Page 55 of Ethan

"It's what they … didn't do … that's the problem." Lucas dug around in his jacket pocket, produced a piece of a cigarette, and lit it. The putrid smoke surrounded us.

"What didn't they do?"

"I was … a roofer. Fell … off. Hurt … my back." It was hard to understand him over the slurring speech and incredibly low volume. I was half expecting him to pass out in front of us.

It occurred to me what had happened.

"The doctors wouldn't give you pain medication?" I asked.

Lucas snorted and smiled. "Said … it was … too … addictive."

"You turned to the street for relief?" asked Ethan.

"It was … either fentanyl … or kill myself. So … much pain."

I leaned forward. "Did you have a family?"

Lucas furrowed his brow. "Wife … kids. Forget … sometimes." His head nodded forward. He caught himself, jerked up, then his head dipped again and stayed there this time.

"He's out." Ethan rose to his feet. "We should go."

We made our way to Ethan's car and climbed in. We sat in silence for many minutes, staring out through the windshield at a community of misery and destitution.

"Fuck," I said. "I had no idea it was this bad."

"They all have a story. It's the first time I've heard Lucas'. It's heartbreaking."

"It could happen to any of us."

"It could." Ethan reached for my hand and clung to it. "It's so important to remember what we have and how lucky we are to have the people we do in our lives."

I raised our joined hands and kissed his knuckles. "Can I come over again tonight?" I smiled at him. "I promise to let you sleep. But I'm desperate to hold you … to feel you against me."

Ethan hummed. "I'd like that."

He started the car and we drove back to the coffee shop. We were quiet, our thoughts still whirring as I followed him to the back door. Our kiss was tender, burgeoning with a passion we hadn't uncovered in each other yet. It contained seeds. Sprinklings of little seeds that might grow.

I did not doubt if they did take hold, the garden would be breathtaking.

It was mid-week so it shouldn't be too busy. I found if I arrived around dinner time, I could sometimes find a parking spot in the limited spaces at the care home.

I didn't visit my mom often. But it was time. It had been almost two weeks. I had to prepare myself for the visit. This was the woman who had allowed my dad to beat me as a child.

After parking my car, I walked to the entrance doors. Inside sat a greeter of sorts. I was asked to sign the visitor book and offered a blue medical mask if I wanted one.

I declined.

I wandered down the hallway of the first floor. It was littered with elderly people in wheelchairs and using walkers. The dining room had a few partaking in a cup of coffee or tea.

My mom was on the third floor. The elevator took forever but finally came. I sighed. I felt obligated to visit my mom, but I didn't feel much attachment to her. I'm not sure how old I was when my dad started beating me. I couldn't remember a time when he hadn't. That changed when I was a teenager and started to fight back. Fight back and try to protect my mom.

My dad died when I was in my 30s. Heart attack. We were free of him. For years, I'd had a good relationship with my mom. We went for walks together. Shopping. Dinner. I shared everything with her. And she was so supportive. Loved me. She'd become like a good friend.

Then dementia crept in, and her personality changed.

Now, she hated me.

I knocked on her door. It was locked. "Mom, it's me!" I could hear her behind the door, shuffling along, and then she unlocked it and swung it open.

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