A traveler lost and in search of directions, maybe? But surely a man with a car like that would have GPS? It was hard to say, she decided and turned away from the glass. As soon as she faced the road a car went by. A black car with curves and lines that were now familiar. Somehow, she wasn’t the least bit surprised to see the car, and the man, drive past just then. She should have been, she knew that, but she wasn’t. There was something special about him, something different, and she had a feeling, a very odd feeling as she watched the car disappear down the road, that she’d meet him again.
Marie knew it wasn’t just that he was rich that caught her eye, there had been rich men here before, or the fact that he was handsome. There were plenty of hard-bodied, eye-catching men in the town, so it wasn’t that either. She’d felt something when she saw him at the gas station. Something tight and exciting in her chest, that made her want to… dance.
But, he hadn’t seen her, she thought as his car disappeared into the distance. Most people didn’t, and normally, that was okay. There was something about him, though, that made her want to be noticed. Usually, she liked being in the shadows, always on the edge of the peripheral vision of those around her. It was quiet there, and peaceful.
Yet, something in her wanted him to see her again, to notice her, to take her away to a new and exciting place where “unwanted” was never groaned out at her. Maybe that was it, she wondered as she got back into her car and turned on the radio. Maybe she wanted to be noticed, really noticed, for a change.
Her fingers tapped on the steering wheel, in time with the song that drifted out of the car’s speakers. It was a Cajun song, sung in the Cajun French that her mother wouldn’t allow her to learn. She’d caught on to bits and pieces over the years, it was impossible not to, but her mother didn’t want her to learn it. Early in her life, her mother told her it was the language of the past and that people needed to let it go. Even if it was their heritage.
“Americans speak English, Marie, and so will you. I won’t have some backward, backwoods, language coming out of your mouth.” Marie could remember her mother saying that so long ago, more than once.
She’d never understood why her mother thought it was backward, it was beautiful, the patois of generations of people combined into a musical sound that she wanted to know. In the end, it didn’t matter if she could understand the language the song was sung in. The notes of emotion in the singer’s voice told her all she needed to know.
A short time later, she drove through the crumbling brick entrance to the driveway to the house. Jasmine lined both sides of the entrance. Marie noted all of them needed to be pruned, but she rarely had time to do it. Maybe she could get the boy that mowed the lawn to do it, for a little extra than his normal pay. She’d ask him when he came by later in the week.
She pulled up to the house, parked the car, and took out the bags she’d collected. One from the pharmacy, one from the grocery store, and one from the library. She’d picked out a few books to read, and had started one while she was at the café earlier. Hopefully, her mother would be asleep when she got in so she could continue to read.
“Is that you, Marie? You lazy trollop, you’ve left me for hours in here alone. What kind of ungrateful bitch does that?”
Marie’s shoulders sagged and the weight of the bags in her arms pulled them even lower. Not only was her mother awake, but she’d also regained her speech. It happened sometimes, the ability to speak would come and go. It made Marie wonder sometimes if perhaps her mother was acting. She’d been on the verge of being a star when she was in that accident, maybe Ruby had found a way to get even more attention.
Marie would remind herself at those times that the doctor had confirmed the disease, and that Ruby had always been contrary. She’d fight the disease, just to spite Marie and keep her around. She wouldn’t give up, or fake being more ill than she was.
“It’s me, Mom. I’ll be in there in a minute.” She put the bags on the table as the nurse walked in.
“She’s not herself today,” the nurse spoke softly, her eyes sympathetic.
Marie was ashamed of the way her mother spoke to her and of the things she’d said. She couldn’t look the older woman in the eye.
“It’s hard on her, Jane.” Marie glanced over the middle-aged woman with gray hair and soft brown eyes. “Besides, she’s not in her right mind. You know I’ve only been gone an hour. She knows that too, somewhere in her muddled brain.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Marie, but you’re a saint for doing it. I’ll see you tomorrow, honey. Take care of yourself.” She patted Marie’s cheek and Marie felt the prickle of tears in her eyes.
The fact that someone understood what she went through every day made her feel emotional. Or perhaps it was that slight touch, a sign of affection the woman sometimes gave her. Jane had visited almost every day for the last two years and had become a part of Marie and Ruby’s lives. That occasional dose of affection always made her eyes well up.
“Bye, Jane. See you tomorrow.” Marie watched her leave, made sure the screen door on the back entrance closed all the way, then went to the box of gloves. She put on a pair of the purple gloves and headed in to check on her mother.
Ruby’s face, lined deeply now with age and the stress of her disease, stared up at Marie with disgust. Marie ignored it and pulled her mother’s thin blanket to check the absorbent pads beneath her. She’d learned over the years how to tell damp pads from dry through the gloves and found them dry now.
She saw the nurse had put the boots on her, designed for bedridden patients that couldn’t move around a lot. They were meant to keep her heels from getting bedsores. Her mother hated them, but they were necessary. It was something her mother’s general practitioner had stressed to her over and over again. Make sure the patient doesn’t get bed sores because they were dangerous.
Marie ignored the protests of her mother and checked her skin, from head to toe, to make sure there were no blisters or redness. Those were the first signs that the skin was breaking down and needed to be cared for. Marie didn’t find anything and positioned her mother on her side. With the help of a few well-placed pillows, Ruby wouldn’t be able to turn on her back. She would spend every hour of the day on her back if she was allowed. That wasn’t good for her skin. Marie would let her go on her back in an hour, and then she’d turn her to the other side for a while.
This was one of the reasons Marie didn’t sleep well. Her mother had to be moved around constantly, even during the hours when Marie wanted to sleep. It meant her sleep cycle was interrupted often, and sometimes it was hard to get back to sleep. On good days, her mother was able to turn herself and Marie was able to sleep through the night. That didn’t happen as often as Marie needed it to.
“You hate me,” Ruby rattled out, her eyes dulled by her disease and the medicine she was on. “You’ve always hated me since the day you were born.”
It was a common complaint, and Marie didn’t respond. Her mother never seemed to realize that it was hard to hold affection for someone that told you that you were unwanted and unloved. Maybe Ruby’s disease caused these moments where she’d forget the past. It used to be the fact that Ruby drank too much, she’d often forget what she did or said after a binge. Now, it was the disease, Marie was certain.