Page 19 of Breaking Point
“That’s all right, love. Come inside, you’re shivering!”
If only she knew that watching her wither away is what ices my veins.
Stepping inside, I’m greeted by the warmth of the fire blazing in the living room, the only comfort the house holds these days as I make my way to the kitchen that’s been turned into a pharmacy. One countertop is covered in dozens of pill bottles, thermometers, blood pressure monitors, and a list of things I’m not sure I can even pronounce. Swallowing the thick lump in my throat, I drop the bag of takeout I picked up on my way here.
“I got Cajun chicken pasta from Rafael’s.”
Her hands shake as she slides the dining chair out slowly. “Oh, my favorite. Thank you, my love.”
It seems I’m not the only one lying. My mom lost her appetite a long time ago.
She thinks I don’t notice her taking the tiniest of bites before spending the rest of dinner pushing her food around her plate. I keep purchasing and cooking her favorite meals in the hopes that one day she’ll get her cravings back.
It’s been months with no such luck.
Clearing my throat, I serve myself a large bowl and a small one for her.
“How are Joseph and Trisha?” she asks once I’m seated.
“They’re good as can be. They still haven’t heard from the hospital in Berlin. I think it’s making them all anxious, Layla included.”
My mom shakes her head, sadness filling her gaze. “They don’t deserve the trials they’ve had to face.”
“Neither do you,” I admit softly, pushing my pasta around my plate. “Honestly, no one does.”
Her head cocks to the side. “Well…” She trails off, a hint of humor in her voice.
I can’t help but snort. “Which true crime documentary did you watch today?”
“Jeffrey Dahmer.”
A shiver wracks my body. “Again?”
She huffs. “A new show was released on the case and once I started, I couldn’t stop.”
“What about picking up one of your books? Surely you’re running out of documentaries to watch.”
Shoveling a forkful of pasta in my mouth, I have to stop myself from moaning. It’s truly the best pasta dish I’ve eaten, and that’s saying something because pasta in all forms is delicious. My eyes snag on my mom’s withered hand, shaking as she uses the fork to push the pasta around her plate.
Suddenly, the food doesn’t taste delicious anymore.
She waves me off, a sad smile touching her lips despite her forced cheery words. “I’m quite entertained with my shows.” Her gaze lifts to mine before quickly darting away, her fingers tapping her fork. “How come you had to stop at Layla’s?”
She’s stalling.
My mother is a saint, as close to one as you can get, so when she tries to put off telling me something her body shows the frustration and hesitation that’s building. Despite the low energy she usually has, she can’t stop twitching. Her fingers drum on the table, her foot tapping beneath it and her knee bouncing up and down.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I blurt so suddenly she jolts.
Her head snaps up. “What?” she squeaks, her voice rising an octave. “Why would you ask that?”
I hold her gaze with a blank expression. I’m surprised she’s held out this long, but I refuse to back down. That, and I want toselfishly put off telling my mom I lied to her for a week straight. In this household, I was raised to respect that the truth far outweighs the pain a lie will cause someone.
And haven’t I just gone and spat on the very thing my mother instilled in me?
Her shoulders sag before she sits back in her chair. “Fine, you win.”
I’d laugh if the heaviness weighing atop her wasn’t so obvious.
