Page 90 of Made for You

I don’t blame him. Dealing with his dying parent, living in her house, experiencing the antagonism of not only the community but local law enforcement, all while feeling the sting of his demotion at work—even though he’s the one who asked for it—was never going to be easy.

I’ve tried to get him excited about our future back in Indy with our new baby, but this has been a bad strategy, because obviously in that scenario, Rita has passed. All illusions of recovery were shut down last week, during a meeting with her oncologist. And while it’s only a matter of time, Josh can’t stand to be reminded of it.

“Well,” I say, caressing the curve of my belly, “dinner’s in the oven and—”

“Hey!” It’s Rita, calling out from the small room down the hall. “Hey! Help!”

“I’ll go,” I say. Brave face. She must have heard Josh get home. But he’s not ready to see her. He needs a minute to take off his jacket, get settled, charge his laptop, change into sweatpants. I shouldn’t be angry at the selfishness of a dying woman, making demands of Josh the second he’s home. But here we are.

“Thanks,” says Josh.

I scurry off to the small bedroom where we’ve set my mother-in-law up in a rented hospital bed. She’s mostly bedridden now, and soon I need to broach a touchy subject with Josh: hiring a nurse. I need help.

I open the door, hold the doorframe and lean my body in, which I hope feels less intrusive than me just walking in like I own the place. “Can I get you anything, Rita?”

The room smells awful, like antiseptic and urine, and I breathe through my mouth. Even though I’m over the morning sickness, my stomach is still more sensitive than I’d like.

Rita turns her head away from me and closes her eyes like a sullen child. Her thinning hair, dark with white roots, fans out on the pillow like drying seaweed.

“Do you need help with anything?” I ask. “Getting to the bathroom?”

The first-floor bathroom is right next to her room, and when Josh is home, he helps her get there. I can help her get there, too. But when it’s just me? She does her business in the bed. I know it’s out of some vindictive defiance, that she’s furious a Synth is caring for her in her final days. But still, every time she does it, I tell myself it was just an accident. Remind myself that weakness is literally eating her alive. That I cannot, must not, hold any of this against her.

“I’m making chicken and green beans,” I say, smiling. “It’s a recipe from your church cookbook. How’s your appetite? Would you like Josh and me to come in and eat with you?” I wait. Nothing. “Or would you like to try and sit at the dining table?”

No answer.

I rub my belly, as if it’s a center of love I can draw on for Rita.

“Well, I’m sure Josh will be in soon to say hello. I think he had a long day at work. So.”

Silence.

I see myself out. As I close the door, I feel a single, pure flash of anger. I wish I could crush something. Hit something. Vent this burning feeling that comes like a chaser after this charade of gentle goodwill. If I could, I would shake her, hard. Love me! I’d demand. Love your granddaughter! Do it for Josh’s sake, because this is killing your son! But I breathe for a few seconds, and the feeling passes.

Like everything passes, I’m learning. Life, obviously. Time, sweeping good moments and bad moments alike behind you. Nothing is for keeps.

As I return to the kitchen, I hear the water running upstairs. Josh likes to shower after work. I think it helps him reset. In the kitchen, I check the timer. Five more minutes until the chicken comes out.

I lean against the counter, close my eyes, and just breathe for a while, feeling the welcome heaviness of the baby.

We’ve been in this house for three months as Rita has deteriorated. At first, she was mobile. She was in the master bedroom upstairs, and Josh and I were crammed into the smaller guest room. Every day, when Josh logged out of work, he’d say, “Has she said anything about the baby?”

“No,” I’d say. He kept asking. And with every no, the hope in Josh’s eyes went out a little more. I wanted so badly to offer a happy report, but I couldn’t make Rita care. Couldn’t even make her acknowledge me when I walked in the room. She was making me hurt Josh, and of course his anger fell on me, because it couldn’t fall on her.

Now I almost wish I’d lied.

At the sound of footsteps, I open my eyes. Josh is entering the kitchen in sweatpants and bare feet, in a scented cloud of shampoo and aftershave. He has a towel around his shoulders, and he’s tousling his dark hair.

“We have to sell the condo,” he says, in the voice of someone reporting on the weather, “so I met with a real estate agent today.”

The timer dings, but I make no move to get the chicken.

“Josh—what?”

“We can’t afford to pay taxes and a mortgage on a place where we’re not living.”

“What about the money from the show? The wedding episodes?”

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