My Aberrant

Chicago

“It is different,” sour and bitter words on my tongue. They taste of a lie. I stand on the same sickly green carpet, beside an ancient twin size bed, and permanently crunched up trash can. I smell the same scent: cheesy asparagus. I feel the same stifling temperature: seventy- three degrees fahrenheit. And I am the same me.

No. I am different. Because I feel as if I’m missing something. Nothing significant. I feel neither hopeful or hopeless. I am happy. I can’t figure out what it is.

It’s more than the absence of Li and our emergency companionship. Most of my relationships tend to be of the sort. I am awfully close with Saint Uni’s Hospital desk staff. And the paramedics who drive past, and frequently too, our house. Not that I would call any of them relationships in the emotional sense. Only the technical. I deserve that much.

Maybe I am missing Li. We were forced to be roommates. And friends of the barest minimum. I listened to her cry and consoled only when I had to. She pretended not to notice that I rarely left the dorm besides to attend class and travel home. She never hurt my pride by inviting me out.

I’m sure she’s much happier with her new roommates. And the very large pool on the top of her very nice studio apartment. An apartment she politely asked if I would like to share. An apartment I don’t have the money to consider.

I need to be home, taking online classes. I need to suffer through the night shift at Don’s. Need. A word she confuses with want. Besides, the apartment complex is probably invested with snooty roaches that’ll comment on my lack of designer purses.

Nope. No snobby cockroaches and sexy hotel lifeguards for me. Only uncomfortably cheery walls newly stripped, and in need of new decoration.

Clothes and books I couldn’t return sit packed in boxes on the far wall. No decorations or knick knacks. I’ve never been a big fan of posters. Kat was though, and for once I don’t disagree with her decision to have them plastered all over her room.

Nails press into my palms. A very rational and sane anger follows any thought on Katarina Beni Rue, elder sister, and flighty asshole.

Remember to breathe. I unclench my hands.

Deep breath.

Unpack.

I make piles for shirts, shorts, and jeans. By the time I’m on the second box I got my rhythm. I’m halfway done when mom knocks, looking like a toppled domino in her black and white polka dot sweater. I wrap the last pair of socks up and place them on the bed.

“Hey babe,” She leans against the doorway, our shared green eyes hooded by purple eyelids. I go through my mental checklist. Is she pale? Flushed? Is she shaking? How much? Does she rasp? Cough?

She is tired, but it’s not hospital worthy. She can stand, and her breath is fairly even. I let out a breath of my own and give her a hug. She rubs my back. Hands cold, body trembling slightly at the effort it takes to lift her arms. I should usher her back into the living room where she has been enjoying her favorite telenovela, Los Amores de Dolor. And yet, she already put in so much effort to get in here I can’t send her back already.

“I am almost done. I’ll start dinner right after,” She pinches her nose in disgust. She can be such a child sometimes.

“Maybe pizza will be a less risky choice,” She has yet to forget my making a meal of mac and cheese topped with burnt bread and ranch. My cooking has improved immensely. Before I left for college, I was the head chef’s temporary replacement at Don’s while he got knee surgery. I was even promised a full time position by the owner, Don, if I attended culinary school. A soft ache edges through me, familiar, and far too cold for today.

I lock the doors on the memory. Twist the key and swallow it whole. Mourning. Wishing for coulds in a life of is, well, that just isn’t an option if I wish to stay sane.

“I know it’s not as glamorous as Don’s, but I’ll make us something good,” I say with an emphasis on the ‘I’. I pull out another book, a small romance with scandal on the cover and quickly let it fall from my hand to the bed.

“I’ll help cook,” She gives me a sideways look, like I’m going to scold her. We both know she shouldn’t. She needs to be off her feet.

“Right now, you need to rest,” I admonish. Speaking of her exhaustion only exemplifies it. Her chest caves in slightly and she rasps out a thick cough. She rubs at eyes sharpened by purple crescents. I make a mental note to call Dr. Min tonight about her new medications.

“If you say so...” She says with a wicked smile, before adding, “I love you. I’m sorry,” Her socked feet buzz down the hall. I know she’s sorry. She’s told me every day since I started at Don’s.

But I’m not sorry. If I can take care of her, I will.

I kick the final box flat, satisfied with my newly restocked room. I leave the boxes in the corner and shut the door.

I’m expecting Mom to be lounging on the couch, but the living room is empty. Just the three legged coach and crackling of the box tv. That leaves the kitchen. The place where one cooks. A place Mom should not be.

“No,” I groan, because the last time this happened I spent two hours cleaning up spilled flour, “Please no.” I round the couch and find the oven gaping at me with horror enough to match my own.

Mom shakes a box upside down, with the oven on and open, three burners flickering over lopsided grills.

“I thought I could at least get the ingredients out for pasta,” she laughs, nearly choking with the effort, “Maybe not.” I swiftly shut the oven and turn off the burners without comment. She normally isn’t so oblivious. Maybe she just didn’t sleep well. I ask as much and she only shrugs.

“You know how it is,” Uncommitted, small words for a woman I know contains so much more beneath her pallid skin.

I take the box from her and wrap her in a big hug. I give her a squeeze because, one, she mistakenly grabbed cereal, and two she looks so cold. These stupid meds. I should have spoken with Dr. Min before she started them. You weren’t here to check them. I remind myself guiltily.

“Even more reason for you to just sit. I’ve got this,” I wait until she’s in the living room before putting the cereal away. The tv flicks on a second later. This is my fault. I would have realized she wasn’t watching her telenovela sooner if I’d only taken one moment to listen.

I rummage through cabinets and the refrigerator. Despite my last visit being two weeks ago, chaos reigns in the pantry. Flour sits on top of bacon in the fridge. I find melted popsicles next to bottles of cinnamon and nutmeg. This is more than just exhaustion. Last time she started mixing up where things went she ended up in the hospital for two days. Nothing major, just new pills, new schedule. I try to comfort myself with how things have been and fail.

I should never have gone away to college. Virtual classes were always an option. A choice I knew was the better and yet soundly ignored. Never again. I’m here for good.

I peek into the living room. Mom’s asleep with her feet curled up. A soft gurgling to her breath. Tomorrow is too long to wait. I’ll call Dr. Min after dinner.

Right now we need food.

I scavenge until I dredge up the necessary ingredients. All laid out on the kitchen table I feel my reality stumble, ever so slightly. Just a glimmer of a daydream, of seeing this everyday. A counter of ingredients waiting to be molded by my own hands. The cracking of a turned burner. The passionate heat of pans and pots. In the center of it all I let myself stand with white apron and padded shoes. I let myself laugh and taste, dramatically throwing salt into a stew quickly served to salivating patrons.

The smell of dough, fennel, and tomato fills the kitchen with a cozy scent. No bustle. No hungry customers. Just me and two plates of spaghetti. I breathe in the scent, letting the flavors settle over me. I picture Rome and pick Chicago instead, an eternal hour away. And when I fold those memories away, I see Montana.

Before mom developed multiple sclerosis, we lived in the country. My memories are hazy, but I had my own, dollhouse worthy room with a four poster bed and a gazillion pillows. Grandpa Rue, a man whose face I haven’t seen in fourteen years, had enough money to fill six bedrooms with hand crafted bed frames and silky pillows.

Even to my childish eyes, he was short, bald in both his head and personality. Nani, his third and youngest wife, had awfully thick jowls that hung down to her freckled chest. She was a step-grandma in the act of a Grimm’s tale step-mother. Absent, empty eyed, and in constant pursuit of fame. I remember them as caricatures, blown up from a child’s memory and the stories Kat used to make up after Dad left.

I don’t like to remember my father.

I slam a bowl onto the counter with unintentional force. Mom yelps, hands on her braille, “Jamie.”

Conveniently, MS allows her to muster up enough strength to scold me, but not enough to breathe.

“Already done” I hand her a plate.She lets out a croak I assume is a groan as I hand her a slice of garlic bread.

“You shouldn’t be doing all this,” She says through the slice. In the dim lights, her skin looks less like the inside of an almond and more like the outside. My stomach quakes. Too many food metaphors for an empty stomach.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up in the first place,” She shrugs me off, too focused on the process of eating. I make my own, adding an extra slice of bread. We sit on the couch, the table preoccupied with newspapers and books. I want to ask her how she got bruises on her knuckles and refrain. She is okay now. Incessant questioning only makes her worry.

She draws a chunk of bread through her tomato sauce. First in big loops before finally dabbing it against the chipped edge of the plate. She returns to her nibbling. I count the bites, watch her lymph nodes bob slightly. By the time she’s made a dent, a few bits of pasta, half of her bread, a spoonful of sauce, my food has gone cold.

“You need to eat,” Mom accuses. She pushes her plate away and I nudge it back.

“I am,” I knock noodles and sauce on my fork and shove it into my mouth, “So flipping good,” I mumble, noodles tumbling down my chin. Mom laughs, the shadows retreating just a little bit. She takes one more bite of pasta. This is why I need to be here.

When the dishes have been cleared and we are both sitting with a book on our lap, mom leans against me.

“If I could-” I stop her. I know what she’s going to say. I’m sorry. Because somehow she still thinks it’s her fault she developed MS. It’s her fault Dad left when he got the news he couldn’t buy the cure. After apologizing she will pick up her bookmark, a picture of me and Kat atop a pile of pumpkins, and apologize for Kat.

Kat who left the second she turned eighteen. She didn’t wait for us to wake up. Didn’t give us a chance to change her mind. She left quarters on the table with a note saying she was off to Vegas. When I tried to call the police, mom stopped me. She was proud Kat had that type of courage. I never saw the courage. Only a selfish prick.

I think the search for dad drained Mom. She spent so many years, trying to get him to pay child support, only to learn he was declared legally dead three months later. The obituary was short, written by grandpa Rue. It covered the basics. Birth place: Chicago. Achievements: heir. Personality: Down right asshole. I may be embellishing but that was the impression I got.

When Kat left Mom worried she would find another obituary, only this time with her daughter’s face hidden between the ads and the political screw ups. This way she can imagine Kat happy.

“Don’t. Let’s just enjoy tonight. I start my shift tomorrow, and you meet with Dr. Min,” I throw the last part in quick, hoping she’ll think the appointment had been planned weeks ago. She doesn’t miss a beat.

’I can’t. We can’t,” She gestures between us. We don’t have the money for another appointment, but I am taking on extra shifts and another job to pay it off. Mom’s drugs shouldn’t make her so tired. In the list of fifty-three side effects, exhaustion and drowsiness is not one of them.

“Yes we can. How many times do I need to tell you, I’ve got it covered,” Mom gives me a wary look before turning back to her book. She stopped fighting me when Kat left. I go back to my own book, a short novel with a guaranteed happily-ever-after.

Five minutes in the words blur and I let my mind stray to nothing. Nothing that quickly dissipates into full-fledged panic. A circus of ‘what-ifs’ and fear carousel about my mind. The prime concern always my mother. The second, my soon to be declared major.

Heartbeat in my mouth I shut the book. I don’t know what I’m going to choose. Something that will get me money. Something with insurance. Besides that I can’t bring myself to care. Everyone at university was so passionate. So driven. I guess I was too. Just for different reasons.

I return to the book, stabbing away my disappointment. I can’t be disappointed. I want a mom, right? A mom who is currently jabbing me with her pointy toe nails.

“Jamie. Jamie. Jamie,” She whispers, “I want ice cream,” I roll my eyes. Her smile widens dramatically and her stub of a nose scrunches. I go to the freezer and pull out two containers. Mom’s Rum Raisin and my own triple chocolate chip. Sybil Rue doesn’t like to share.

We eat until we burp dairy and mom lays down. She curls into herself, her body lithe and compact. She grimaces when she’s asleep. People do all sorts of things in their sleep. They cuss, kiss, and chortle. They toss, walk, and dance. I like to think it’s them freeing a part of themself, being something they can’t. The moment when reality lifts its veil and offers solace in imagination.

For Mom, this means she gets to be upset. She can cry, scold, and bemoan her circumstances. She can curse her daughter for leaving and her husband for abandoning. She can hurt, something I have never seen her do. I know she walks with the weight of her life strapped to her shoulders, her hands shaking with the effort to keep it all in. And yet, I have no evidence. Mom doesn’t cry, scream, or complain. Sure, she pouts, but even that is half-hearted and followed by a smile. It would be easier if she would tell me how she really felt. If she would show it. Maybe then i would know what to say to take the weight away.

I finish my chapter before tapping her on the shoulder. She’s asleep, but I can’t let her sleep on the couch. She might tumble off. She doesn’t wake up as I roll her head onto my arm. I carry her down the hall and into her room, flinching at all the photographs of me and Kat. Every chip of paint, every stain or scrape, mom covers with a picture of us. A metaphor for how she lives life. Or lived. With Kat gone and me at college, she had spent a lot of time alone. I feel guilty, but I came back from university whenever I could. Not as often as I would like, but I’m back for good now.

There’s a light sheen of sweat across her forehead and I wipe it off with the edge of a blanket. Her lips are pinched and lilac, a shriveled flower where her mouth should be. Her skin is chilled and I check her pulse once she’s all tucked in. I leave the door open when I leave, knowing she’ll call me back at night. If not intentionally then her coughs will.

I forgot to unpack a box. It contains a couple of folders stacked and paper clipped to be chaotically organized. My laptop is in there too, but the screen is cracked and I’m hoping to put off looking at it until my check from Don’s comes in. I flop onto my bed, not bothering to curl into a blanket.

The air is humid and sticky, gluing me in place. I try to sleep. I clench my eyes shut, trying to pull wrench open my subconscious’ doors. I fail. I check my phone and see I have three missed calls. All from the same, unfamiliar number. Tomorrow. I promise to handle this tomorrow.

I stare at the numbers until they collapse into a blurry mess and turn off my phone.

In the morning I call Dr. Min. rescheduling our appointment for tomorrow. Dr. Min’s voice is a banal sweetness I have come to identify with comfort and safety. Mom is safe with Dr. Min in a way she can never be with me. I explain her exhaustion and Dr. Min tells me she thinks it’s a great idea for her to come in. I appreciate her caution.

Dr. Min has been Mom’s doctor since the beginning. They were actually friends in high school. That first emergency, Mom begged dad to drive the five hours to get her into Dr.Min’s hospital. They were both in Montana at the time. Dr. Min’s transfer to Chicago was one of the reasons we left. For a time when the world was crumbling around us, Dr. Min’s moving was a gift. Mom has never explained why exactly she trusts her so much, but it has not been misplaced.

I start breakfast by boiling a pot of oatmeal and toasting three pieces of bread. One for mom and two for me. I look down at where my stomach peeks out of my shirt. Maybe one piece for me. I look at the cold piece of white bread, it grows limp in my hand, dough where my thumb presses into its soft flesh. Two pieces for me.

I set breakfast on the table, a rickety thing with a duct taped stool and a chair with half the back missing. I found them at a garage sale, along with the living room lamp, a cherry red lampshade with a crooked neck, and our two cat clocks. Nothing in our house matches, not the curtains, bedsheets, or even the frames dotting the walls. The coach is green plaid, its vibrancy dulled by the leopard print pillows, and a fluffy, zig zag quilt. Even the silverware can’t waltz together. Some are a synthesized neon plastic, others smudged gold, and my favorite, a gigantic, glass spoon. Too small to use as a ladle and too big for anything else.

I feel powerful when I eat my soup with the giant’s spoon.

The smell of oatmeal makes my stomach roar and I tip toe, fingers crossed mom is already awake. She seemed fine when I checked on her late last night. Breath a touch throatier than normal, but nothing dangerous.

I peek into her room, finding only crumpled, maroon sheets and an exiled pillow resting haphazardly on the floor.

“Mom?” There’s no reply. My hands shake, mind tumbling through every horrid possibility. I nudge the door open and find her sitting on the floor, a book in her hands.

“Good morning sweetheart. Just practicing,” It’s a book of braille. The sight makes my stomach cave in and I sit beside her, pulling her into a tight hug.

“Breakfast is ready,” I mumble into her coarse hair. It used to be so soft.

“If MS isn’t going to kill me, hunger will be a close second,” I laugh and help her up. She puts on her robe and we settle at the table.

“What’s your plans for today?” she asks, scooping a pile of sugar on her oats. I watch her with evident envy. I’ve already finished unpacking, called Dr. Min, and mom’s afternoon nap will be starting soon. I have free time. What a foreign notion.

“Maybe I’ll call Piera. See if she wants to meet up before work,” Mom gives me a small smile before returning to her oatmeal.

“She’s got some pretty big news for you,” Piera Vallincia, the sassiest, most kind hearted and drop dead honest woman I know has been my best friend since freshman year. We clicked when she found me under the bleachers, selling sketches to the Honors Art kids. She stood there, toe tapping as I cussed her out. She pursed her full lips, high cheekbones giving her the airs of a much older girl. We stared at each other for some time before Piera sat down and unpacked her lunch. She gave me an expectant look. I didn’t have any lunch. I couldn’t pay for it and Mom hadn’t the chance to fill out the free lunch plan forms.

“Come on. Give me a piece and take your pick,” I gave her a sketch of two women holding a single child, legs entwined, before choosing a chicken empanada.

Ever since then I’ve been mooching food off her, trading my friendship instead of my art. I’m not one to accept charity, but when it comes to Piera’s cooking, pride means nothing. After that first lunch, she brought me leftovers whenever she could, her father the owner of a Paraguayan food truck.

I smile into my toast. I’ll see Piera today.

I shouldn’t be relieved when Piera finally leaves, but I am. Mom gives Piera a quick wave goodbye as she ducks down our driveway, leftover spaghetti in her arms. Mom must see the look on my face because she puts down her tea and hugs me close.

“Don’t look so down, life is always starting and stopping,” I press my cheek into her bony shoulder, relaxing into the embrace. When I pull back she is giving me a strange look, her top lip twisted in a smirk even as her eyes fill with sorrow.

“What?” I bite my lip to keep my voice from cracking. She shakes her head.

“She’s getting married! I Thought you would be happy for her.”

“I am,” I don’t believe myself. She doesn’t either. We say nothing and gather the mugs on the table. I feel like I should have known this sooner. Three months they’ve been engaged! In those three months we’ve spoken at least once. I’m sure we have.

Or maybe not. If we didn’t it would be because of me. I know why too. I’m jealous of her.

I pull my hair into a messy bun, find my khakis, grab my keys and drive the fifteen minutes to my first and only job at Don’s Bar and Eatery. When I pull in, Jeremy, Don’s son, is standing in my parking space. The sight of him banishes away any thought of Piera and our awkward visit.

“You’re back,” He nearly squeals, his lean frame hugging the hood of my car. I laugh at the spectacle and turn off the car.

“You should be working,” I say, kicking him playfully in the shin.

“Nuh huh. Not on my favorite subordinate’s first day back,” He lets go of my car and offers me his hand. Inky, maroon lines dance up his biceps in lithe swirls and petite daisies.

“Well I still have to work,” Jeremy insists on accompanying me arm in arm to the front door. Don’s hasn’t changed since we moved here. Blue stucco walls, a superman knock off statue at the front, three windows with broken frames. The roof sags at the left, a golf ball perpetually resting in its vortex.

“Guess who’s back,” He cheers, kicking the door open with his toe. A family in the corner claps despite the horrified looks of their three children. Everyone else exchanges awkward smiles, eyes glued to their plates.

Don comes out, waving a spatula at his son, knocking him in the head twice before turning on me.

“I may have hired you in the past, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be keeping you,” Deep down Don’s a real sweetheart, he just hasn’t learned to show it yet. I give him a peck on the cheek.

“I missed you, Uncle Don,” he pats me on the head, his heavy frame staggering to the side.

“Enough with ya. Get back in there and start washing,” Don doesn’t cut corners, and despite working here since I was fourteen, I’ve been hired as a dishwasher. I’ve been told that if I do a fine enough job I’ll get promoted back to where I was. I put my purse in the corner, give Julia, Jeremy’s two year old, a hug and roll up my sleeves.

I finish at 9:00pm. Jeremy and Julia have already left, and Don’s in the parking lot, arguing with his latest critic. I turn off the tap, scratch off the remains of an omelette, and go to find my purse. It’s not where I left it huddled in the corner. Jeremy must have moved it. Or Julia. While far more mature than her father, she has a disposition towards petty theft.

Don’s office light is off but I check in there anyway. When I do, I find Don’s small tv on and kicking. The promo for a new reality show runs across the screen. I catch the tail end. It’s enough to set my eyes rolling. More beautiful people in beautiful places.

I continue my search and find my purse on Don’s desk, tissues out. Definitely Julia. I once taught her how to make a tie out of a handkerchief and she has been a tyrant to my purse ever since.

As I shove the contents back inside, double check my credit card and ID are present, another commercial comes on. The colors and sound are synonymous to all pharmaceutical advertisements, but this one is different. It starts out with generic waves lapping on an overused beach, and proceeds to the situation that needs improving. What it is, I can’t tell, just that the people don’t look happy in their monochrome world.

I don’t realize I’m humming the jingle until it ends abruptly. A voice at once hesitant and confident, wavering in its raw intensity and passion speaks from the far end of a field. I step closer to the television trying to make out his features. The video zooms in. A tall, red haired man, with broad shoulders and the countenance of a boulder looks beyond the camera. His icy blue gaze holds me in place.

“We are P.S.Tech. And we can make you more,” An ending line, or what should have been. I can’t look away.

“There is more to you. More to be unlocked. More to be taken,” He reaches out as if to grab me through the screen. I step back.

“Volunteer. Be more.” As abruptly as it started, the commercial ends and the main programing returns. I shut the door firmly on my way out. The commercial has my stomach dancing a small, irrational jig. It’s a commercial. And you don’t even know what for. Ridiculing myself I give Don a wave at the front desk.

He stops me at the door, tearing my mind away from the commercial.

“Are you okay? Lookin’ pale,” He nods to where my hands grip my purse tightly, concern in his eyes.

“I’m perfect. Thanks again for the job, Don,” he waves me off, jowls swinging.

“Don’t even try thanking me. And tell your mother I said good night,” I give him a small smile before leaving. There’s two ways to go home from Don’s. The quick way, darker, and solemn. Or the brightly lit long way. I choose the long way, pace quickening with each step. I try to tell myself I chose the lighted path for safety. I’m lying to myself.

Start writing here…