Inherited

Christopher awoke at sunrise. He lifted his legs off the side of the bed and pulled himself up.

Checking the time on his phone, he realized Mama slept through the night without one of her infamous tantrums of discomfort.

‘You’re old and you’re dying,’ Christopher thought.

He immediately regretted the thought.

Mama’s hospice hadn’t been easy. Living with a mother like Mama wasn’t easy in general, but being his mother’s caretaker placed a toll on Christopher.

At 33, he lived alone with his mother and father in their family farmhouse, passed down from generation to generation, in the fields of Kansas. He was an overweight, pasty-skinned queer who hadn’t done anything with his life except give in to his hateful, manipulative alcoholic mother.

He had older siblings: three sisters and a brother. All gone. Moved, or left, the minute they found an escape route.

One never came for Christopher.

Christopher went to the restroom to relieve himself and wash his face and hands.

From the bathroom, he crossed the hall to his father’s suite. The light beeping of machines filled Christopher’s ears after opening the door, clearing up the empty silence in the poor man’s head.

Usually by this time, Mama’s in her room coughing up the only lung remaining in her chest. ‘That’s what 60 years of smoking will do, on top of her asthma,’ Christopher thought as he moved towards the thinning old man. ‘God, I wish I were the one in the coma rather than be awake to hear that shit for the rest of my life.’ He stood beside his father, in an eternal sleep, and he let out a heavy sigh.

“How are you doing today, Daddy?” he whispered. The doctors, based on all the tests they ran, the years of research and study, said their father’s mind was active. They believed he could hear those around him, so Christopher made sure to speak with him daily, as much as possible. “Your vitals look good.” Tears fell down his cheeks and he closed his eyes. “Maybe today will be the day.”

Taking a few deep breaths, Christopher collected himself, clearing his erratic mind. He changed his father’s bed pan and the sheets, while also giving him a quick wipe down with a wet rag.

After he finished, Christopher placed his hand over his father’s and leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. “Good morning, Daddy. I’m glad you were given another day to be here with us.”

Moving purposely, Christopher left his father’s room and closed the door behind him. Out in the hallway, he looked down to Mama’s room. The door was closed, but that wasn’t abnormal. He closed it last night after giving Mama her sleeping medication and tucking her into bed.

‘Still no word, huh?’ Christopher almost went to the door, but he stopped himself. ‘The new medication must be working.’

Instead, he went downstairs into the kitchen. The clock on the wall read 6:30am.

After starting a pot of coffee, Christopher decided to make breakfast: two eggs over easy; pan-fried bacon; and buttered Texas toast.

He sat at the table of the eat-in kitchen, sipping his coffee and eating his food. It didn’t take him long to finish, so he sat back and stared out the windows out into nature, letting his thoughts flow freely without interruption as daylight grew brighter and louder.

Christopher sighed and closed his eyes.

The clock read 7:05am.

Getting up from the table, Christopher started on his mother’s meal: some soft oatmeal; cut-up pieces of tender bacon; and her own pot of black coffee.

As the food cooked, he set up the tray to serve Mama in bed. There was her plate, her spoon, fork, knife, coffee mug, and some napkins. When finished, he plated the food and took the tray upstairs.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, staring down at the cold, dark hallway towards his mother’s door, still closed and the room silent.

A sharp panic struck his nerves, and he suddenly felt worried.

He wasn’t worried about what he was going to find at the end of the hallway.

No. He knew he’d find his mother dead.

He worried more about what it meant.