Page 31 of The Dirty Saint

After all, if there is one thing that I have learned, it is that no one is going to do it for you.

During

JOEY

“How are you doing, Mom?” I ask.

“Good, honey,” she replies. “The meds have finally started to work.”

“I’m glad.”

I sit down on the chair next to her bed, quickly rearranging all the flowers and cards on the shelf. I pull the curtains up to let some more light into her room.

“Joey, sweetie, stop for a second,”my mother interjects.“Is everything okay with you? You haven’t really seemed like yourself lately.”

If only she knew…

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine,” I assure her. “I promise.”

I grab the cup of water at her bedside and bring it up to her lips, tilting it gently before she finally waves me away.

“Honey—”

“Mom,” I say. “You need to drink. The doctors told you to stay hydrated.”

“I heard what the doctors said, son. I may be sick, but I’m not deaf. Now sit down, stay down, and keep your mouth shut.”

I do as I’m told, crossing my legs together. I stare at my mother, taking in her strong yet mighty frame, her curly black hair, and her flushed skin. I try my best to ignore the droopiness of her eyes, telling myself that it’s solely because she’s tired and not because of the deadly disease taking over her body.

“Joey, even from the time you were a young boy, you always felt the need to protect everyone. You kept your brothers and sister safe, made sure they felt loved, and cared for. You were the middle child who never let himself be forgotten. But, son, somewhere along the way, you forgot about your own needs. You spent so much of your time being whatever everyone else needed instead of being all that you needed.”

I look at my mother, whose eyes are filled with tears.

I squeeze her hand.

“Mom, don’t cry, please.”

“I just,” she whispers softly. “I just can’t help but fear when I’m gone—”

“Mom,” I interject. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“When I’m gone, Joey, I want to go knowing that you will seek out your own true happiness.”

My mother grabs for my hand and I meet her gaze with my eyes. Tears are cascading down her cheeks and she plants a kiss on the inside of my wrist.

“You deserve to be happy, Joe.”

That’s just it. Happiness belongs to those who have contributed to the fixation of the world, not the damage of it.

And we all know which one I have lent a hand to.

Eager to change the topic of conversation, I ask, “Do you want any more water?”

I go to hand the cup to my mother, but she waves it away.

“I’m fine,” she says, resting her head on the pillow. “I’m fine.”

As I go to leave for the night, I steal one final glance at my mother. She’s in pain. She’ll never admit it, but she is. She’s too stubborn.

---