By Erin Jamieson
It’s always the same: rose petals, plucked from our apartment’s community garden.
Gray, misty day. The kind of day that Mom will spend asleep in her bed, curled up like a cat who doesn’t care about anyone or anything else.
Not quite raining. Just threatening rain. That heavy feeling in the sky, that tension that I feel now as I arrange each petal.
There’s a rumble of thunder just as I lay the last petal on Dad’s grave.
But the rain won’t come.
It never does.
I toast two slices of sourdough bread and slather butter on one and peanut butter on the other. I’ve tracked mud into our kitchen, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now. It’s already way later than it should be, and if I’m too late…
I actually don’t know what happens if I’m too late, or what too late even means. Dr. Hansen never really explained that. Probably on purpose.
What Dr. Hansen doesn’t get is that I’m the one taking care of her, not the other way around. Mom is a great actress: last appointment, she even put on makeup and ironed the pants she used to wear to work.
I fill a glass with soy milk and then take out her pills.
One purple one, one blue one. I set them beside the piece of sourdough with butter, then set the soy milk on the plate too. It makes it easier to cram everything on one plate like this. I learned the hard way, when this started. Ended up cleaning shards all over our apartment for the next half hour. And even then, I found some later — by slicing my foot open.
“Mariella?”
I nearly drop the plate I’m carrying. I can count on my hands the number of times she’s been awake this early — usually I just place her breakfast on her dresser. The same dresser they were going to sell in a garage sale before everything went to hell.
I race to Mom’s room– which, with a teeny two-bedroom apartment, it doesn’t take long. When I swing the door open, she’s sitting upright in bed. Her hair is damp, and even though there are still shampoo suds, it makes me feel something I can’t describe.
“Hey, I have breakfast for you.”
She watches me like I’m a stranger, or someone from another life. Her light brown hair is curly from the humidity– the only way we resemble each other. Her once full cheekbones (your Mom could be a model, seriously, Luis used to insist) are sunken. Even though she’s still several inches taller than I will ever be, she feels smaller than I am, her lanky arms and legs covered with not one but two bedspreads.
“It’s sourdough,” I say, and I’m annoyed that my voice shakes. This is my Mom after all. The same person who used to braid my hair before soccer games.
Who made me Jello Jigglers in heart shapes when I was sick on Valentine’s Day. (Valentine’s Day is 100 percent cursed for me, and no one can convince me otherwise. I get sick almost every single year — and now that most people I know are dating, it’s all the more sickening).
“Leave it on the dresser, Mariella.”
“I always do,” I mutter. For a Moment, I have a weird urge to throw off all those bedspreads and blankets. Shake her awake. Don’t you realize you’re supposed to be taking care of me, instead of the other way around? Don’t you even remember how to wash your own hair?
I turn to leave.
She grabs my hand. “Wait.”
I turn to face her, but I can’t look her in the eye. I’m scared of what I’ll see. No, I’m scared of what I won’t see. I’m scared I’ll see that glossy look the day he left us, like there was nothing left of her. Like whoever this was, was just inhabiting her body.
Luis would love that theory — love as in want to investigate it. He’s really into that kind of thing: the idea that we can exist in many ways at once, or live different lives. Even though he’s Catholic.
His parents absolutely love that.
But I’ve never told him. I haven’t talked to him, period, since everything happened.
“Are you going to prom?” she asks.
The question is so unexpected that I don’t speak for a moment. I stare at the dark bed board: this ugly tawny brown I’ve always hated. The apartment walls we’re not allowed to paint, so they’re this insipid beige-grey color that no one wants and no one asked for.
“Prom isn’t for a month,” I say, because it’s the easiest answer.
“Well, you need a dress.”
She studies my clothes: beige cardigan, ripped low rise jeans, both splattered with mud. In my defense, I left my rain boots in the kitchen. After tracking mud all over the tiles.
“I’m probably not going,” I say.
She sinks back in bed. “I need to call our landlord. The sink is leaking again. Could you get me his number?”
The leaking sink from the house we used to rent — before we couldn’t afford it anymore and had to downgrade.
“The sink is fine,” I say.
“Oh? I didn’t know they came.”
I bite my lip. “Hey, did you know you still have shampoo in your hair?”
She reaches to touch her hair. “I should probably take a shower,” she says. “You’re right. Well, you better get ready for school. Don’t want to be late.”
My eyes mist with tears, but I turn my back before she can see. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be late.”
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Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press) and a forthcoming poetry collection. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) was published by Type Eighteen Books. X/Twitter: @erin_simmer.
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