heard that. I wanted to yell, “But we have all the time in the world. Sure, she’s got cancer. It just means I’ll need to walk a little slower for her to catch up, she’s gonna get winded a lot easier, need more breaks, not that she’s going to die.

  My Gram held it together as I cried in her arms. “The fact that she doesn’t know us, Mason.” She waited till I looked at her before continuing. “Is more reason for us to be here. Remembering her, remembering for her. Now’s the time, Mase. Talk to her. Remind her of what she means to you.”

  So that’s what I did and have been doing for the last week. Anecdotes, memories of a lady who stayed in the game, lived with her ex-mother-in-law because that was what was best for me. Lived a solitary existence until cancer moved in.

  “Darby,” she sobbed, all over my heartfelt memories. My fucking dad. I could wring his miserable neck, with a smile on my face the whole time.

  Courtney came in holding two syringes like pistols. She pushed one and whispered, “Dilaudid, Abigail,” then the other, “Ativan, dear,” into Mom’s IV line.

  To me, she said, “I gave her the highest dose of Ativan the doctor ordered. Same with the Dilaudid. She should sleep now.”

  I thank her and go back to soothing my mother.

  She’s still standing at my mom’s side, so I look up, perplexed.

  “If you want to step out, maybe get a bite to eat, now’s the time. I can check on her for you. I’ll sit with her if you like.”

  I don’t know why, maybe her simple act of kindness is too Hallmark-y, but my eyes start to smart. “No, thank you, Courtney. My Gram’s bringing food.”

  She taps my shoulder with a tissue box. I’m unsure what I’m supposed to do with it. Mom has one. But I take it. She mimes wiping her cheeks, sniffs, and walks out. What was that about? Do I have something on my face? I get up and look in the mirror.

  It’s tears.

  Was I bawlin’ the whole time she was in here? And I didn’t even know it? Jeezuz. I do need a break.

  I splash my face and sit with Mom, just till the shots kick in. I didn’t even notice the moans had stopped. She became limp, filled the bed in a little more, and her mouth hung open. But tears continued leaking. She looked like a slack, crying corpse. A preview of what was to come. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her as I pressed the red button for the nurse.

  “Is she supposed to still be crying?” I asked, praying they had some kind of medicine that dried up tears.

  But Courtney, with her soulful eyes, came back empty-handed.

  She examined my mom, performed all of the routine checks—a blood pressure, her pupils, the monitor for her heart rhythm—before turning back to me with a shrug. “Her vitals look good. Everything’s within range, I don’t think she’s still in pain, Mason. If she were, her heart rate would be elevated.” I look where she points. A monitor that plays my mother’s heartbeat still marches along at a steady sixty-three beats per minute. When I brought her in, it had been at one hundred and ten.

  I nod. Makes sense.

  I look back to her and am surprised to see her standing at the foot of the bed, stroking Mom’s covered leg. Very gently, she moves to mom’s foot and gives the barest squeeze. My mom’s not just another number to her.

  “Then why?” I demand, my voice wet with tears when she gives no answer. “What is it? It has to be pain! Why else would she be crying?”

  She nods before placing a hand on my shoulder. “She’s saying goodbye.” I feel the barest squeeze of my shoulder, and then I’m alone with Mom to absorb all of this.

  There’s no cure for grief? Bullshit.

  “Courtney,” I holler at the empty doorway. I kiss the top of my mom’s hand. “I will step out, if you don’t mind.”

  ……

  Maybe there’s no cure for all grief, but I know the cure for my mother’s.

  I was getting my dad here, whether he drove in the front or the trunk was up to him. I thumb my contacts till I get to the Ds. Not for Dad, or even Darby. I find the one I’m looking for. DICK. My jaw aches as I press send. I make myself take a breath and unclench my jaw while it rings. This is the last call I ever wanted to make. I prom
ised myself.

  It rings long enough that I know he’s considering not answering. Prick.

  When he finally does answer, I talk fast. I give a skeletal picture of the ordeal, leaving whole chunks out, afraid he might hang up halfway through my pitch. All I get, after the tearful recounting of my mother’s current status, is a generic, “Sorry to hear that, Skipper.”

  “That’s it?” Why he continues the whole Skipper sham, I’ll never know. I’ve never even been allowed to set foot on his fuck boat. Only high heels allowed on that deck.

  I try again. “Please, Dad. You’ve been married to the lady...”

  But he stops me. “Half that time we’ve been officially separated.” A disclaimer? Now?

  I ignore it. Taking the high ground, looking over the fact that he’s a used douchebag, I plod on. “Whatever, doesn’t that count for something?”

  He’s so quiet I can hear waves lapping against the side of his boat, the ping of a buoy in the distance. A woman’s voice murmuring in the background. Son of a…that’s why he’s so controlled. He’s got an audience. Worried about keeping up appearances while I’m pouring my heart out, begging for help.

  I’m standing, crying in a hospital parking lot, surrounded by people, and he can’t give one thought to my mother? Me?

  I’m running on empty, so I go in with both barrels. “If not for her, will you do it for me? As your only son, I’m asking, no, begging, that you do this for me.”

  A nurse passing by squeezes my shoulder, and that’s it, I can’t take anymore. “Dad! Please.” It comes out garbled and broken, just like my heart. A stranger just gave me more kindness than he ever did.

  He lowers his voice and hisses, “Cut the for me shit, Skipper. I stayed in that joke of a marriage for you. Married too young to the girl I knocked up…for you!” He sucks in a breath, and I know I should just hang up, retain a shred of my dignity, but I can’t. I listen to every word of his hate-filled rant as I go to my knees.

  “Convinced by my own mother that a boy needed his father, I stayed in a loveless, sexless…do you even know she needed to pray on her fucking knees before she’d let me feel her up over pajamas?” I hear a high-pitched giggle in the background, and hang my head, but still I listen.

  “I think I’ve done enough for you,” he spits out and hangs up.

  But I don’t. Maybe now that he’s got that out of his system he’ll pick back up, ready to dial and say he’s in, and I want to be here for that. I don’t want him to have to track me down. I wait.

  He’ll take a minute, realize that his only child just called him after years of silence. That alone will clue him in on how important this is to me. Still nothing.

  I don’t hang up, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, not wanting to break this connection, but it’s gone. He’s already annihilated it.

  I swipe at hot tears that burn all the way down my cheeks. I stand, feeling like I wanna punch something. Fuck him. No fuck me! For calling him in the first place. I broke the pact I made with myself never to call, talk, or look at him again, and this is my just desserts. He was a piece of shit back then when he walked out on us, and he’s still a piece of shit, crumbling and white, faded with age, but still stinking to high heaven.

  I can’t sleep. That fucking asshole. I throw back the covers and head outside, for a swim. The cold air feels good against my flushed skin. Was it really necessary to humiliate his own son? He could have lied to spare me. Said he’d be there and conveniently forget to appease me.

  No, not my father. He needed to rub my face in it, I think as I dive in, cutting the still water like glass without a sound—I’ve got neighbors. I shoot for 250 to break my record and begin my laps. I’ve always loved the water, but didn’t take it up competitively till Mom got real sick. It’s quiet under the water, all sounds are distorted, even moans.

  ……

  I missed a text from Gram. You did great. Next stop, White House. Ha-ha. Love you. Don’t forget Whiskey Wednesday…don’t make me drink alone, Mase!

  Ha!

  She’s attached the third private message. Gertrude H. 78, unable to care for herself any longer, is making the move to hospice, a place that helps you leave this world. And they don’t allow dogs. She can’t part with her dog.

  I look at the attached picture. Dog is not the word that comes to mind when I look at the razor-sharp teeth. Backyard shark is more like it. His body, a once sleek, well-oiled machine is now starting to show some signs of wear. A gray pit bull with matching eyes, white whiskers taking over his muzzle—he’s past his prime but still very intimidating. It’s too bad they don’t allow pets, because he looks ready for hospice, too. He’s smiling for the camera, a runner of drool leaking from his mouth.

  I finish reading the private message.

  Never have I ever… been without a dog. He’s as sweet as sugar, fifteen, but not ready for the end. Can you please find a kind-hearted person to take him and love him? If I take him to the pound, he’ll be put down. One of the “bad” breeds. Please help me leave this world in peace knowing that Fang is well taken care of.

  “Fang,” I sigh. Of course, the teeth.

  Gram added a note on the bottom. I’ll take him. Been needing another watchdog at the distillery.

  Really? She’s already taken five dogs, eight cats, a horse, and a gecko.

  I text back. “You better watch it, old lady. The neighbors are gonna think you’re adding catnip and milk bones to the whiskey. Do you even have room in the kennel?”

  The kennel. A state-of-the-art facility boasting the latest in technology for animals. I had to have it built. There was nowhere left to sit when I went home to visit Gram. She’s not much of a limit-setter.

  We went back and forth. She just wanted me to add it on to her house. “I don’t need a backyard. Just build a big condo back there.” The problem, as I explained to Gram, was the animals did need room to stretch. If we built it the way she wanted, there’d be no room for anyone to run.

  In the end, the structure was built behind the plant, with the same barn façade as the storefront per the other CEO’s instructions. Through Gram he said he didn’t want to have to look at an animal shelter every time he pulled up.

  From the street it just looks like we’ve expanded, not like we’re taking in strays. I don’t know what the city ordinances specify about having more animals than people on the premises.

  When it was all said and done, half a million dollars went into Gram’s kennel. Money well spent when I saw the look on Gram’s face as she toured it. Especially when she saw the live-in area I’d built for her. She beamed when she realized she could stay with the animals whenever she felt the need, when she didn’t want to be alone. I understood that feeling well.

  The kennel has both central air and heat, an indoor and outdoor play area, complete with toys. Tunnels to run through, tires to chew on—whatever Gram wanted for her furry and scaly friends, she got.

  Everyone gets their own room, Gram had said, and I made it happen. The kennel section, where the animals sleep, is separated into cat and dog suites. There’s a reptile enclosure, automatic feeders, a swimming pool shaped like a bone—nothing’s too good for her. Gram designed it, and she never does anything in half measures. When I’d gotten the bill for twenty flat screens, I’d called her. “Am I being bilked? Why do dogs need TVs?’

  Without missing a beat, she replied, “They love Cesar Milan.”

  “Noted.” I signed the bill without another word.

  I’m confident that Gram will find a spot for Fang in her menagerie.

  There’s one more request that needs my attention. Gram left it for me. No personalized note, no heads-up. I open it and at first, I don’t know what I’m reading. All the request says is, never have I ever… spilled guacamole on you.

  At first I’m puzzled. Sounds like a prank. My filters let a fruit loop through. Why did Gram pass this to me? Guacamole?

  I got off easy with the others. Plane tickets and box
seats, a walk in the park. Now I’ve got to puzzle out what this person really wants. Do they want to be rubbed down with dip? I don’t understand and start to get pissed. It’s probably some weirdo who saw the show. This is not a game.

  I text back, “Are you even sick? Or just sick in the head?” I snap my laptop shut.

  I get up and grab a beer, the message continuing to gnaw at my brain. What the hell does guacamole have to do with anything? And why, when you could ask me for anything, would you bring up dip?

  I drink half the beer, try to watch TV. But it’s no good. I have to know. I open the laptop and scroll to the cryptic message. There’s no signature, which isn’t a problem. I remove the private setting and there she is. The avocado lover.

  CancerChlo. All the air is sucked out of me when I see her name.

  Man, I wish I would’ve seen this first. Before I bitched her out. Good job, Mason. Smooth.

  There’s another request.

  Never have I ever… not gotten to know Mason Dixon. That makes no sense.

  Then another.

  Never have I ever… had an end friend.

  Shit, I’m an asshole. Well, now she knows me.

  I pull up her account and grant her all-access, waiving any charges. She can read all she wants about me. I’m taking a nap.

  Chloe

  Music starts playing when I click the icon. Yep, that’s Death Cab for Cutie. I roll my eyes. I’ll follow you into the dark. Fitting. There are bubbles floating on the screen. An interactive website. I hover the mouse over one of them, and a video fills my screen.

  A bald, emaciated man, lifeless, hunched over a hockey stick, sits in the middle of a hockey rink. I watch as the man raises his head, a smile of recognition crosses his face, and he lifts his fist in a weak victory cheer. A beefy hockey player in full pads skates right up to his wheelchair, spraying him with ice. “Are you ready to score, buddy?”