“Nearly that,” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder at Josiah. It’s like even seeing him in my line of sight is calming me.
The woman steps around me, pulling Josiah in for a hug this time. “And Josiah. It is so good to see you, dear.” She steps back until she can look at me again. “I’m Miriam. I used to volunteer at the church with your mother.” Stepping aside, she adds, “Here, you boys come on in. Was your mom expecting you? She didn’t mention it to me.”
“Uh, no.” Clearing my throat, I step into my childhood house, the scent sending me back to those miserable younger years. “She didn’t know I was coming. I, uh, had heard she wasn’t doing well, and didn’t know how to get ahold of her.”
The cheerful smile falls from her face, expression turning somber. “Oh, honey, you don’t know then?”
My chest tightens. “No, I don’t really know anything other than she wasn’t doing good, and I should come visit.” Josiah steps closer behind me, his hand coming to the small of my back as if to reassure me. Or center me. I’m not sure which, but with the heat of his body and the feel of his touch, it works. “What’s wrong with her?”
I hate how shaky my voice comes out.
“Here, let’s go into the kitchen,” Miriam says, turning and walking in that direction. “I can pour you both some lemonade, and we can talk for a moment before you go see her. She’s upstairs resting.”
Looking back at Josiah, his face is unreadable, and he shrugs. So, I shrug too, before following her. The house looks exactly as I remember it, even all these years later. It’s never felt like ahometo me. Yeah, it was somewhere I lived. Somewhere I grew up. But I don’t get the warm, fuzzy feeling one would get as I walk through the halls, with the walls that aren’t adorned with pictures of me as a child. There are no cute, heartwarming stories I can reminisce about in this house. No pencil marks tracking my height on any of the doorframes. Instead of happy family dinners, the dining room table holds memories of hostility and anger and tension.
Just as she promised, Miriam pulls a jug full of lemonade out of the fridge, reaching into the cabinet to take out two glasses, pouring Josiah and I some. Setting it in front of us, she takes a seat on one of the bar stools.
“Segan, honey, I’m just going to come right out and say this, because I don’t know how to sugarcoat it.” Even as she says that, though, she falters. Her lips are down-turned in a frown, and it’s clear she doesn’t want to say whatever it is she needs to say. I wonder if the community knows how broken we are as a family. If they did, then maybe she wouldn’t be so hesitant.
When she doesn’t make any move to continue, I mutter, “You can say it. Whatever it is, just say it.”
“Your mom is in end-stage liver failure, dear, and she doesn’t have very much time left.” Her eyes fill with tears as she looks away. It’s clear my mother means a lot to her.
“How long has this been going on?” I ask, my voice sounding detached.
She glances back at me. “Oh, it’s been a while now, but it wasn’t until about a month ago that she really started to decline.” Using a napkin, she wipes her nose before cocking her head and asking, “You haven’t heard about any of this? How is that possible?”
Discomfort swirls around in my gut at the question. “We haven’t, uh… we haven’t really kept in touch over the years, ma’am.”
“Are you Mrs. Bradley’s nurse?” Josiah jumps in and asks beside me. He can probably sense how damn uncomfortable I am.
“Oh, yes.” She laughs, her cheeks pinkening up. “She’s also a very dear friend to me, so when Mr. Bradley asked me, I, of course, said yes. I’ve been a hospice nurse for many, many years.”
I finish my lemonade, putting the glass in the sink. “Am I able to go see her?”
“Of course, you can. Let me go up there with you so I can turn down some of her meds so she can be a bit more present with you. She’s in the bedroom just off the stairs.”
My old bedroom.
Peering over at Josiah, we somehow have an entire conversation with just our eyes. He nods, silently telling me he’ll be right down here if I need him. With another deep breath, I follow Miriam down the hall and up the stairs. It’s odd to me that my mom’s in my old room, and not her bedroom.
Palms sweaty and my pulse racing, I gently push open the door, wincing when it creaks just like it used to when I lived here. Some things never change. The lights are off, but there’s light spilling in from where the curtains are open. There’s a hospital bed in the middle of the space, but that’s about it. A television is mounted on the wall directly in front of the bed, but I doubt it’s getting much use these days.
My gaze lands on my mom, the ache in my throat growing larger. Miriam steps around me, going to her bedside and fiddling with the IV in her arm. Miriam says something to her too low for me to catch it, and shortly after, my mom’s eyes peel open, slightly unfocused, as they look up at Miriam. A look of fondness crosses over her features as she takes in the woman standing over her, a light in her eyes that only lasts for the briefest of moments.
I’ve heard before that people with liver failure can turn yellow, but seeing it in person is jarring, especially when that person is your mother. Both her skin and the whites of her eyes have a yellow tint to them, and she looks so… tired. I don’t know how else to describe it. When I step up to the bed, she turns her head, noticing me.
“Segan?” She tries to clear her throat, her voice coming out cracked, like she isn’t used to using it much.
Suddenly, I feel so uncomfortable being here. The urge to run downstairs and leave is strong. Rubbing the back of my neck with my hand, I give a sort of half-smile. “Uh, hi, Mom.”
“I will leave you two to it,” Miriam cuts in, both of us turning our attention to her as she steps back from the bed. “If she needs anything, just let me know.”
And now I’m alone with my mother.
For the first time in over eight years.
There’s a folding chair against the wall behind me. I grab and open it, taking a seat, feeling more anxious than I have in a long time.
