1
CADENCE
Igaze out the window at the same green hills I’ve seen every day since I can remember. If I try hard, I can re-imagine the view to be full of skyscrapers, honking traffic, flashing lights, and crowds big enough to get lost in — all the things that I’ll never experience in Beaumont City, population 3214 and shrinking.
The founding brothersBeaumontand their ilk obviously had delusions of grandeur when they declared this little patch of fertile dirt acity. Or maybe the name was aspirational, and they dreamed of growing into it one day. I wish they had.
Imagine if they’d succeeded and this place had become a bustling metropolis? Would I be living in a high-rise with my bedroom in the clouds, close to the heavens? A tiny apartment would come with an even tinier list of chores, which would leave room for me to read a lot more books or maybe live a larger life with someone ultra-romantic and sexy… that certainly sounds like heaven. Would I like city living better or worse than a tiny cabin in the woods?
Maybe one day I’ll stretch my meager savings to try one or the other. It’s taking forever to get ahead with the pittance I earn between my work at the library and the allowance I get from dad to help out around the house with Mom. I’ll need a third job, ifI’m ever going to be able to get where I want to be, but I don’t know where I’d find the time for that. Or the energy.
I sigh. Life’s hard enough without adding more strain. And I guess I’m lucky to be able to save as much as I do. At least I don’t need to buy food or pay rent while I’m living at home, and Dad generously pays for my car’s gas… I should be more grateful.
The brush in my hand snags on a knot in Mom’s hair, and the sudden loll of her head pulls my wandering mind back into awareness. I apologize at once and pay special attention to making sure the bristles run more smoothly. Unbothered, Mom stares straight ahead, her expression blank. Any ability to complain about her care was silenced over a dozen years ago, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do my best to treat her well.
“There you go,” I say, as I pin the last loose end of her fading auburn hair into its signature bun. “All done.”
With the task of readying her for the day complete, I move around to view her from the front, but after one look at her appearance, there’s no denying that so much is still missing. There’s no light in her eyes, no color in her cheeks, and no warmth radiating from her in waves of love. It’s been so long since she looked like the woman I remember. She doesn’t even smell the same.
I lift her discontinued perfume from the dressing table and hold it to my nose. It doesn’t smell the same straight from the bottle as it had when I used to catch a whiff of it on her skin when she hugged me. The sheer absence of her soul these days makes my heart ache all the more for her once-comforting presence in my life. I lean forward and spritz a little of the precious scent below her ear, where her steady pulse pretends she’s still with us. I breathe in as I kiss her cheek and then lean back to view her again. If only shelookedmore alive.
I set down the fragrance bottle, open her long-untouched makeup drawer, and pull out her old blush and the brightlipstick she used to apply religiously each morning, as if nobody — not even her own family — was ever allowed to know the true nature of her smile. She doesn’t smile anymore, but if I could just make her look the way she used to…
She neither agrees nor disagrees to my request to make her over, so like every other task I perform to care for her, I do it anyway. It’s the only way to get through the days, and the longer we live thisGroundhog Daylifestyle, the more I believe it’s for Dad’s benefit more than it is mine or Mom’s. We’d probably both be better off if she was in a home, but Dad would never agree to it.In sickness and in healthhas gripped him by the balls with love and guilt and grief. He won’t let go; can’t let go.
And so here we are. Stuck. Every day the same, spent trying to preserve someone who’s long gone, while my own life passes by unlived.
I sit back to assess my work, but if I was hoping for some semblance of warmth or animation in my mother’s face, I’ve only disappointed myself. Her blank expression is as vacant as ever, leaving no trace of her true essence.
The back door closes below. “Cadence?” My father’s voice calls before the lowest step creaks and his footsteps climb in an approach.
“I’m upstairs.” But he already knew that. Where else would I be?
The door swings open, and he gasps. “What have you done?” He marches over to the tissue box and yanks out a couple. “She’s got physiotherapy this morning. She can’t go into Morrinsville looking like one of the back-alley tramps that roam the streets there. People will think we’re mistreating her. How could you be so disrespectful?” He holds Mom’s head in place and rubs at her mouth, smearing the lipstick and making everything so much worse.
I push up from my stool and head into the adjacent bathroom to wet a facecloth. “I just wanted to see her face the way she made it up every day. She never looked like atramp.” I say it quietly and keep my head down. Disagreeable eye contact will only be perceived as insubordination, which will incur wrath I don’t have the energy to suffer today. There’s no arguing with my father — well, no winning, anyway — so why bother fighting when I can smile, nod, and let it blow over? It’s the fastest, easiest path to regaining my peace.
“Are you accusing me of insulting your mother?” His tone expertly holds both a warning and a pre-judged admonishment, which I know from experience not to fuck with. Everyone in town who’s ever found themselves called into his office at the high school knows not to fuck with him when he uses his principal’s voice. It’s always followed by an ending the receiver won’t appreciate, because he has a knack for knowing exactly what you want and how he can ruin it for you.
“No, Daddy.” I shoo him away from Mom, brush the larger remnants of broken tissue from her lips, and gently wipe away the mess he’s made. “I know you want her to look respectable and dignified. I want that too.”
“Then don’t ever do that again.” He growls, snatches the lipstick off the dresser, and shoves it deep into his pocket. “Her oatmeal is cooling on the table,” he says once I’m done. “She doesn’t like it cold.”
Didn’t, I think to myself. I’m not sure Mom’s taste or temperature receptors in her mouth have been connected to any level of comprehension since Dad’s horse kicked nearly every functional ability she had clear out of her head. It was a horrific thing to have happened, and time hasn’t lessened the impact it’s had on our family, but out of love, we strive to keep our care for her as close as we can to the way she preferred to live. She wasour everything, so what else can we do, right? This is a question I’ve been pondering a lot lately.
I move out of Dad’s way, and he lifts Mom into his arms for the journey downstairs. I can tell from the strain in his face and neck that it’s getting harder for him. I don’t mention it, because it’d only incite another argument, where he’d accuse me of disrespecting my mother by making her live below us on the bottom floor,like a peasant, but I’m going to finish clearing out the downstairs bedroom this week. At some point, his back is going to give out on him, and he won’t be able to defend his stubborn behavior.
If he feels guilty about her being alone on the ground floor, he could share the downstairs room with her — if hewantedto. He doesn’t, but he’ll never admit to it. I’m not sure he could handle being any more confronted by his loss. He can barely be around her as it is.
He sets her into the armchair at the table, and then,choredone, he grabs his car keys from the counter. “Michelle will be here to collect her for her appointment before you have to leave for the library.”
I nod and watch him kiss the top of Mom’s head, his supposedly loving gesture more driven by routine and duty than actual desire or emotion. There’s a resounding emptiness in it that makes me want to cry. Mom doesn’t even blink.
“Have a good day at work,” I say, putting on a brave smile.
“You too, Cupcake.” He pauses at the door. “Is that loathsome man still reading his way through the shelves?”
He’s talking about Daryl Winters, Beaumont City’s very handsome and incredibly misunderstood scapegoat for everyone’s misplaced judgments, and one of the only men in this county who’s curious and worldly enough to read beyond the realms of sports biographies and thrillers. He’s basically the only guy in town worth talking to if you want to hold a decentconversation, and our talks always leave me hopeful of one day experiencing even a fraction as much of the world as he has. It’s refreshing to share time with someone who thinks outside of boxes; who’s not limited by conventions or what others may think of him.
