Say When

“Shit.” I jumped back from the stove. The small table rattled behind me as my ass barrelled into it. The orange juice shook and settled in the glass set next to empty plates the color of eggplant.

I threw my finger into my mouth and ran my tongue across the stinging. The grease popped another warning and I turned down the fire under the bacon.

“Turn down... that damn fire...going to burn... my whole house down.” The growling voice meandered down the stairs and through the hallway to my ears. It reached me with less volume but ample bite. I could see her curling her lip in disgust. Head shaking.

“My dad’s house actually.” I talked to the bacon. Not more than a whisper. I was dealing with a professional degrader with decades of disdain under her belt. No sense in trying to argue.

I scraped the eggs out of the skillet onto the plates. I left the bacon in a strainer in the sink, a napkin covering the bottom. I grabbed dull silver forks from the drawer. I could hear a door open upstairs.

I quickened my pace. Waffles out of the toaster. Syrup on the table. Bacon on the plates. I sat down as the footsteps neared. Dammit. Pepper. I leaped up and one giant step got me to the cabinet. I pulled the pepper shaker out and set it on the table.

I plopped back into my seat. The juice shook. The steps creaked under the weight of him. I glanced up at the clock. 7:16. He was like clockwork every morning. Showered and dressed by 7:15 then downstairs for breakfast. Took him about twelve minutes to finish his food before he grabbed his lunch out of the fridge and was out of the door to work. Everyday.

“Mmmm. What we got today?” He rounded the corner. I smiled and cleared my throat. I took on the persona of a polished Southern Belle.

“Well today Sir, we have a fine selection of Canadian bacon and eggs fresh from the coop.” He plopped down in the only other chair at the tiny table.

“I do declare, you have outdone yourself lady Bri.” He grabbed a piece of bacon and I followed suit. We lifted the pieces in the air and let them touch briefly before devouring it. It was delicious and the minor burn to my finger was worth it at this moment. I smiled as he reached for another piece.

“So, what’s up for today?” He scooped a pile of eggs into his mouth.

“Chemistry quiz. And I have a presentation for English.” I glanced down at my backpack. Did I pack my notes?

“Ok. You’ve got this. Just focus. Make eye contact and slow down when you talk.” He pointed at me with a half eaten piece of waffle. I focused in on the eggs and nodded.

“You know your stuff Bri. Just gotta convince yourself of that.”

“I know Dad.” I didn’t know. Not really anyway. But I’d pretend for him. He nodded and took a swig of juice.

“The nurse needs to leave early today so try to get here.” He told me. My eyes rolled into my head and back down to the plate in front of me. I shook my head and sighed.

“Won’t Chris be here?” I asked. He shoved more eggs in his mouth and met my gaze.

“No. He works tonight.” I didn’t respond. Mostly because any words that came out of my mouth would be rude. Harsh. Crude. I bit my lip in a physical attempt to handicap my mouth. He put his fork down.

“She’s your mother.” His plea fell on deaf ears.

“Your choice, not mine.”

“Bri, cut it out.” I was upsetting him. He rolled up his sleeves and leaned back. Breakfast was over. I glanced at the clock. 7:26. He’d be heading out soon. I sighed deeply.

“I’ll be here.” I extended a small olive branch in an attempt to salvage our breakfast. It was all I could give. I glance up at the ceiling.

I could see her lying up there. Attached to her machines and detached from the world. Separate but among us still. Just the way she always seemed to prefer it.

What was so bad about her reality? And if she just wanted to get high and escape so badly, why did she keep coming back?

“Thank you. I love you.” He got up and made the short trip to my side of the table. He kissed the side of my face. His aftershave seeped into my nostrils.

“Love you too.” He strode toward the front door and grabbed his work bag. The sun broke through the door’s window pane casting golden streaks across him. He put his hand on the doorknob but stopped.

“Remember to slow down. You’re in control when you’re up there okay?”

“Control. Got it.” I threw a quick smile and thumbs up in his direction.

He smirked and was out the door a minute later. I tidied up the dishes, tossing our exchange around in my mind. It mirrored so many of our previous conversations.

Him pushing and hoping that I would tap into some sense of obligation to her that I never really understood. Since I can remember my mother had either been gone or as good as gone.

When she was around she was confined to the room upstairs recovering from a sickness caused by the torture she put her body through. Withdrawals that seemed to go on for ever. This time, her lungs were so damaged she needed help breathing.

She seemed stuck in a cycle of trying to end her life with drugs. My dad trailing behind her continuously trying to save it. For a long time, it was confusing and heartbreaking. Now, I was just numb.

It wasn’t always like this. I could hear my Dad’s voice. He had a habit of venturing into our storage closet ever so often. Whenever things were really bad. He’d haul out a photo album that had seen better days and sit down beside me.

The pages turned and he traveled back in time. Me a smiling baby. A woman whose eyes were like mine holding me proudly. At the beach. On a road trip. Apparently, we did things. Went places. She wasn’t always an unmoving resident of the upstairs bedroom.

I think he showed me the album to heal a place in him. To remind him that there was someone in there. Someone worth holding on to. Someone I’d never met. To me the trip down memory lane was depressing. Like showing someone a home they could never live in. A meal they could never eat. How did a woman with so much joy become the living dead--angry and bitter? I asked him.

“Life.” He’d say. The book would shut after that. Back into the closet until things got bad again. The doorbell croaked. It’d been broken for years and made more of a gurgling noise instead of a cheery ding dong.

I quickly turned off the water. The sink was nearly overflowing. A glance at the clock let me know that I had to be to school soon. The dishes would have to wait. I crossed the kitchen quickly and into the living room.

Heavy faux lace cream curtains hung in front of the window doing a terrible job of actually blocking anything. I could see straight out onto the front stoop. My mother’s home attendant, Sharon, stood outside. A light sweater over her scrubs. She waved. I shot her a quick smile.

“Reporting for duty.” Sharon stepped inside and put her purse down on the couch.

“Gosh, I’m sorry.” I gave her a sincere sad face. She giggled and headed into the kitchen to start her routine. I grabbed my backpack from the floor near the door.

“Have a good day and good luck! Remember to slow down. You talk too fast.” Sharon pointed a stern finger at me before walking upstairs. I headed out the door but looked up the staircase before I left.

I could hear the low hum of the oxygen machine. I tried to, for a moment, envision the smiling woman in the pictures up there. Coming out of that room to give me a hug and see me off for the day. But she wouldn’t be.

“I’ll remember.” I shut the door behind me.