Charade

“Colton? Is that you?” Her voice sounds happy despite what she’s going through. Does she smell the death like I do? Does it make her nauseous or is she immune? I’m such a prick.

“Of course it is, Mom. You expecting some other gorgeous, young guy to show up?” I round the corner into her living room. The curtains are open in the big window on the wall. She’s always loved sunshine. I wonder what the hell there is to be so sun-shiny about.

Mom laughs as she’s sitting in her old-tattered wheelchair. The robe I bought her for Christmas like eight years ago is around her shoulders. It has holes in it. The stupid thing needed to be thrown away a long time ago, but she doesn’t throw anything away. When you don’t have much, you take care of the stuff you do have.

I lean forward and kiss her forehead. I feel like a dick because I have to hold my breath to do it. She’s not wearing a hat today and all that’s left of her hair is fuzz. “What’s up?” Dust kicks up when I fall into the chair beside her.

“Not much. How are you today?” Her voice cracks and she starts to cough. Damn if I don’t want to plug my ears so I don’t have to hear it. Yeah. What a good son I am. She’d do anything for me, but I can hardly stand looking at her.

“How are you feelin’?” It’s a much more important question than anything about me.

Her hair used to be blonde and shiny. I remember people saying it looked like sunshine. Maybe that’s why she likes the curtains open so much. Winter will be hard. She probably won’t be here…

“I feel great.” Mom crosses her arms.

I roll my eyes. Yeah. How great can she feel? She’s dying. The docs say it could be a week, could be three months. You never can tell with this stuff. That’s a shitty answer if you ask me. They’re doctors. Aren’t they supposed to know that? If they can tell you you’re going to die, they should be able to narrow it down a little better.

“Mom…”

“Colton,” she throws back at me, a smile tilting her lips. “Tell me about school. How are your classes?”

Shitty. I hate them. They’re not nearly as important as what’s going on with you. “They’re cool. It’s only been a couple weeks.” Every year it’s the same. It’s all she cares about and all she talks about and every time I feel like I want to explode. I shouldn’t be worried about grades. I should be taking care of her—doing whatever the hell it takes to take care of her. It’s why I do the things I do.

Mom gives me another smile, her eyes a mixture of joy and pain. That look has the power to eat me up inside, like it burns through me the same way the cancer is burning through her body, destroying everything in sight. She touches my leg. Jesus, her fingers are thin.

“I can’t believe my son is a junior in college. You’ve grown into a man so quickly. I always knew you could do anything, Colton.”

Now guilt is my disease. Because I don’t see the point. Because I never gave a shit about going to college. I know who I am and what I amount to and no stupid degree will change that. Her? She always wanted it for me. She was born a crack baby, and survived. Bounced around between foster homes and survived. She always knew who her mom was—high school drop-out, runaway, drug addict. Mom didn’t do drugs, but she got pregnant with me young, just like her mom did. Became a high school drop-out. Are we seeing a pattern here?

The shitty part is my money comes from the thing that’s caused her all her problems. Drugs.

She’s survived everything. Not let it get her down. Worked her ass off. Took my dickhead dad in when he stumbled back into our lives and tried to be my mom and dad when he was gone.

All she ever wanted was for me to finish high school. Go to college, like that bullshit would make me better than my destiny.

“It’s not that big a deal, Mom.” I squeeze her hand so she doesn’t see I’m pissed, but do it carefully so I don’t hurt her.

“Yes, it is.”

She got sick when I was a senior in high school and it happened fast. I promised her if she got better, I’d do everything she wanted. I’d go to school. We applied for scholarships, financial aid and all that together and she did start to get better. We thought she beat more odds, but by then, I was stuck. I’d made a promise and I knew it meant more to her than her life.

Three years later, I’m still in school and she’s really dying this time. All she wants is to know I’m going to finish—like the piece of paper will all make it worth it, or something.

“What time’s Maggie coming home?” A subject change is definitely in order. Maggie’s an ex-nurse mom became friends with. They’re roommates and she’s mom’s caregiver now. Hospice comes in to check on her, but it helps knowing Maggie’s here all the time. We struggled for insurance all our lives, but once you’re dying, things are different. Sucks that it has to come to that.

“About an hour. I’m really tired though.” She yawns. It happens like that a lot. She’ll seem okay, but then her body can hardly stay awake any longer.

“I’ll put you to bed.”

“I’m okay. I want to visit with you.”

“It’s okay. I need to go to work anyway. I just wanted to stop in and see how you’re doing.” At my fake job. Fast food won’t bring in the kind of money and flexibility I need to be here for her. Hospice might take care of the fact that she’s dying, but that’s not all there is to worry about.

“If you’re sure.” She yawns again. I stand, about to push her into the other room, but she stops me. “I feel like walking. Can you help me walk?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pain lancing through me. How fucked up his this? She’s thirty-eight years-old. She shouldn’t need my help walking to her bedroom. “Absolutely.”

She leans on me as I help lift her from the chair. Her arm wraps around me loosely, so I hold her tight to make sure she doesn’t fall. It takes four minutes to make a thirty second walk, but soon we make it to her bedroom. To the hospital bed in her room. I help her sit down, but when I try to take the robe off, she stops me. “I like to wear it. It makes me feel close to you.”

I bite my tongue. Shit, this is hard. “That’s what all the ladies say.” I wink at her before making sure she can lay down okay. Pulling the covers up, I give her another kiss on the head. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

She doesn’t answer and I know it’s because she’s worn out. My hands are begging to hit something. To do something, anything to try and make the pain inside go away.

When I get to her bedroom door, I hear a creaked, “Colton?”

Turing back, I look at her. “You can do anything in the world. I’ve always known that. Don’t forget it.”

My insides shatter. I’m definitely not who she thinks I am and I’m not even sure I want to be. Luckily, I don’t have to answer her, because that quickly, she’s out.

***

There’s a different smell permeating the next house I walk into: alcohol, weed, and who knows what else. Music thumps so loud the walls vibrate.

“’Sup, man?” Adrian nods his head at me. He’s leaning against the wall with a girl kissing his neck.

“Havin’ fun?” I smile at him, knowing he’s not going to be in the living room with this chick much longer. They’ll find a room, closet, car or something soon. Not that I blame him.

“You know it,” Adrian replies and I keep walking.

When I left home, all I wanted was to be alone, but stepping into our packed, shitty, little house I know this is exactly what I need. Distraction. Probably the same kind Adrian’s getting.

I head straight for my secret stash, locked in my closet, grab the bottle of Tequila and take it with me. Space opens up on the couch as soon as I walk back into the room, so I take it, putting the bottle to my lips and gulping some down at the same time.

It isn’t two minutes later I feel someone sit beside me. “Hey, Colt.”

Still leaning against the back of the couch, I turn my head to look at Deena. I knew it would be her. Her black hair’s pulled back. She’s wearing all kinds of makeup, but I don’t care about any of that. She’s exactly what I want right now.