Paper Thin

I shouldn’t feel sorry for myself. I shouldn’t feel angry. I should be happy I still had a mom and a sister here with me. I was glad, but things were complicated. Things were too different now.

“Hello?” Carla called out. With everything that had happened, we were forced to hire someone to help with getting Mom to her appointments.

“Hey. I’m in the kitchen,” I answered. “Anyone want lunch?”

“No. We ate already.” Carla crossed the kitchen and set Mom’s purse on the counter. “I took Mrs. Montgomery to the little café on the corner of Benson and River Street.”

“Oh. Okay.” I wondered how this worked. Was I supposed to pay her for Mom’s lunch? I didn’t have any cash on me, but I was sure Emma did. Somewhere.

“I should have called to see if you two wanted anything. I’m sorry.” Carla reached out and gripped my elbow, obviously mistaking the look on my face for something it wasn’t.

“No. It’s fine, really.” I spooned more of the pasta dish I made the other night onto two plates. If I sprinkled it with more cheese, maybe it would appear more edible. “How much do I owe you for Mom’s meal?”

“Oh poo.” She waved my words away. “You don’t owe me a thing. I enjoyed the company.”

“Are you sure?” I put the lid back on the bowl and swiped my hands across my shorts. “I don’t have any cash with me right now, but I’m sure Emma has some somewhere.”

“No. It’s fine.” Carla’s smile wavered at the mention of Emma. “How did she do today?”

“Not as good as I’m sure she hoped. It was a frustrating day for her.” I went through the motions of sprinkling mozzarella cheese on both dishes. “She’ll get it. I know she will. Then things will start to get better for her.” I could feel Carla’s eyes boring into me, picking my words and emotions apart, studying what she saw.

“And how are you?”

How was I? She was the first to ask. Even during the calls I’d had with Sadie, she didn’t think to ask how I was handling things. My mind kicked me before any emotions about it could take root. Why would anyone ask how I was doing? I wasn’t the one who had survived a terrible car accident only to wake up and learn I was never going to walk again. I wasn’t the one who was losing tiny pieces of my mind each day, forgetting those I loved, forgetting words I used to know.

There was no reason for anyone to ask me how I was doing. I was fine, compared to them.

“I’m okay.” I placed one plate in the microwave, and pushed the buttons to warm it.

“I know you’re okay physically.” Carla moved so that she was a step closer to me, invading my personal space with her grandmotherly perfume smell that was oddly comforting. “But how are you mentally, sweetheart? That’s what I’m asking.”

I swallowed hard, searching for an answer that would make me seem braver than I was, one that would make this conversation end, because I couldn’t have it. I couldn’t divulge what I was truly feeling, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together if I did. “I’m hanging in there.”

“You’re as stubborn as your sister, you know that?” She placed a hand on her hip, and flashed me a tight-lipped grin. “The two of you must get that from your momma. I swear she has her stubborn days too. Did you see what she tried to walk out of the house in this morning?”

Her words shocked me. Not only her comparison between my sister and me, but also the one to my mom. It was hard for me to think of my mother as anything other than what she was now—an adult I viewed as more like a child due to her disease. I was not a child. I was far from it. My new day-to-day life was a harsh reminder of it. “No.” I’d been too worried about the fact that Emma had barely touched her breakfast again.

“Her winter coat and layers of clothes.” Carla smirked. “She was dressed for a damn blizzard again.”

As if on cue, Mom entered the kitchen. She was still dressed for frigid winter weather.

I arched a brow at Carla. “You let her leave the house like that?” I whispered, hoping Mom wouldn’t hear. The microwave beeped, and I replaced the plate inside with the other one I had yet to warm.

Carla shrugged. “Mrs. Montgomery, you ready for me to take your heavy coat yet?”

“No. I’m fine. Thank you.” Mom opened one cabinet and then another, searching for something.

“See, she’s fine. So I let her wear it.”

I nodded. I wouldn’t want to argue with her either. Regardless of my mother’s mental state, she was never one to argue with. That was one thing about her that hadn’t changed.

Mom slammed another cabinet shut and moved on to the next one.

“What are you looking for, Mom?” I asked.

“The cups.”

“In the cabinet beside the sink.” My words were slow, cautious, deflated.

We had always lived in this house. Emma had grown up here. I had grown up here. During that time, the cups had always been in the same place—the cabinet nearest the sink. I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself as grief swept through me. It was becoming such a familiar feeling.

“Oh, right.” Mom smiled as though it was a silly thing to forget.

“She’s really slipping, sweetheart. I know your sister didn’t want to, but with the way things have taken such a turn, placing your mom in a home might be the best thing for you all.” Carla gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before she walked to the backyard to smoke another of her cancer sticks.

I scooped up Emma’s plate and a fork, letting the words Carla had left me with process as I started down the hall. Was she right? Was finally admitting our mother was too much for either of us to tend to something we should do? Didn’t that mean we were giving up on her? That we were saying she was too much of a burden?

I chewed the inside of my cheek while I continued toward Emma’s room, wondering if this was the same internal debate she had each time I brought the idea of a nursing home up. If so, no wonder she snapped at me; the pressure to make the right call was unbearable.

“DON’T LOOK AT ME like that.” Emma’s voice, equal parts exasperation and embarrassment, met my ears. She didn’t sound like my sister at all. “I hate it when you look at me like you feel sorry for me.”

I was in the hall, listening to Dawson and Emma’s private conversation even though I shouldn’t. It wasn’t intentional. I went to the bathroom and overheard a little bit, which caused me to freeze. From the sounds of it, their di

“That’s not what you’re seeing,” Dawson countered. “I don’t feel sorry for you, Emma. I just hate seeing you feel sorry for yourself.”

My sister made an awful sound in the back of her throat, and I knew she was getting ready to unleash on him. “I have every right to feel sorry for myself! How dare you tell me any different!” Her words were bitter and harsh, unlike anything I’d ever heard come from her.

I held my breath, wondering what Dawson would say in response. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he had to be falling apart. No one could handle my sister’s wrath when she was this pissed. I knew that better than anyone. My throat clenched as my lungs burned for more air, but I couldn’t breathe yet. I was afraid I would miss what he would say next.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t feel sorry for yourself. I said I hated seeing you feel sorry for yourself. There’s a big difference.” His rich voice traveled down the hall to me, causing goose bumps to prickle along my skin from the emotion trapped within it. He loved her still. Why couldn’t she see it? That was what he was trying to convey. I understood what he meant. Why didn’t she?

“Then don’t.” Her words were crisp and clear. So was her meaning, even before she continued. “No one is forcing you. You’re free to leave anytime.”

I couldn’t believe the words left my sister’s mouth. They were so cruel. So cold. For the first time in my entire life, I wished my mom would walk out of her bedroom and break this conversation up. Too bad the new medication she was on caused her to sleep through the night.