Page 24 of Trash Talk

Chapter 14

Ruby- 27 years old

I moved in with my mom a month ago. It was the day after my birthday. My wish when I blew out the candles was for her to be with us for at least another 27 years. I’m desperate; wishing on stars, praying, clinging to childhood dreams of fairy godmothers. Hell, I even bought some moon charged crystals the other day. I don’t care how crazy I look if they help. I’ll do anything. Moving in just made it easier to help her around the house, give her medicine, take her to appointments. Cancer is a bitch. But chemo is an even bigger bitch. It robs her of her energy. Her appetite. Makes her sick. It’s miserable watching her, trying to comfort her, but knowing there’s really nothing I can do. It’s the most helpless I’ve ever felt.

I wish MB were here. She’s a physical therapist and actually knows about medical shit. She would be a better help to mom. But she’d have to quit the job she just got six months ago, and she fought tooth and nail for that position. I get it; I’d never ask her to give it up. She’ll be down for two weeks next month. In the meantime, I’m here with mom. It’s not that I don’t want to be here or that I want to put her care off on someone else. I feel inadequate. Like someone else could do a better job. Make her more comfortable. I feel like at the very least, she deserves the best care. We have a nurse that comes three times a week, but he’s only here for a couple hours. And I can’t be here 24/7. When I am, it’s hard to watch. It’s painful seeing her wither away, knowing if this treatment doesn’t work, I’ll be planning her funeral. I want to scream. Cry. Curse the gods for allowing this to happen. It’s not fair. I’m not ready. I can’t lose her.

Becks put in for a leave of absence so he could come home to help, but he won’t be here ‘til this weekend. I’m so thankful. Taking care of mom is a full-time job on top of my full-time job. Joshua offered to help and told me to take as much time off as I need. He’s here often. He doesn’t want to lose her either. It’s awesome that they have each other to lean on; after all these years, they can still count on each other. I can count on one hand the people I have in my life like that. Outside of my family, it’s Em, Pop and HK. We have always been there and will always be there for each other. They come by weekly to sit with mom or make me take a break, always seeming to know the perfect time to drop by. I thought I’d be adding Barry to my list of people. We’ve been dating a little over two years now. But I guess my mother’s sickness is wearing on him.

“We haven’t had sex in weeks, babe. Your mom comes first, right now. I know that. But you don’t make any time for us.” Is he serious? Between putting in ten hours in front of a computer and running around the vineyard three days a week, running mom back and forth to the hospital and cleaning up after her, giving her meds and making her meals, doing laundry and acting as the resident handyman; where does he think I’ll find the time for him? I haven’t even found the time to take a shower in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe that’s his real reason for starting shit. I smell awful. It’s not sexy. And I think there’s a speck of mom’s vomit on my fuzzy socks. I’m a mess.

Honestly, I’m tired and I just want this day to be over, so I can finally take a shower, have a glass of wine, and prop my feet up for an hour before I have to start the whole process over again. I’d moved in with Barry several months ago, after he complained it was the only way we’d ever see each other. It didn’t really work out. Most of the time we could’ve spent together, I was commuting. I stayed at my cottage a couple nights a week so I wouldn’t have to drive so much. It was only fair since before I moved in, he did most of the driving to see me. Maybe if he lived less than an hour away it wouldn’t be so bad.

Oh, did I forget to mention that Barry moved to Charleston about a year ago and didn’t even tell me before he bought a house? For us. Yeah, well it sucked, but I thought we’d make it work. All that changed as soon as I realized I’d be mom’s principal caregiver and it’d be easier if I lived with her, so I moved back into my old room. I felt bad about moving out six months after moving in with Barry, but this move felt right. I actually thought about ending things, taking a break. I just needed some space and time to get my head right.

He, however, wanted to get engaged. I’m not ready for that. I know mom wishes I were, but I’m not. Barry’s just been so damn needy lately. He knows I’m here for my mom, and not once has he asked me if I need help. Not once since we first found out about my mom’s cancer, has he offered to drive to her appointments or stay with her while I went to the office. He’s not even given me one back massage. And I’ve asked (which isn’t easy for me to do— I like thinking I can do everything, even if that’s not the case). He always puts it off until later, claiming he’s too tired. Selfish prick. And he wants more of my time?

“I’m sorry, Barry. You’re right, my mom does come first right now. Maybe if you could help me a bit, I would have more time for us.” It’s not fair to put this on him, but I’m tired and irritated. And damnit, why hasn’t he ever given me a massage. I could really use one right now. The stress I’m under weighs heavy on my shoulders, literally.

“Oh, so this is my fault? I ask you to spend some time with me and you can’t. Or you won’t. We both know you have intimacy issues; you’re headstrong and your attitude has been crap lately. If you’d just quit your job, you’d have plenty of time for me. I make enough money to support the both of us. You could finally move all of your shit out of that tiny shack, and into our house.” Tell me how you really feel Bare. “You could come over to your mom’s anytime you wanted and drive home and be with me every night.”

“Barry, you know that wouldn’t work. I need to keep an eye on her day and night.” I will remain calm. I will breathe through the ridiculousness that is this argument. “You’re more than welcome to stay here with me.”

“I can’t sleep on that tiny, hard bed up there. You know I have a bad back. And you’re not even here most days!” Uh oh, his nostrils are flaring now. He must be terribly upset.

“When I’m not, Poppy or Emma or Joshua come to help. And the nurse is here for a couple hours on days I’m at work. Besides, my bed isn’t that bad, I manage to sleep on it very well. If something happened at night, it’d take at least an hour to get here from your house, and by then it could be too late. She’s my mom, I want to be here for her.”

“We have a comfortable king-sized bed at our house, Ruby. You moved in. It’s OUR house.” I hate to break it to him, but I also moved out. “I get that she’s your mom, but you’re using her as an excuse. You just don’t want to be with me. You don’t like Charleston, my friends or colleagues. Hell, I’m not sure you like me half of the time. After all I’ve done for you. Am I not good enough? Christ, Ruby, you never even kiss me anymore. If I wanted to, I could get another woman, just like that,” he says, snapping his fingers.

It’s probably true. He’s handsome, has a good job, a nice car, a big house. By anyone’s standards he’s a catch. I don’t understand why I can’t get myself to care enough about my boyfriend. I mean, thinking about him with someone else doesn’t send even an ounce of jealousy through my system. Maybe I do have issues. And I kissed him hello this afternoon. Maybe we don’t make-out like teens anymore, but most couples don’t after they’ve been together for a long time, right?

“I don’t want another woman, Ruby. I want you. But all you do is push me away. You act like guys are lining up down the block to be with you. Well, beggars can’t be choosers. So, what’s it gonna be? Do you want me or not?”

Have I pushed him away? Probably. Do I want to be with Barry? Maybe. It’s difficult to prioritize things. Obviously, my mom’s number one, but what’s next? If Barry weren’t in the picture, it’d be work. I love my job. I’ve always loved my job; I don’t want to quit. I love my cottage; it’s small but cozy. I don’t want to be in Charleston. I also don’t want a man supporting me; it’s too sugar daddy-ish. I’m too independent to be okay with relying on him for everything, and ultimately, I’d resent feeling trapped. Are there any plusses in the staying-with-Barry column? Do I love Barry?

It’s probably pretty telling that I can’t answer half of those questions, but, right now, I’m tired and grumpy. My stress levels are extremely high, maybe it’s clouding my judgement. I haven’t devoted enough time to our relationship lately. I haven’t been fair to him. Maybe I should give us another shot. Will I ever get another man as good as him? Beggars can’t be choosers. I start trying to mentally rearrange my week, so I can spend a couple nights at my boyfriend’s. “I’m sorry, Barry. I know I’ve been busy and distant; I’ve just got a lot on my plate. Becks will be here Friday. We’ll have all weekend to spend together. Can you wait a few more days?”

“I’ve been waiting, Ruby. It’s our whole story. I keep waiting for you to jump into our relationship with both feet. And you seem comfortable wading. I don’t want that anymore. We’ve been dating for years now, and we’re not any closer to marriage than when we started.”

WTF? He’s going to drop the M word, right now? We talked about getting engaged for the first time a few months ago. Sometime in the distant future. Right now, with my mom’s condition up in the air, isn’t the best time to discuss marriage. A marriage is two people working together, helping each other, supporting each other. Barry hasn’t lifted a finger in weeks. If he can’t help now, when I need it most, will he ever? Should I trust that he’ll change? Putting trust in men, isn’t exactly my forte. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to. Can you have a marriage without trust? And it’s at this moment I realize my inner dialogue, didn’t remain unspoken. Well, shit.

“If that’s how you feel, maybe we should take a break. Spend some time apart. See if we can get on the same page. I love you, Ruby. I’m trying to make this work. Just take a couple days and think about everything. I’ll call you Sunday.” He turns and leaves quietly. Did my boyfriend just suggest time apart when he’d asked for more time together? Did he break-up with me when I asked him for help?

I stomp back to my old bedroom and grab some clean clothes, then stomp into the bathroom (because I’m still a five-year-old when I’m mad). I turn on the shower and ponder. I’ve been pushing Barry away. I’ve put him on the back burner. I haven’t considered his feelings. I’m guilty. But I can’t seem to get the guilty feeling to register. I don’t feel bad. I feel tired. Maybe a little sad. And a little angry. And not necessarily in that order.

I’m mad at myself. I don’t stand up for me anymore. I don’t have time for me anymore. I don’t understand me anymore. Also, I’m angry that he chose this moment to pile more shit on my plate. I was looking forward to a relaxing evening, and here I am stewing in the shower. Damnit, I’m pissed that I left my favorite pair of jeans in the dryer at his house and I may never see them again. Anger’s the easier emotion to deal with, so I push it to the forefront. I’m pissed and I know just what I’m going to do about it.

I dry off, throw on my clothes, run my fingers through my hair and head straight for the wine rack. I unscrew the bottle and chug. No glassware needed. I’m angry drinking—drinkanging, angrinking, drangkring. Whatever. I’ll come up with something better later.

I let the fire flow through my body and consume me. I’m mostly mad that my mom is sick. That she’s a good woman who doesn’t deserve this shit. I’m mad that for the past several weeks, it’s been my sole responsibility to help her. I’m mad that my needy ass boyfriend chose today to break up with me. And I am pissed that I still haven’t gotten a massage. I walk out back, so I don’t wake my mother (her bedroom is on the front side of the townhouse) and scream at the top of my lungs.

God, that felt good. So good, I do it again. And again. I take another slug of wine to wet my now dry mouth and burning throat and realize I have drained the bottle. With-out thought I chunk it against the bricks and watch it shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. Just like my life. Splintering before my very eyes. I drop to my knees and let out a sob. This is the part I was dreading. The livid screaming is an excellent way to get all that anger out, but when it’s gone, it leaves a void. That’s quickly filling with intense sorrow. Because for all the anger I feel, the sadness that accompanies it is ten times greater.

Suddenly I’m enveloped by two strong arms that lift and carry me to the porch swing. I’d know that scent anywhere, although right now it’s being muffled by motor oil. Not a terrible combo. He holds me tightly and slowly rocks me as I sob, and I take comfort in his arms. A comfort I haven’t allowed myself in years. I don’t know how long we’re there, but at some point, my tears slow. I pull my face back from his chest and stare into his dark sparkling gaze. He doesn’t say anything; he just waits.

“What are you doing here?” Not the most gracious question, but I am curious. He lives in town, about ten minutes away.

“Gramps is helping me restore the bike.” I wasn’t aware he had one. “Dad's Harley. Him and Gramps were fixing it up before he died. Gramps thought he’d wait ‘til I was ready, and he had some free time. It could be our little project.”

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