In the Wake of Touch

Nine o'clock sharp, I'm at my mom's for day two of what's already

guaranteed to be the worst trip of my life.

Even worse than the four-night cruise I took with whatshisname out of

Jersey where I ended up hugging the toilet the entire time, but he still kept

asking me if he could at least hit it from the back as I was hunched over.

(You know, so the trip wasn't a complete waste for him.) And I've barely hit

the twelve-hour mark in Smoky Heights.

Ignore the ominous clicking noise coming from my car as I walk into

the house, just like I'm ignoring the stream of consciousness telling me I

did the wrong thing by coming here. I don't fit in. I'm not wanted. I'm only

going to hurt the people I love by being here. I belong in New York. Why

would I sacrifice my dream job, my incredible apartment, my life there to

suffer here? And if I really love them so much, why did I leave them in the

first place?

But we're tuning that out, remember?

Luckily, Lexi isn't here this time. Waffles for two, as apparently my

sister has a shift at the lone little grocery store this morning, and I'm not

mad about it.

My nose is actually pretty excited about it as I let myself in the front

door and take a seat at the dining table, where my mom is already seated

and waiting. Guess I know where I got my punctuality from. Back home,

I'm inclined to be a good thirty-plus minutes early to anything that isn't

being billed by the minute. This morning? Dread weighed me down, made

me as late as I'll ever be to anything, what everyone else considers on-time.

But in my line of work, every moment counts, none are to be wasted. That

feels particularly true now that we're counting the last of hers.

"Morning," I say quietly, still gauging the air between us, how to act

after all that has—and hasn't—transpired between us.

"Good morning, dove." That one takes me back. What has it been?

Probably since the last time I was here that I heard that nickname. She

drops a giant waffle on my plate and smiles at me pleasantly as I settle in.

"Did you sleep okay?" Wow. Resorting to small talk. Who am I?

My mom stops her motion, mid-lean, halfway across the table as she

was grabbing the butter dish to look at me out of the side of both eyes.

"I slept as good as I ever do, these days. But let's not pretend we're

strangers, okay? Why don't we get the awkward part out of the way now

and be done with it."

She sits back in her chair and butters her waffle like it's any other day

for her. It's a day I never thought I'd see. One I've been hiding from ever

since I ran in the first place. A large part of me hopes I can still manage to

hide from the past, even when I'm here, staring it in the face.

"I'm sorry." It's all I can say. Words won't make what she's going

through any better. I can only hope my actions will, but what's the best you

can even hope for in a situation like this? Taking it from the worst-case

scenario to slightly less shitty? So helpful.

"Are you?" She finishes buttering her waffle and then stares at me

unblinkingly, familiar chocolate eyes on mine.

I breathe out through my nose. "I'm sorry for what you're going

through. I'm sorry I didn't handle things better when I left, and that I didn't

keep in touch more. I'm sorry I made things so complicated in our family.

But I'm not sorry for pursuing a better life for myself, if that's what you're

asking."

She nods at me, assessing my expression, the barest hint of emotion that

shows through as I talk, and then she cuts into her waffle and takes a bite.

Once she chews and swallows, she says, "I'm sorry you felt you had to

leave to get a better life. And that there wasn't room for us in it."

I gulp down the orange juice that's in front of my place setting, eager to

change the subject. Too deep, too fast, too early in the morning and into my

trip for this shit. If I haven't had to face it in all this time, I'm sure as hell

not ready in my first twenty-four hours back, and especially when I'm sober

as a nun.

"Can we maybe not start with this? Can we talk about you, what you're

going through, anything that'll make it better? That's what I'm here for."

My mom shrugs a shoulder and takes another bite. "Sure. A bit about

me, let's see …" She taps a finger on her chin, feigning thought. "Where to

start. I'm fifty-four years old, I've got two grown daughters, and I'm dying.

Incurable, inoperable brain tumor—doctors call it glioblastoma—I'm in

constant pain that's only going to get worse, and before long my faculties

will start to go, then my systems will start shutting down, and then I'll be

gone. Not a whole heck of a lot to be done for any of it. Is that what you

wanted to hear?"

My fork and knife clatter to the ceramic, floral-printed plate beneath

them. The same ones I used as a girl. Take rapid breaths, in and out, and try

to keep myself from exploding on her. This is her journey, her illness, her

burden to bear, and if she wants to be cavalier about it, that's her right. It

won't stop me from trying to make it better, but it's not my first choice for

her attitude, either. I guess if I were the one on my deathbed, it would be my

call, but it's not, so I bite my tongue.

I try a different approach. "I've been doing some research."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Her dry amusement still shines

through, and I ignore the sass, push forward with my point.

"I know palliative care is limited in scope. The painkillers and

medicines you're on can only do so much. But I've been looking into

articles, studies, even anecdotal accounts of things others have done to ease

the burden during end-of-life care, and I have some lists of things we might

be able to do to make it a little easier for you."

"Wow. You've even made a list about me dying? That's the most Rory

thing I ever heard."

Technically, yes, but I didn't even tell her about those yet. This is just

about the things that can help her. But, yes, I've also got other lists of things

to do, line up, wrap up, before she's gone. I roll my eyes at her instead of

responding directly and tap my manicured nails on the table in a rhythmic

pattern that soothes me marginally. I'll take what I can get. Control is never

not calming, amirite?

"Look. This is a morbid subject. It's awful for me, and I can't imagine

how terrible it is to be the one going through it. I'm just saying, I have some

ideas, some things we might be able to do to make you more comfortable

along the way. And I don't want you to hesitate to ask me for anything you

might need or want, okay?"

My mom sops up the syrup on her plate with a bite of waffle on the end

of her fork and chews it quietly before she looks back over at me. The

hanging tail of the black and white cat clock on the wall ticks louder than

any other noise in here. How do people live like this? I haven't heard a

single siren since I got into town. It's disarming. If I listened closely

enough, I could probably hear the seismic plates shifting with time beneath

us. Where's the life here?

As if it's obvious to her even now how little I fit in here, how I don't

belong, she says, "If it gets to the point I need help wiping my ass, just go

back to the city, okay? Let me die with whatever semblance of dignity I

might have left and go back to your life."

My competitive streak flares. "If you don't want me to wipe your ass,

I'll hire a caretaker to do it for you. But I'm not leaving you, no matter how

hard this gets. I'm riding this out with you, Mom."

She bites down, and I'm sure she's refraining from telling me she

doesn't believe me, but we both know my track record isn't good, she

doesn't have to state the obvious there. I'm the only one who can prove her

wrong though, and I've never been more determined about anything before.

"All I'm saying is I'm here for you. For anything. If you wanna do

something fun, if you need another pain pill, or you want Korean

barbecue—"

My mother's face pulls in a highly unattractive way. "Why on earth

would I want Korean barbecue?"

"Because it's one of the best foods I've ever had, and you want to try as

much as you can before you go?" I roll my eyes at how literal she's being.

"I don't know, it was what came to mind, just an example."

She hmphs, mutters, "Doesn't sound better than pulled pork," and I

continue like I didn't hear her, but my voice is nearing a yell, maybe even a

shriek at this point. I can't believe I'm already going insane in under a day

in this godforsaken town. Where is my carefully developed poise? I'm

starting to worry I left it in my empty apartment on the Upper West Side,

just a few blocks from Zabar's, Magnolia, and all the other best parts of my

life.

"Fine, a chocolate chip cookie, then! I'm just saying that I'm here for

you, okay? You're not alone in this. I want to help you however I can. And I

don't want to waste the time you've got left."

"In all that fancy schooling you did, did they never teach you to take a

hint, Aurora? For Christ's sake, you're going to make me cry into my

waffles, and that would violate a staple rule of Southern life, never eat

soggy waffles. I get it. You're back for me. Can you tell me about your life

now? What other weird food y'all eat in New York? Anything that isn't

depressing as all get out?"

A small smile pops one side of my mouth up at her candor. "Sure, Mom.

Can I just ask you one thing first? Have you ever thought about making a

bucket list?"

AN HOUR and three (sadly) virgin screwdrivers later, the conversation

shifted from my life in New York back to my rude awakening of returning

to the Heights.

"So you ran straight into Wyatt, hmm?"

"Yep. How'd you know that?" My eyes narrow in suspicion on hers.

"Wait. Did you know he was going to be there?"

"Not specifically, but Suds is where most of the unhappy men in this

town spend their evenings, so there was a decent chance."

I raise a brow at her. "How'd you hear about that anyway?"

"I have my ways."

"It was Facebook, wasn't it?"

She nods her head in admittance, face screwed up as she takes a swig of

coffee. "There was a post up in the Heights group within ten minutes of you

leaving my house, dove. Mrs. Dixon saw you walking in."

I gave up on her Folgers roast after the first cup—even my poker face

couldn't pretend to like it—and I'm absolutely desperate to find anything as

close to a Starbies as possible on my way outta here.

My mom pushes her chair back, scraping the four feet along the ancient

hardwood floor, and I do the same, scrambling to beat her to clearing the

table and doing the dishes.

"You don't have to—" She tries to tell me off but halts mid-sentence

when she sees the look on my face. "Right," she acquiesces. "Thank you,

Aurora." She lets me take care of the kitchen and the table without a

complaint.

"Got any plans for today?" I'm still trying to get a lay of the land, wrap

my head around what her day-to-day life looks like. I know she's stopped

working, I know she's not up for much most days, but it doesn't yet sound

like she wants me here with her through most of her days, which isn't

conducive to my plan.

I'm still working my way in, which, fair. I knew while this wasn't a

hostile takeover, it's far from an amicable acquisition. More like a merger

that's required to keep both businesses afloat, though neither is particularly

thrilled about it.

I can't cut her out of my life then demand she grant me full access to

hers just because I say so. Logically, I know that. Emotionally? It still stings

to be shut out after everything I've done to be here.

It's going to take time to earn her trust. I'm willing to put in the work,

but time is something neither of us have a lot of at the moment. Is there

some sort of accelerate button when it comes to forgiving and forgetting? A

cheat code I can find somewhere?

Guys have it so easy. Buy some flowers, say something sweet, spend a

few minutes buried between your girl's legs and all is well again.

Soothing the pain from non-romantic relationships? Familial, friends? It

can be so much trickier.

She answers me, and I can hear the exhaustion setting in already. "I'm

going to take it easy today. Forgive me for saying it, but it's taken a lot out

of me, this catchin' up we've been doing. I'm gonna see you out, then

probably nap for quite a while."

My mind struggles to overlay the two images of my mother. The one

that appears fairly healthy on the outside, who looks mostly normal and is

still sharp as ever, with the one who I know has something killing her from

within. Who is tuckered from a couple hours of chatting with her daughter,

and who will need to recuperate and recover the entire rest of the day from

it. I swallow down my sorrow and nod my head at her, drying off the last of

the plates from breakfast.

"You'll let me know if you need anything?"

"I won't."

I start to protest but she talks over me. "I've been on my own for twelve

years now. I appreciate what you're doing, but I'm not dead yet. I'm gonna

keep taking care of myself as long as I can."

"Right." I dry my hands on the yellow and white dish towel and lay it

flat next to the sink to dry.

Her kitchen is about a third the size of my entire apartment. I didn't

bump into the oven or the fridge while doing the dishes, not even once, and

she even has room for a dishwasher, even though I didn't think to use it.

That was a novelty for me.

My mom speaks up again. "Take the day, get settled in. You staying at

Suds?"

I nod at her, lips folded in over my teeth.

"Good. You're right around the corner if I need you." She winks at me,

then starts walking to the front door and I take my cue.

"Uh oh," I hear the sing-song words before I make it to the door and

rush onto the porch to see what she's staring at with that long face. There's

a pool of dark liquid on the driveway underneath my car, and I'm feeling

pretty sure it wasn't there when I got here.

I channel my best Geralt impression. "Fuck."

My mom lets out a low whistle. "You're gonna wanna get that straight

over to Gonzo's if it'll start. If not, they'll have to come get it for ya."

If memory serves, that's the only car shop in town, and I'm also fairly

confident it's not that far away. I guess nothing in this town is much farther

than one Duane Reed to the next, really. Just by car instead of by foot.

Luckily—I use the word loosely—the Cutlass starts up for me, and my

mom waves me off from her front porch as I say a prayer to whatever god

might still be listening to me after all my years of neglect on the religious

front.

It's not like I have some emotional attachment to this car, I'm just

convinced this trip can't get any worse, and I'm not looking to tempt fate

with a breakdown or spontaneous combustion. At least I don't have to

worry about a theft or a carjacking if too much hasn't changed in this town.

That's another perk of being out of NYC. Look at me, being all bright side

and silver lining and shit.

Only eight more months until I'm back in New York, I chant to myself as

I turn off at the third stoplight, just like she said to do, and putter up to the

open bay at Gonzo's, just as the clicking noise I was hearing before gets

even louder. Or maybe that was the sound of the last of my luck running

out, because when the mechanic beneath the hood of the car laid out there

turns around to see who or what is headed his way, I realize that any deity

watching over me has a fucked up sense of humor and a weird concept of

payback