Page 12 of The Wrong Quarterback

“Yeah, I just wanted to check in.”

Her hand twitched on the armrest, the only sign she’d even heard me. The nurse had told me that besides not eating, she’d also been agitated today, angry that things were being moved. That they weren’texactlywhere they’d been before. I looked around. But everything looked the same, where it had been for years. The room was a shrine to a life we’d lost. Like everything was waiting for Dad to walk through the front door.

“You hungry? I can make something,” I offered, knowing she’d say no.

“I’m fine.” She shifted in her seat, a small movement, but enough to kick up a puff of dust from the cushion.

I glanced out the doorway to the kitchen, wondering if it had been stocked recently.

“Have you been taking your meds?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light, casual, even though I already knew the answer.

Her silence was the only confirmation I needed.

“I’m gonna go check the kitchen,” I said, more to fill the silence than anything else. “See if there’s anything edible in there.”

She didn’t stop me.

The fridge door squealed as I pulled it open, and I sighed in relief that Martha had some premade meals in there. Her soup would be a little bit easier to try and cajole down Mom’s throat than a PB&J.

Grabbing the container, I shut the door, sneezing as a puff of dust went right into my face.

A tomb.

That's what this place reminded me of.

Leaning against the counter, I rubbed the back of my neck. Sometimes it felt like Dad would be disappointed in me. He’d always treated Mom like a queen. If this had happened while he’d been alive, he would have taken care of her every day without complaint.

Creak. The soft sound of the chair drifted out from the bedroom, and I looked up hopefully. But of course, she didn’t appear.

Making a vow to do better, I warmed up the soup in the microwave and slowly walked back to the bedroom, doing my best not to spill.

“Mom, look what I have…Martha’s zuppa toscana soup. You love this stuff,” I told her in a fake, cheery voice as I set the bowl down on the table next to the chair. “And how about I open this window? Get some fresh air in here.”

Her head snapped toward me, eyes sharp all of a sudden. “No.”

“Mom—”

“I said no!” Her voice cracked, thin as it was, and her arms thrashed around. “I don’t want anything.” I watched as her elbow hit the soup and it went flying, landing on the pair of Dad’s shoes that she’d kept right where he’d left them.

Mom let out an inhuman shriek at the sight of the soiled shoes and launched herself at them. I barely caught her before she hit the ground. “Noooo,” she wailed, struggling to get away from me and to the shoes.

My throat felt tight as I held on to her, desperate that she didn’t get hurt. “I’ll wash them off, Mom. It’s okay. Just please stop!”

She didn’t stop, though. She didn’t stop until she’d worn herself out completely trying to get to the shoes. She didn’t stopuntil I’d let her go, and she’d banged her knees on the wooden floor and cried over the worn leather.

“I’m sorry, Parker,” she cried as she fumbled frantically with her dirty pajamas, wiping off the soup with the hem of her shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know, Mom,” I murmured as I knelt down and helped her.

She didn’t stop for hours. Until she passed out right there by the ruined shoes.

When I picked her up to carry her over to the bed, she weighed nothing. She was literally wasting away.

“It’s alright, Mom. You rest now,” I whispered, that choked, tight feeling still in my chest and throat. I tucked her in, pulling the sheets up to her chin. I could barely remember her doing that for me. And now here I was, long before she was old and gray, doing it for her now.

It fucking sucked.

All of a sudden the room felt smaller, tighter, like the walls were closing in. I glanced at the door, the house feeling like it was pressing down on me. The dust, the memories, the way everything had stopped the moment Dad left. It was suffocating.

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