Page 14 of The Deals We Make
I don’t remember much about that day beyond a lingering sense of confusion and being asked by a police officer to show them the way to my house. But I do remember how Mom became more withdrawn after it. Like Dad died and took her with him.
Now, she’s seventy-three and looks every day of it.
I’m not even sure how to explain the way I’m feeling about that other than momentary desperation at the slippage of time. “I wanted to see you.” It’s a little white lie. I’m here because ofeverythingbuther. As I look around, the thought that I might have remained unaware she was living like this troubles me.
I get my hair from her. Thick dark blonde. Almost too thick in the summer when it traps heat or gets frizzy. Mom’s is cut into a short bob. Mine has naturally lightened beneath the hot California sun. There is a bandage on Mom’s wrist and a deep-purple bruise surrounding her left eye.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“Slipped on the ice. Landed on my arm funny.”
My head creates a replay of the fall happening, and I feel sick to my stomach. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“Why would I? All you’d do is send money.” Her words are interrupted by a coughing fit that has her reaching for a half-filled glass of water. Finally, she composes herself. “Or flowers. Once, you sent soup. You never come.”
“You told me I had to leave and that you never wanted to see me again.” I roll my eyes and sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing an imaginary crease out of the cheap cotton cover. “Anyway, I’m here now. What did they say at the hospital?”
“I didn’t go to the hospital. Too much faff and too much money. And I’m fine. It’s just a sprain and is tender. That’s all.”
“Mom. You clearly aren’t. Are you okay if I stay here? Or should I check into a hotel?” The words are out of my mouth before I can process them.
Her eyes narrow. “This house not good enough for you now?”
Shit. “That’s not what I meant at all. Did I not just ask if you’re okay if I stay here?”
Mom sighs but looks out the window at the snow that’s still falling. “Fine. Do what you want. Your room will need a little reorganizing to clear the bed.”
I intend to. Looking around the state of her room, I’ll need to disinfect everywhere before I sleep tonight. “Mom. Where did all the money I sent you go? You could get a cleaner. Decorate theplace. Get some bedding that doesn’t feel like sandpaper. Turn on the goddamn heating because it’s freezing in here.”
“Because I know what you do for a living. That money is stolen. I don’t want a penny of it, and I wish you’d stop making it appear in my account. It’s just sitting there because I won’t spend it. So why don’t we get to the crux of why you’re really here?”
I stand and smooth my pants. They’ve picked up dust and fluff from the bedding. “I’m here because you need help,” I say resolutely. She doesn’t need to know about the stalker.
Or that no one will come looking for me in po-dunk Asbury Park.
I’m cast back to being a fourteen-year-old girl when I thought I could get away with everything, but my mom was wiser than I ever gave her credit for. “As you say,” is her comment.
“I’m gonna get caught up on the house a bit, then do some work. Can I get you anything?”
Mom shakes her head. “But we’re pretty low on groceries. If you don’t want toast and peanut butter, you’re going to need to hit the store. And don’t be moving all my things except those on the bed.”
I wish I could safely hire a car. But everything is traceable. And who knows what the guy stalking me has access to. I’d have to present my own license to hire another car, and I’m not prepared to do that. “On it.”
I walk into the spare room and blow out a breath through pursed lips when I take in all the shit that threatens to spill out into the hallway. The reality slaps me in the face that my mom has become a hoarder. I can see the foot of the bed, just. Wooden newels float in the mess as if buoyed by the tide of junk.
Newspapers stand in tall stacks.
There’s a stash of cornflake boxes, empty and folded in half.
Tears sting my eyes. What was it Mom said?
Your room will need a little reorganizing to clear the bed.
Sometimes when I have the TV playing mindlessly in the background, one of those TV shows about hoarders comes on and I always wonder how the heck they let their houses get out of control like that. But this one room gives me the chills.
When I was younger, the house was always cluttered with bargain finds Mom had picked up along the way.
Some were useful.
