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 ^{(it's beta!)}

It was a strange feeling that afternoon when I finally arrived in my home town, drove up to the old house and saw the driveway and street sides filled with cars I didn’t recognize. Family members from all over had come to pay their respects.

For some reason everyone was waiting for me to arrive. I stepped inside, put on my awkward smile and greeted everyone I could before I was eventually presented a seat and fell into a conversation with a distant cousin who kept patting me on the shoulder and telling me that “she knew she didn’t have much time left.” My sister Erin was there of course. She’d been there for the past week, the only person to actually live in the old house in about a month. She was thirty-two, four years older than me, and we never used to fight. As soon as she found me she pulled me aside and whispered harshly, “I thought you were going to be here last weekend.”

“Things came up-“

“No. No, that doesn’t work anymore. I needed you here. People just keep showing up and I can’t deal with everything myself anymore.”

“Well I’m here now, right?”

“Don’t be a prick. You saw how many people are here, right? We’re still expecting a few more tonight. Some of them didn’t get hotel rooms so they’re staying here. Everyone’s going to the hospital in the morning.”

“Is that when-“

“That’s when. Everyone wants to be there, too.”

“It’s going to be a hell of a family reunion.” I immediately regretted saying that.

It was such a stupid thing to say.

“I’ve cried every night since I got the phone call.” Erin spoke very slowly, looking like she was even then holding back tears. I started to say something, but she interrupted me. “It’s really hard to get anything done when all I can think about is not being able to do anything. I haven’t even unpacked. There’s dust everywhere, the lawn needs to be mowed, the sink is full of dishes and I keep waking up later and later. She told me to keep up her garden, but it’s dying too.” Her voice cracked and she held a hand up to her mouth. Her already red eyes began to tear up and she took a short gasp of air before dropping her hand. She just looked at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. I slowly turned around and began to walk back out to the living room where everyone had gathered, but Erin grabbed my sleeve.

“I know you’re going to miss her,” she said. “It’s just, you were like this when dad died, too.”

“Like what?”

“Like you didn’t care. I know it’s stupid. Mom always thought it was the drugs.”

“’The drugs?’”

“You know what I mean, the-” She stopped for a moment a lowered her voice, “the weed.”

“That’s crazy. I’ve never cried about anyone’s death, even before I started smoking.”

“

But your own dad, Alan. Our dad. I know it’s stupid, but I think she’s resented you a little bit ever since. She never really got over his death and yet you never seemed to bring it up, or even care. It was weird.”

“He was old. He was really old, and so is Mom. I’d prepared myself years in advance and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. The only thing left is to be respectful at the funeral, and if I could even skip that, I would. Those people out there keep talking to me like they know me and telling me how upset I must be and I can only tolerate being fake with them for so long. There are a countless number of things I would rather be doing than coming back home to watch Mom die, and yes, very close to the top of that list is smoking some weed. Does me more fucking good than crying about it.”

Erin was quiet. She was definitely angry, but she held on to her composure and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Are you going to the hospital in the morning?”

“Of course. I’ll be staying at Andy’s place.”

“Why aren’t you staying here?”

“Well, it sounds like the place is going to be pretty packed tonight.”

Erin shifted a bit, then wiped at her eyes for a moment. “Just don’t be late, okay?”

“I won’t be.”

She nodded a few times, maybe more for herself than for me. After a brief silence, she stepped forward and embraced me.

“I missed you,” she said as she began to slowly rock back and forth. I could feel her body begin to shake and my shoulder was getting wet.

“I missed you, too.”

That evening Andy and I drove to the edge of town, smoking a blunt, listening to night music and watching the stars appear. It was the first bit of peace I’d had all day.

Andy was my oldest friend who still hadn’t left town. He’d finally moved out of his mom’s house a couple years ago, and into an apartment just down the road. He was my jolly friend, though I would joke that he was less so since he lost all that weight. He would then joke that I was a dick.

“So how long are you visiting?” He turned the music down as he asked.

“Just the weekend. I’m heading back Sunday.” I took a hit and passed it to Andy.

“That’s lame. You know Mike’s having a party next weekend, right?”

“I haven’t been to one of Mike’s parties in over a year.”

“Yeah,” he coughed and an admirable amount of smoke billowed from his mouth. He breathed it all back in and held it for several seconds before slowly exhaling. He took another breath and continued, “And he keeps resenting you for it.”

“I live over three hundred miles away, man. I have my own shit to keep track of.” I breathed in.

“You don’t even have a job anymore, man. What are you doing up there that’s so important you can’t come visit more.”

“Looking for a job,” I muttered, still holding in.

Andy chuckled at that and turned onto a dirt road, and we started going uphill. I reached to turn up the music, but stopped when Andy spoke again. “What about the funeral?”

I coughed.

“What about the funeral?”

“Well, that’s going to be in just a few days, right? A week maybe? I don’t really know how soon they do those things.”

“That’s assuming she actually dies tomorrow.”

He didn’t say anything. I knew I’d made things just a little awkward, but he brought it up. It’s really the last thing I want to talk about right now.

“I’ll come back down for the burial, but probably not the ceremony. Every time I step inside a church I feel like I’m being judged.”

“Well, you are. That’s kinda the whole point.” Andy smiled vaguely. I handed him the roach and turned the music back up.

The road came to a dead end and Andy pulled to the side. We got on the roof of his car and watched the pale light disappear from the edge of the sky. Andy pulled out another joint from his pocket and handed it to me. I pulled out my lighter and lit it up.

I’d forgotten how many more stars you could see here. There was no moon and no clouds, and what little light came from the town at the bottom of the hill didn’t do much from where we sat. I wished I’d still remembered all the constellations Dad had taught me and I vaguely wondered if he ever did sell his telescope.

After a time I glanced over at Andy. He was trying to blow smoke rings. “How well do you remember your dad?”

“I remember he was cool,” he said, passing it to me. He chuckled for a second, “I mean, I guess well enough to know I liked him. I don’t know. Sometimes I think about it and I think that I do still miss him, even if only because I only remember the good things about him.” After a moment, “I’m sure you miss yours.”

“Sometimes.”

My alarm didn’t go off the next day. I called my sister around eleven thirty and they were still at the hospital. Mom had been awake when they got there at seven, but she was asleep now. She knew I was going to do this, she knew I was going to forget. I should’ve stayed at the house with her. Mom had asked about me.

“I’ll be there soon. Call me if she wakes up again.”

I got up off the sofa, got dressed and headed out the door. As I got in the car I realized I smelled, so I pulled out a can of deodorant and sprayed myself, and my car for good measure.

It was about a twenty minute drive to the hospital and as I drove I began to think more and more about how I really didn’t want to see my mother. For some reason the idea of being present at her final moment in life was among the most terrible situations things I could think of. I remembered the last conversation I’d had with her. It was over the phone. I had started off by asking her about her day, but I cracked only two minutes in and told her I’d lost my job. That was over a month ago.

I parked near the edge of the lot. As I stepped out of the car and walked toward the entrance, my phone beeped. “Mom is up” the text read. I kept walking but there was a dropping feeling in my stomach that was becoming hard to ignore.

“I’m here to visit a patient.” I said to the woman at the front desk. She had curly red hair and large glasses. Looked about forty.

“Name?” she asked in a distant monotone.

“Umm, Martha King.”

She typed on her computer. “She’s,” she paused for a moment. “Yeah, she’s still in room 231. Take the elevator at the end of this hall on the left and she’ll be right in front of you.”

I walked down the hall, but stopped at a little table with a pot of coffee and some little Styrofoam cups. I poured a cup with two half & halfs and three packets of sugar and finished it before I got on the elevator.

And Mom’s room was right in front of me. The door was slightly open and I could already hear Erin talking about who all had come to visit. I only hesitated for a second before pushing the door open.

Directly across from the door was a large window facing down onto a grassy courtyard, completely shaded by tall oak trees. The bed was to the left, facing towards the window, and Erin was seated next to the door. She looked up at me briefly, then turned back to mom. “Alan’s here,” she said. “Well, since he’s here now, I’m going to go meet everyone else for lunch. We’ll be back in a bit, okay Mom?”

“That’s fine,” I heard Mom reply.

I looked at her for the first time and she was just looking out the window. It was the first time I’d seen her with all grey hair, but her face still looked the same. She hadn’t looked especially old, just tired. She was propped onto her pillows in a slight sitting position and she wasn’t wearing her glasses. There was a respirator tube hanging around her neck, but she wasn’t using it.

The door closed and I sat down. I was just about to ask her something silly when she calmly spoke “I’m glad you were able to make it.”

“Of course I made it, Mom. Why wouldn’t I?”

“How are things going up in the city?”

“Good. I found another job.”

She smiled weakly. “That’s nice. I knew you would.”

I was silent and slowly she began turning her head to me.

“I’m getting tired again, but I want you to know that I love you. No matter what, I love you, and you’re still my little boy.”

I forced a smile. “But I’m not a little boy anymore.”

“No, I suppose you’ve grown,” her smile grew more genuine. “But you were, and I remember it well. Do you ever remember your childhood?”

“Sometimes I do.”

“Was it happy?”

“Very.”

She closed her eyes. “I enjoyed it, too. The best years of my life were spent raising you and Erin. Your dad and I were happy to have had you both before we got too much older. It just,” she coughed, “It felt like we had so much more life back then. More than anything else, I miss that.”

She didn’t die that day. We stayed with her until about three and left. Most of the visitors were leaving for the night and I stayed at the house. We stayed up late in the kitchen, sipping wine and talking. It was the first time I’d drank at home.

“So you’re heading out tomorrow then?”

“Yeah,” I said. “First thing in the morning.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. You should at least stay until she passes.”

“No, I don’t want to do that. I think that would be the worst thing to. I don’t want to see her anymore.”

“Well why the fuck not?”

“She’s not the person I’m going to miss. She hasn’t been my mom in almost a decade and she knows it. Seeing more of each other, especially now, would just make it harder.

I was a lying coward.

I woke up the next morning around seven. I didn’t see Erin up and I didn’t want to wake her, so I just left. I started to drive to Andy’s place, but I changed my mind halfway there and made my way to the hospital.

There was a younger girl at the front desk. She had straight brown hair and smiled as I approached her. “Can I help you?” she chirped.

“Yeah, I’d like to see a Miss Martha King if she’s awake.”

“Oh,” she said, her smile vanishing instantly. “I’m so sorry, she died just a few hours ago. I called her home number and told Erin, her daughter. She came here almost immediately. She should still be upstairs right now, if you want to go see her. Are you family?”

I paused for only a second. “No. Thank you.” And I left.