How long until I’m the sole memory keeper of our life together?
A sob rises in my throat. It takes everything I have to fight it back.
I set my purse on the narrow hall table as my mother takes off her black flats and puts them on the mat next to her work sneakers.
“I’m going to change.” My mom disappears into her bedroom.
I stand there, staring at the empty space she left behind.
Our entire drive home from Dr. Chen’s office—it’s a sinkhole in my mind. I can’t say how many red lights we encountered, or whether any raindrops splattered on the windshield, or if we hit traffic.
How many sinkholes are already swallowing pieces of my mother’s brain?
Because I can’t think of what to do, I move into our living room and begin to straighten up, refolding the chenille blanket on the back of the couch and collecting my water bottle from the coffee table.
Sometimes our apartment feels cozy. We aren’t permitted to paint the walls or use nails to hang pictures, but my mother bought Command strips to affix bright prints—one by Matisse, the others created by me in high school art class. We’ve cultivated a trio of leafy green plants on the windowsill, and Mom brought in colorful throw pillows from a secondhand store and a big mirror with a whitewashed frame when she was on an HGTV kick.
Other times, this space feels claustrophobic.
More and more lately, I’ve felt the walls closing in on me.
It’s unnaturally quiet in here at 10:20 a.m. on a Tuesday. Most of our neighbors are at work or school, like my mother and I would typically be at this hour on an ordinary day.
I edge closer to her bedroom, listening hard.
I can’t hear anything.
If she’s crying, her face must be buried in a pillow. I lift my hand to knock, then let my arm drop by my side.
I can’t tell her it will be okay. There is no fixing this.
Her door flies open. I take a step back, startled.
My mother stands there in her uniform, her hair swept back in a headband.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bus stop. I still have half a shift left.”
Mom moves past me, toward the front door.
“Wait!”
She turns around, avoiding my eyes. “Where did I put my purse?”
A week ago, her words would have been innocuous. Now, they sear me.
“How can you just go to work? We’ve got to talk—we need to make a plan.”
“Honey, there’s plenty of time for talking.”
“No there isn’t! We don’t have time!” I gasp out the words.
My mother closes her eyes briefly.
“Look, Catherine, I know this is hard. But you need to understand— I have to keep moving. I can’t stop and think or I’m going to lose it, okay?”
She walks back into her bedroom and retrieves her purse. I follow, unable to stop the questions spilling from my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me about your mother?”
“Because she didn’t care about us, and I stopped caring about her a long time ago.”
My mom moves to the front door. She leans over to slip on her right sneaker, pressing her palm against the wall for balance.
“You couldn’t even bring up the fact that she died?”
“Catherine, don’t push me.”
I can’t put on the brakes. “You’ve been hiding everything from me! You told Dr. Chen you’ve been noticing this for four months—why didn’t you say anything? We could have…”
My voice trails off.
My mom puts on her other shoe. “Exactly. What could we have done?”
“There are medicines.…”
She shakes her head. “They don’t work for everyone. Their effects wear off and they don’t stop the progression of the disease, only some of the symptoms. There is no cure.”
She’s reciting things I’ve told her through the years, facts I’ve gleaned from my textbooks and college lectures and evidence I’ve witnessed firsthand.
She gives me a quick, hard hug. Then she leaves.
I have no idea what to do. I’d expected our routine to shatter. I was planning to tell my supervisor I had a family emergency and needed a few days off.
How can my mother be going about her typical day?
My breaths are too quick and shallow, and I know my blood pressure has risen to a number that would alarm me if I was monitoring a patient.
I look around the apartment. It’s still as a tomb.
A vision of the future invades my imagination: Post-it notes stuck everywhere to remind my mother to make sure the stove is turned off and to flush the toilet. A dead bolt on the door with the lock constantly engaged. My mother splayed on the couch, her hair lank and dirty, refusing to shower.
Or worse. It could get so much worse.
It will get so much worse.
The walls of the apartment fly toward me.
I run to the front door and grab my purse. I burst into the hallway and head for the stairs, skimming my hand along the metal railing as I spin down four flights and push through the lobby door. Bright sunlight hits my eyes and I squint, searching my surroundings until I spot my mother halfway down the block.
“Wait!” I yell, running toward her.
My mother turns. As I draw closer, I think I see tears shimmering in her eyes, and it pulls me up short. My mother never cries.
I can’t leave her here at the bus stop, all alone. I want to be with her as much as I can, for as long as I can. Even if it’s just the two of us riding in our old Bonneville with the radio blaring, like we’ve done thousands of times before.
I know she doesn’t want any more questions. So I promise myself this will be the last one I’ll ask her right now: “Want a ride to work?”
CHAPTER SIX
RUTH
Tucked in the back of my locker at work is a green spiral notebook. It’s so old the once-crisp page edges have turned to velvet.
There’s a blank box on the cover for your name.
Instead of mine, I inscribed For Catherine Sterling.
I’ve made sure to put the notebook in a place someone will eventually discover should something happen to me.
The only problem is every page is blank.
I’ve been carrying it around ever since I left home, intending to write down my story for so long. But every time I try to begin, my pen refuses to move across the page.
Now I have no choice. I only hope I haven’t waited too long.
Sam’s is fairly quiet at the moment. The electric register beeps as the cashier rings up a man’s check, then the bell over the door sounds as he exits. In the kitchen, the cooks are slicing tomatoes and stacking individual leaves of lettuce like playing cards in silver bins, preparing for the next wave of customers.
My shift is over and I’ve closed out all my checks, but I’m not ready to leave yet.
Catherine is still at work. She told me she’s planning to let her supervisor know she isn’t going to move to Baltimore, after all. She’ll stay by my side. I didn’t even have to ask.
I sense eyes on me and look up to catch a guy perched on one of the counter stools staring. Then I feel dampness on my cheeks. I wipe away my tears and whisper, “Allergies.”
I turn and walk down the hallway adjacent to the kitchen, heading past the restrooms into the small employee room. The combination to my locker is Catherine’s birthday. I take out my notebook and sit down heavily on the lone chair in the room.