“But we don’t have a place to live,” I told her, terrified of facing the future alone. “I can’t afford the house Mom and Dad were living in.”
“Maybe you can buy your own place with the money I’m sure they left us in Dad’s will.” She took my hand and gave me that look, the one she always gave when she had made up her mind about something. “And if all else fails, you could always put her in a home.” Then she kissed my cheek and left for her hotel.
The next morning, she flew back home to her family. She has called me about ten times total over the last three years, because calling me is, “too painful of a reminder of everything she lost.”
And the money is my father’s will? Nonexistent. Turns out, my parents hadn’t owned anything. My father’s store had been run off loans. Most everything went back to the bank and I was left to start over. The problem was, at the time I was only eighteen-years-old, and I had no clue what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t have a job, at least not one that wasn’t seasonal work. I had enrolled in college and was planning on just having a general major until I could figure out what I wanted to do. The plan was to take a year or two, try out some classes, see what piqued my interest.
That entire plan vanished in the blink of an eye, and I had to make big decisions quickly. I found us a place to live and dropped my enrollment to part time, so I could find a better job. I was hired as a temporary secretary at the hospital and enjoyed the environment so much that I decided I wanted to work there permanently. I trained to become a CNA, which is my current job. Three months after changing careers, I switched my major to nursing.
Even though I’ve managed to take care of us, I still have those moments. The ones where I want to break down and consider putting my mother into a home. Those thoughts make me feel guilty. The last thing my father asked me to do was take care of her. What kind of daughter would I be if I just bailed out? Besides, my mother can’t help how she is.
She used to be a brilliant professor at the local college I now attend part time. She taught Sociology and Psychology. She used to play this game where we’d sit in a public place, and she’d give a mental analysis of people passing by. I sometimes wonder if inside her own head, she’s assessing her own brain, if she knows she’s broken and is trying to figure out why.
I jerk from my thoughts and wrap my fingers around the doorknob, preparing to enter the rooster zone. With a deep breath, I pull open the door.
As the rooster comes racing out with its beady little eyes locked on me, I wave the broom at it, careful not to hit it, and shoo the bird toward the front door. I knock a lamp over in the process, and the rooster punctures a hole in the leather sofa that I found in a second hand store for dirt cheap.
After a minute or two of doing circles around the room, I manage to get the damn evil bastard out the door.
“Holy shit. Roosters are nuts.” Panting, I turn to my oblivious mother who hasn’t even looked up from the television through all the commotion. It makes me want to cry. Everything does these days.
“That was so funny.” My mother chuckles, munching on popcorn.
I count backwards to ten before moving away from the door. Then I give my mother a quick kiss near the scar that runs from her temple to the back of her head, remnants of the accident. “I’m going to go get ready for class. Nelli should be here soon. Can you please, please let her in when she gets here?”
“Sure honey.” She finally looks up at me for the first time this morning. Sometimes I find it painful to look at her, because she looks the same as she used to, except for her eyes. They carry a void, as if she can’t quite figure out who I am or where she is. “Don’t forget to scatter your father’s ashes like he wanted. At the Tetons.”
She says this to me every day, even though I don’t have the time or money to drive across the country to do so. My father made the request in his will: I want my remains scattered from one of my favorite places—the Teton Mountains in Wyoming. I feel terrible that I can’t, and tried to talk my sister into doing it a few times. But she always refuses, saying she doesn’t have time.
After I leave the living room, I pick out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and then duck into the bathroom to take a shower. Afterward, I get dressed, run a comb through my lengthy dark brown hair, apply a dab of liner and lip-gloss, and tug on my favorite pair of boots.
I exit the bathroom with a trail of steam following me. I collect my bag and books from my bed then head for the front door to go to my last class of the semester.
My mother and Nelli are huddled together in the living room, laughing about something. They’re only a few years apart, with graying hair, and similar facial features. The biggest difference between their looks is the scar on my mother’s head and the fact that my mom wears a lot of bright colored clothes, one of the few traits that stuck with her after the accident. As always, my mother looks happy. She always does when Nelli’s around.
“Hey Clarabell Tellamell,” Nelli says when she notices me lingering in the doorway.
She already has tea and cookies set out on the coffee table, along with a book. Nelli spends a lot of time reading my mother’s favorite novels to her.
“Hey, Nelli Bellie full of Jelly.” I make up a nickname to use back. It’s a game we play sometimes—see who can come up with the best rhyming names. “Just a quick note. She might try to convince you it’s okay, but do not, under any circumstances, let a rooster into this house.”