I can only hope.
About a lot of things, even things I have no right to.
13
Caden
It’s worse than I thought.
I’d been prepared for what happened the last time I saw my mom, when she’d been angry and frightened of me. I’d believed that was the worst that could happen.
I was wrong.
I stayed away too long, and now it’s too late.
The woman sitting in the wheelchair in front of me is broken and blank. She won’t remember me, angry or otherwise, because there’s nothing there. Her shoulders are hunched, her head resting at an awkward angle, her hands curled and shaking.
The nurse gives me a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid she’s not having the best day.”
I nod, sitting down on the bed. I feel impotent and uncomfortable, and I wish I was alone instead of with Cat.
Cat doesn’t appear to suffer from the same affliction I do, because she takes my mom’s hand, grasps it loosely, and leans down to look her in the eye. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Landry. How are you doing today?”
When there’s no response, Cat, squeezes her frail fingers. “I brought Caden with me.” She beams at my mom. “Isn’t he handsome?”
Cat releases her hand and pats the back of it before moving around the room. “Well, this place is far too dark.” She sets about opening the curtains. “There. That’s better.”
She walks across the room to a dresser and picks up a brush. “Can I brush your hair, Mrs. Landry?”
When there’s no answer, she gently runs the brush through my mother’s thin, white hair. I try to envision a future where I’m her—old and gray and wrinkled, my mind and body broken—but I find it impossible. In some ways, my dad had it better—just a massive hit to the heart and he was gone.
Cat sets down the brush and goes into the bathroom, coming out a few moments later with a washcloth. I watch her, the stark contrast of all her life and vitality and youth against my mother’s withered fragility.
It seems easier to talk to Cat than to think of something to say to the shell in front of me. “You’re good at that.”
She smiles. “It’s not as hard as you think. Just speak and act as you would normally.”
“But this isn’t normal.”
She looks at me, her steely gaze uncanny. “Who says? It’s her normal. It’s life. All we can do is make the best of it.”
She swipes a cloth over my mom’s face. “Isn’t that right?”
My mother’s eyes flicker, but other than that, there’s nothing.
Cat straightens. “You learn a lot about life, living with a disabled child.”
I think of her niece, with her golden hair, sparkling eyes, and rigid body. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Neither had I until Nat came into our lives and we were all forced to adapt.” Cat walks back into the bathroom and returns with a towel, which she uses to wipe the dampness away. “You’d be surprised how many people treat Natalie like she can’t understand the basics, like she needs to be talked to as if she’s three because she’s stuck in that chair. She hates it. It’s the kind of thing you don’t think of until you live with it—how condescending it is. How in trying to make yourself comfortable, you ruin it for the other person.”
Cat looks down at my mom. “Now that you’re all gussied up, how about a walk?”
When there’s no response, Cat smiles at me. “Ready?”
I shake my head. “You’re amazing.”
She laughs. “Not really.”