Feeling This (8 page)

“Hey girl.”

“Kimber, did I time it right or what? Are
you done at the Bruin’s?”

I laugh, “You’re lucky she let me leave
when she did, time waster. You made me late this morning.”

“Ahhh no, Andrew made you late. He showed
back up in your life and screwed with your mojo.”

“Damn, Heidi, I almost forgot about that
whole fiasco this morning. You
would
have to go and bring it back up.”

She giggles, “Just keepin it real. What’s
this thing going on tonight?”

I sigh at having to go over this with her
again. Sometimes she can be so stubborn, “This
thing
is nothing, I have
to work, and that’s all. You as usual have nothing going on so if you want to
catch up, you should stop by the Duck and I’ll buy you a beer.” I add to make
it even sweeter, “It’s Monday night, so no one will even know you showed your
face.”
God forbid.

“Umm, I’ll think about it.”

Frustration rings in my voice, “What is
there to think about you told me this morning that you’d come? Either come or
not, I’ll be there regardless.”

“Okay, I think I can make it.” She exasperates
me when she drags her feet like this.

Abruptly I end the call climbing into my
car, “Okay girl, see you tonight.”

My hand moves out of habit to caress the
dash, while pleading silently with my car not to give me any problems. It
starts right up with the turn of the key. Pulling down the long drive under the
canopy of bright green leaves overhead, I notice the grey clouds rolling across
the sky. A rainy, Monday night, it’s not going to be very busy at the bar.
Super.

When I pull into the short dirt drive, torrents
of rain are enveloping my house. A glance around the car reminds me, I forgot
to put the umbrella back in here after the last time a storm hit.
Great.
 
I open the door and dash to the front of the house with my key ready.
Unfortunately, that small expanse between the car and the door drench me. As
soon as I walk in, my mom’s scratchy voice calls out, “Kimber, is that you
girl?”

“Yes, Momma, I just got done at Mrs.
Bruin’s.”

I run my hand through my now soaking wet
hair as I answer and make my way to the kitchen. The sight is the same as
usual. She’s sitting at the rickety kitchen table with a stained laminate
surface. Her posture is slanted as she leans in for support. The hair on her
head has just about completely changed to gray, oily from lack of a shower.
Tiny hints of blonde still stand out, but just barely. Before she got sick she
took better care of herself. We used to look alike. Once upon a time her eyes
were a vibrant blue and she was so full of life. Now it seems the disease has
taken all the color from her. Her eyes are more of a steel grey, dulling more
each day.

“Hey Momma, you want some help getting’
into the shower before I get ready for work?”

She turns toward me with a cigarette hanging
half out of her mouth and utters around it, “You didn’t tell me Jenna’s in
town.”

Shit. How’d she find out?
“No, Momma I didn’t. She said she wouldn’t be here long.” I let my
voice trail off. It’s obvious from the slur in her words that she’s had a lot
to drink today. She started with a glass of vodka this morning, I wonder if
she’s been at it all day.

Her voice takes on a whiny quality, “I know
you girls are done with me. Jenna don’t even wanna visit anymore.”

Oh boy, here comes the guilt. She’ll go
into this whole spiel about how we don’t love her and we’d be better off
without her.

I lurch forward and slide my arm around her
bony back. She’s not eating again; the vodka is going to have to go. I take her
cigarette away and put it out in the ashtray. Grasping her other hand in front,
I pull her up out of the chair. Her whole body shifts to lean on me. Yes,
definitely no shower in days. I turn my head at the stench emanating from her.
We make our way back to her bedroom down a short hall off the side of the
kitchen. I help her sit on the edge of the bed and leave to turn on the shower.
Once it’s warm enough, I lead her into the small bathroom, scarcely big enough
for the two of us to stand in it. Slowly and laboriously I pull her shirt off
over her head and lower her pants, helping her to step out of them.

Once she gains stability, standing there
with only a white bra and panties, both obviously too large on her thin frame,
she barks at me, “Kimber, get out. I can do it. Do you think I’m an invalid or
something?”

My feet move backwards giving her space. My
hands go directly to my sides with clenched fists and I relent, “Okay Momma,
let me know if you need any help.”

She spins toward the shower and snidely
comments, “Don’t you need to go to work?”

I turn around ready to walk out, glancing
back once as she climbs over the side of the tub and pulls the flimsy shower
curtain that is covered in roses, closed. My momma has never been very loving
but now she’s just the opposite if there ever was. I’m not sure she’s even
capable of love anymore. I wonder if I am. Maybe that’s why Andrew left in the
first place. Maybe I couldn’t give him what he needed. As I make my way to my
room across the house, today’s events resurface. He looked so good, nothing
like the eighteen year old boy who left four years ago. He filled out in all
the right places and his chiseled face makes my knees go weak just thinking
about it.

Becca and Heidi may be onto something.
Maybe I just need to get laid and things will look better. That might be an
option I need to explore and possibly in the very near future.

 Showered and wrapped in a towel, my foot
finds the threadbare cotton mat spread out on the bathroom floor. Once I’ve
stepped completely out, I hear a curdled scream. My feet move into action
before I can focus on exactly what it is. I head to Momma’s room and find her
sprawled out on the floor. Her feet are splayed at an odd angle. Leaning over
her, only inches from her face, I ask, “Momma, are you alright?”

She stares across the room as if she didn’t
just fall. Concern etches itself across my face, for her health but also for
work. We can’t afford for me to miss a day of work. We’re barely getting by as
it is.

“Here Momma, let me help you up.” I reach
down, allowing her access to my opened hand to help her up. She ignores it
placing her hands by her sides. She attempts with all the strength she has to
push up but gives up after one try. After a minute of watching, I center myself
behind her and gently place my hands under her arms, pulling her up. As she
gains her bearing, she brushes my hands away and yells, “Get out, just get
out.”

I back away once again and head for the
door swallowing a lump in my throat trying to hold back my tears at seeing her
like this. I don’t turn to check on her.  She is slowly losing control of her
body and she doesn’t know how to deal with it. That’s what this disease does.
Multiple Sclerosis is a slow killer. Yes, I make sure she takes her meds every
day but she was diagnosed late. The fact that she drinks and smokes doesn’t
help either but I can’t blame her. If I were slowly losing command of my
muscles, I might venture to vices too. It breaks my heart every time this
happens. She has a fall or is unable to grasp something. Her only response is
to lash out her frustrations and I just happen to be the only one around. Jenna
ran away because she couldn’t stand to watch her deteriorate.  I can’t really
blame her.

My towel is still wrapped tightly around my
small chest. Entering my room, I glance over at the clock on the bedside table,
5:15. I have exactly forty-five minutes to get dressed, find something to eat
and make it to the Duck. In a pile of clean clothes yet to be folded and put
away, I find a clean tank and shorts, and rush to pull them on. My dirty-
blonde hair, desperately in need of a trim hangs limply so I decide to braid it
angled to the side. A smear of lip gloss after brushing my teeth and I’m ready.

The kitchen is empty when I make my way to
the fridge looking for something to eat. It’s empty with the exception of an
expired half-gallon of milk and a few leftover containers from Mrs. Bruin. I
reach in and pull out the container I brought home yesterday. A glimpse inside
reveals homemade macaroni and cheese, my favorite of all the meals Mrs. Bruin
makes. It’s barely been touched. I pull a plate down and heat half the
container up in the microwave. As it cooks, I peek around the doorjamb into Momma’s
room. She is sitting on her bed looking down at a book opened up in her lap.
She doesn’t notice my presence.  I call out softly so as not to startle her,
“Momma, I’m heating some dinner up for you. Do you want me to bring it in?” She
doesn’t glance up. I’m not even sure she heard me.

The ding sounds so I turn to get the warmed
plate. Grabbing a fork, napkin and glass of water, I carefully walk it to her
bedside table and set it down. She doesn’t look up. This breaks my heart so
much, seeing her like this. I lean over and kiss her cheek telling her, “Bye Momma,
I love you. Please eat something.”

Once inside the doorway I turn again to
check one last time. She’s still looking down at the book. It looks like a
journal of some sort. She isn’t writing anything down though. Resigned I turn,
checking my watch. I have fifteen minutes now to get to work and the drive
takes twenty.
Perfect.

Jordan

The bright light behind my eyelids wakes me
up. I roll over grabbing for Susan and find an empty space instead. My reality
crashes into me, she’s gone and I failed her. Sharp pains pierce my heart and
radiate throughout my body, causing me to ache everywhere. I want nothing more
than to fall back asleep and never wake up again. Life goes on though, as much
as I don’t want it to, and I can’t lay here forever.

Squinting, my eyes register that I’m in my
childhood bedroom completely transformed from the way it used to be when I
lived here. The walls are a neutral brown with paintings of trees dotting the
room. New furniture typical of a guest room is placed strategically, making it
look like a picture straight out of a home decorating magazine.  I roll over
away from the sun’s rays and focus on the headache pounding through my temples.
Oh Susan, what am I going to do? My mind keeps repeating this as if she’s close
enough and able to answer. Never could I fathom what my life would be like
without her. She was, and still is, everything to me.

A soft knock echoes through the impersonal
space that used to be so warm and inviting. Before I have a chance to answer,
the door swings slowly open and my mom’s face peeks around the edge.

“Jordan, hey, how are you?” She really
doesn’t want me to answer this. How does she think I am? The love of my life
just killed herself. She was sick and I failed to get her help. I failed to
protect her. Now I’ll never see her again. I don’t even bother rolling over to
meet my mom’s gaze.

Her voice takes on a sympathetic tone,
“Hon, I’ve asked Maria to make pancakes and eggs. It’ll be ready when you come
down.” The door clicks closed right after she finishes.

Now I roll over and stare at the door,
without really seeing it. When Susan was here, I had direction. We knew where
we were going, what we wanted to accomplish. Now what am I supposed to do?

After an hour of staring at nothing, and
trying to keep my mind blank, I dress in a pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt.
With great effort I climb down the circular staircase ending at a marbled
entryway. As I cross into the kitchen, the bright colors on the walls seem even
more blinding than usual.  Maria, their housekeeper is standing at the stainless
stove with her back to me. I pull out a chair at the small round table which is
perfectly situated in the corner. Maria turns at the sound of the chair legs
against the marbled floor. She quickly looks through the doorway to her right
and back at me with a worried expression, as if she’s in trouble.

Her accented voice whispers, “Sir, you
should join your parents in the dining room. You shouldn’t be in here. This is
for the help.”  She gestures to the table I’m leaning against.

Her sudden concern alerts me that my
parents have made changes around here. Why am I not surprised? Just to spite
them, I plop down in the chair, expressionless and explain, “Maria, I think
I’ll have breakfast in here. Just like old times.”