Page 118 of Because of Dylan

“Ah, yeah. You don’t know, do you? How could you know?”

“Know what?” What is she talking about?

“I’m sick. Lung cancer.” She laughs. “After all the crap I did, all the drugs and alcohol, cancer is what will take me out. I always thought it would be an overdose.”

I’m dizzy, all the blood has left my brain. Cancer? She’s lying. She has to be. “Cancer?”

“You’re white as a ghost, girl.” She pulls the neck of her sweater down, shows me a chemoport before letting go of the shirt. Taps the port under the fabric. “All the shit I took for God knows how many years, and if the cancer don’t take me, this poison will.”

I’m trembling. I didn’t prepare for this. I expected her to either behave as before, with hate and accusations or for her to be high and have another man living here. Or maybe for the house to be empty. But not this. Not her on the verge of death and not even forty yet.

I dig my nails into my thighs. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Eh, nothing to say. It is what it is. I made some very shitty choices in my life. I said and did some terrible things to you. I let horrible things happen to you. But you were never a mistake. No matter how many times I said it.”

My throat closes, and I have to put a hand on it to push down the forming knot. Is this a confession? Is she finally admitting to what happened? A fire burns under me. Of this too I’m robbed. How can I rage? How can I be angry? How can I confront her when she just told me she’s dying?

“All the mistakes were mine. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I was such a horrible mother. I didn’t know how to love you. I didn’t know how to love myself.”

My eyes burn. My chest is a ticking bomb ready to explode, and the pressure in my throat is so big I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t. A croak and a sob are the only things I’m capable of right now.

She goes on. “I got a lot of help at the hospital. Some social worker lady helped me get a small disability check. Not much, but enough to keep the lights on and the water and heat running. The church brings food every week, and the hospital is helping me too. I said that already, right? Sometimes I get confused. I forget things too.”

She settles back into the couch. “I’m tired. I think I’ll take a nap now.” She lies down, closes her eyes and is asleep seconds later.

I’m frozen in place. I don’t know what to do. Should I leave? Wait for her to wake up? I check my phone, and it’s morning still. I look around again. The house is a mess. Stuff everywhere. I can clean up a little. I can’t let her live like this. Not in her condition. I go to her room. The door is closed, and when I open it, I know why. It smells like vomit. She got sick in here. I open the windows, let the brisk March air in. Take all the bedding down. Bring it to the garage where the washer and dryer are. Put a load in.

I will need supplies if I’m to clean this house. I drive to the store, buy gloves, cleaning products, paper towels. And also get some packaged foods she can easily prepare.

Back at the house, she’s still sleeping. A low rattling and wheezing sound, the only sign she’s alive. I go to her room and clean it the best I can, throw away the trash, paper plates, piles of old magazines. None of this can be good for her, trying to breathe in this dirty and dusty room. It’s frigid because of the open windows, but at least it no longer smells. I find clean sheets in an armoire and make the bed, but I’ll have to wait for the blanket that’s now in the dryer. I move to the bathroom and clean that next. Then the kitchen. I throw away old food I find in the fridge, and clean that too. Then put the fresh fruit I bought inside, along with bottles of Gatorade.

I do a few more loads of laundry, while she continues to sleep. I clean around her in the living room as quietly as I can. I’ve swept the floors and mopped. I don’t think this house has been properly cleaned since I left. But being so small, it takes a little over two hours. My bedroom door stands closed. I haven’t stepped in yet. I check on my mother again. Then open the door. It screeches with disuse. It’s like stepping back in time. My bed is still made and set against a wall the same way I left it. There’s a thin covering of undisturbed dust everywhere. The urge to close the door and run is overwhelming, but I fight it and stand my ground. I stay still, taking in everything again. This room is even smaller than my dorm room. Just big enough for the twin-sized bed. A small closet is to the left, and a desk and a kitchen chair are placed next to the door. I step in. Sun-faded curtains hang open. The magazine cutouts I taped to the walls are dulled gray by dust. I open the closet. Thin metal hangers dangle from the single rod across the top. I only left behind the clothes that no longer fit me or were too ratty to wear. Some magazines lie on the bottom. I’d grab them from people’s garbage on recycling days. And sometimes I got lucky and found books too. I close the closet door and retrace my steps backward until I’m standing outside the room. Then close that door, too. No need to clean this room or revisit ghosts from the past.

It’s past lunchtime, and my stomach grumbles. I go back to the kitchen and grab ingredients to make a sandwich. Check on my mother again. She stirs, mumbles something I can’t make out. Opens her eyes. Blinks at me several times. That old familiar angry expression that I know so well twists her thin pale face, then she blinks again and relaxes. “You’re here? I thought I had dreamed that.”

“I’m here for a little longer, then I have to go. Are you hungry? I got food.”

“Food? We don’t have no food.”

“I went to the store. Got a few things for lunch and dinner. Stuff you can prepare with no trouble. Some frozen meals, pasta, and fruit.”

She stretches her arm to me. “Okay then. Help me up, please.”

I take her frail hand. I can feel every bone under the dry, patchy skin. Help her up. She looks around and walks to the kitchen. “You cleaned?”

“A little, yes.”

“Looks good, thank you.”

“Sit down, Mom. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

I make the sandwiches in silence. She watches my every move. I set a plate in front of her and take a seat on the other side of the table. “What would you like to drink? I got milk and some Gatorade too.”

“Gatorade, please.” Her eyes light up in a way I can’t remember ever seeing.

I give her a glass and open the bottle for her. Get myself water. “I cleaned your room too, did some laundry. You can sleep on your bed tonight. It will be more comfortable.”

“Ah, thank you. I couldn’t make myself go in there. Every time I tried to clean, I got sick again.”

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