She smiles as if she didn’t hear me and pats the arm of her chair. “I don’t remember the last time I was back here, you know. What month is it? It must be spring, the way things are blooming.”
“Hugh doesn’t bring you out?”
“Hugh is busy with the company.” She waves that off as if it’s no big deal.
I shift closer to her and take her hand in mine. That bastard fucking Hugh. He’s content to leave my mother in her room where she’s out of the way and can’t bother him, but she’s rotting in there and only getting worse. I don’t know how much longer my mother has, how much longer her memory will remain even somewhat intact, and she deserves to come out to sit near the gardens as often as she can if she enjoys it.
Her hand is soft and leathery, so different from the hand I remember when I was a boy. Back then, Mom was my lifeline, the only person that kept me alive in those years when Dad seemed to delight in hurting me, cutting me, whipping me, burning me. When Dad said he was trying to mold me into something stronger like a knife in a forge. She was the life raft keeping me from drowning. Dad was the anchor trying to drag me under.
“Mom, I want to ask you something.”
“Ask away, dear.”
“Why did you give Hugh your power of attorney?”
She takes a deep breath and mulls that over as she squints down at the stout cacti and slowly waving leaves as a breeze kicks down through the yard. “You were gone and I was left with your father,” she says at barely a whisper. “What else was I going to do? Hugh has been kind to me, very kind. But I can’t seem to remember exactly how it happened anymore.”
“He’s the head of the family now. Do you know that?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.” She shakes my hand away, tensing all of a sudden. “All your father ever talked about was business. Years and years of business and it never got us anywhere. Hugh is doing the best he can. Your brother is trying his hardest.”
“Cousin, Mom. Hugh is my cousin.”
“Yes, of course, that’s what I said, your cousin.” She glares straight ahead and I can see the struggle happening internally as she tries to reconcile her mind with what I’m saying.
I open my mouth to argue some more but slowly shut it again. This is worthless and cruel. Mom’s barely clinging on to the last vestiges of her memory and her self, and to push her about the business when all she wants to do is enjoy the gardens is a mean and selfish thing. It won’t achieve anything and it’ll only get her agitated.
I can be a monster outside of this place. I’ve done things, horrible things, and I don’t regret a single one of them. But I draw the line at my mother.
Maybe Hugh knows it. Maybe he did all this on purpose, knowing that I wouldn’t be willing to hound my mother to change her POA or to speak up for me in any way. And even if that’s the case, I still won’t do it, especially not if it’s only going to hurt her.
We sit in quiet for a few minutes and I watch Tara work as mother hums to herself. It’s a tuneless sound and I don’t recognize the melody, but it seems to calm her down at least. Tara’s lean, gorgeous legs flex as she bends down to cut the plants, and I stare at her arms, her back, the glimpse of her breasts at a distance when she stoops down to gather the clippings. Mom seems happy, and I’m happy in a strange way, and I let us stay like that for a few minutes at least. I don’t know how many more moments like this I’ll get, and I want to cherish what I have.
I should’ve come home a long time ago. I regret it now, sitting with my poor mother. I didn’t quite realize the extent of her decline because whenever she was having a bad day, Hugh wouldn’t let me speak to her. Now though, I can see the cracks at the edges and how far she’s gone, and I hate myself for staying away, but when my father was alive, this place was like a hell for me. The idea of coming back to it, for any reason at all, was akin to voluntarily throwing myself into fire.
I couldn’t do it, but I wish I’d been stronger.
“You know, Mom, I’ve been thinking. When was the last time you did a painting?”
“Oh, I can’t remember, it’s been so long.”
“Do you want to try? It doesn’t have to be much. I can bring you paper and watercolors and you can sit in bed.”
“I don’t know, sweetie, maybe. I’ll think about it.”
I nod a little and cross my legs, leaning forward on my elbows. “I’m glad you let Tara stay.”
“She’s a good girl,” Mom says quietly. “A very good girl. I know how you feel about her.”
“Mom.”
“You always did like her, didn’t you? She was around a lot because—” She stops herself, frowning, and shakes her head. “You liked her.”
“She was too young for me.”
“Ah, she’s what, five years younger? That’s nothing, that’s how old—” She stops again, frowning deeper, and shifts in her chair. “Now why can’t I remember?”
“Mom?”