Chapter Text
"Honey, I think you should come and visit your mama. She's not doing well."
The call came from Rosalita, your mother's at home nurse. The woman who checked her medication, who got her out for walks, who provided companionship three times a week. You paid for her wages to assuage your guilt.
Penance for leaving home and never looking back.
You hate returning to Florida and its oppressive, sticky heat. Back to the dim grime of your old neighborhood. Back to a world you scraped off your body, scrubbed it clean and entered a world unlike it on the other side of the world: Seattle. A land of cool weather and overpriced coffee. Where no one knew your name or your history.
But what's that expression? Make a plan and God laughs? That must be true because just as things were starting to go really well at work and heat up with your handsome new neighbor Dave, you got that call from Rosalita.
Hillary, your older sister lived in the house with your mom up until a two weeks ago. Scamming insurance companies with her slip-and-fall routine at big box stores, hooking up with men until she drained their bank accounts.
She was unreliable in many ways, but at least she made your mom meals, helped her with laundry and ensured the house was in order and paid for
A better daughter than I've ever been.
But three weeks ago she and a bartender you'd never met before announced that they wanted to strike out on their own in Canada. They were going to find a little cabin and start life there.
She didn't care that it left your mother alone in the house. Didn't care that the dementia slowly eating away at her body and mind now required constant care.
"Rosalita can take care of her," Hillary said when you called her after the doctor's call that confirmed your worst fear.
"I can't afford to hire her around the clock, Hill."
"Not my problem. I've spent the last five years taking care of her. Now it's your turn."
You could hardly be mad at her, could you? She was right. Five years since your mother's first fall after a stroke; the one that left her frail, with a fading memory. How were you to know that worse was yet to come?
"Based on the latest lab work and imaging, your mother has been diagnosed with alcoholic hepatitis," the doctor told you with a fatigued banality when you called him. You were probably one of several people getting devastating news from him. "Given the extent of the liver damage, this is not something we can reverse."
He let that settle as you floundered for breath, the phone at your ear as you sat at your dining table. You'd expected a routine health summary of her dementia which seemed to be progressing slowly.
But this?
"With her dementia and overall health, we’re looking at a life expectancy of months rather than years. In our best estimate, less than six months.”
You heard papers shuffling and you could imagine your mother's doctor with his long jowls and patchy hair before his large oak desk.
“Our focus from here would be comfort, symptom management, and making sure she isn’t in pain."
"Does she need to go into a home do you think?" You asked, still in shock. You did the mental calculations of the cost and figured you could dip into your savings.
"She will need full-time care the longer this progresses but moving your mother at this stage isn't suggested," he told you with a sigh. "She also made it clear to me that she wished for her final months to be spent at home."
Why she wanted to spend months in this old, ugly house you're walking up to is beyond you. As you look at the dead flowers in the planter and the overgrown grass you frown, wondering if you should have just gone against her wishes and brought her back to your two-bedroom condo in Seattle.
Since the promotion you worked impossibly hard for the past decade you now work remotely, overseeing departments and meetings in a nice shirt and sweatpants. You can work anywhere with access to a laptop and steady Internet connection.
You’ve made decent money at your job but not the kind that could offer full time healthcare workers for your mom. The only option left was to move back home with her.
Even if she hadn't been the best parent she was still the only one you had. Time had softened those rough edges of your childhood memories, painting them with a, gauzy filter.
You take a deep breath now, looking up at the home with its faded siding and steps worn smooth with decades of walking up and down.
Now or never.
The porch creaks under your feet and you make the mental note to repair it. If you're going to be here you want to be doing something more then sitting around watching your parent die.
"Hey ma," you call out as the screen door clatters shut behind you. "Did you know the door was unlocked?"
"Honey? You here already?"
You watch as your mother shuffles into the kitchen, her slippers faded with age. Despite weekly phone calls ever since your move to Seattle and the doctor’s updates you still weren't prepared for the weight loss.
The sight of her tiny body swallowed in an old bathrobe causes you to take a physical step back. She doesn’t seem to notice. You shakily cross the yellowed linoleum to bring her into your arms, her frail body warm to the touch.
"I can't believe you're here," she says with delight in her tired eyes. "Feels like ages."
"Was the flight okay?"
"Yep. Good."
"And the taxi?"
"Also good."
You struggle to find something else to say. Has it always been this difficult to hold a face to face conversation with her? Or did distance do it?
"You didn't have to come here to stay," she tells you in a voice cultivated through years of smoking. "I'll be fine. The doctors are making a big deal outta nothing."
Sure Mom. You're going to be gone in six months but it totally isn't a big deal.
"Stop trying to get rid of me. I just walked in the door," you joke with a smile so strained you wince.
"You got much to bring in?"
"Nope just suitcase."
Already your mom is reaching a bony hand towards the handle of it. "I'll help you unpack-"
"You can help by sitting your ass down on the couch," you quip, softening the harshness of the message.
"Is this how its gonna be?" She asks wryly. "You being the mama?"
Wasn't it always that way?
"Yes it is."
Even her smile looks tired as she waves you off. "Okay honey. You win."
She shuffles away, back bowed, legs frail. It hurts you to see it. You open the fridge, sticking your head inside to freeze any unwanted tears.
Your mom was always a shitty cook, but today her fridge is downright bleak. Mustard. An old lime. Chinese food boxes half full with chow mien and almond chicken.
"Mom what the fuck have you been eating all week?"
"Language," she hollers from the TV room. "And I've been ordering in. Plus your cousin stops by every so often when he's in town and stocks the fridge. Gives me spending money when he can too."
"Of course he does," you mutter with a smirk. At least now you know where she's getting this extra money.
Your older cousin, Santiago - Santi to most - is always blowing in on the wind when his job allows. As a freelance military advisor he's less serious than most would think. Easy going, prone to laughter.
You just wish he had better taste in friends.
"He’s in town now,” you mom continues to bellow the best she can. “He took me to the casino last week!"
"Of course he did."
Santi was always the cool older cousin growing up. The one who took you for ice cream and taught you how to swim when your mom was passed out on the couch between shifts at the liquor store. When your older sister wanted nothing to do with you because you were 4 years younger and had nothing in common with her.
You order groceries on your phone in between unpacking in that same bedroom you slept in your entire childhood. The boy band posters still hang on the walls, the narrow bed with its floral sheets still sitting in the fading sunlight. Its eerie how little has changed.
"Clean sheets," your mom calls out to you from down the hall. "Did them this morning."
"You're supposed to be relaxing," you say in exasperation, and she doesn't answer .
You finish up, coming to find her at the couch with peanuts in a bowl, eating like a tiny chipmunk. The news is playing with the closed captioning on, barely heard over her munching.
"I'm making us lasagna soon so don't fill up on those."
"Yes Mama," she quips
You come to stand next to her beside the threadbare couch, hip balanced against the wall. You used to do this as a kid too, hovering, never touching down too long, always ready to flee.
"The place looks nice," you observe, looking around to see the space rather tidied. "Hillary did a good job before she left."
"Wasn't Hillary," your mother scoffs. "The cleaner does it for me."
You wrinkle your nose in confusion. "The cleaner?
With what money? Your mom isn't exactly rolling in cash. She has enough to cover the mortgage and some groceries, a few expenditures like getting her hair permed with the extra money you send each month. Is this another Santi gift?
“How often does she come by?"
"Once a week. And it's a man."
A man? You're thrown, eyes narrowed.
"A man comes here to clean? Do you pay him?"
She looks up at you, brows tight. "No. Of course not. He does it for free."
"What's his name?"
"Can't remember."
"What's he look like?"
She frowns and you can see her frantically trying to remember anything about the man she claims comes here to clean.
"I'm trying to watch the television."
It hits you hard, watching her tiny fingers change the channel with the remote. The certainty in how she speaks, like nonsense is the truth.
Rosalita did mention this on the phone over the past few months. How your mom's mind had slowly been deteriorating along with her body. But seeing it happen before your eyes has your heart aching.
How am I going to last through this?
"Hello?"
A deep voice is at the door, startling you. You walk over to the entryway, seeing a familiar man enter.
Speak of the devil.
Santi is still the coolest person you know. Handsome, charismatic, unflappable. Molten eyes, glossy black hair, a joke for every family dinner he finds time to attend. You think you relate to him more than most of the cousins because you too ran away from home the minute you could.
He turns the corner, catching you out the side of his eyes. His handsome face breaks into a beam.
"The prodigal daughter has returned."
"Just in time to see the prodigal son."
He pulls you into a warm hug, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
"Your mom said you'd be in today. Had to confirm it with my own eyes."
You know what he’s saying. Had to make sure she was lucid. Had to make sure it wasn’t just something she was saying with her addled brain.
“You could have called to make sure.”
“You hate talking on the phone.”
“Text then.”
“You never check your messages.”
Fair enough.
You laugh, squeezing him back before looking him over."Someone's been working out. Seeing a special lady back in Colombia?"
He shrugs. "I mean, in between taking down drug cartels I do okay."
You both chuckle and then that cocky smile is back on his tanned face. The one that makes his eyes disappear. The same one he wore when you were teenagers.
"How long you back for?"
"Taking the summer off," he says, spreading his arms wide. "I need a fucking break. How about you?"
You motion to the other room, voice dropping. "Until…."
Santi's disposition immediately deflates and he cringes.
"Right. Yeah, stupid question." He nods. "I should go say hi."
He goes into the other room and you smile hearing your mom exclaim his name with joy.
"My darling boy!"
You can't help but feel like twenty years has melted away in this moment. The sound of your mom's laughter and the warmth of house. It's almost like old summer days: your cousin is here to ride bikes down to the river or to the mall to check payphones for forgotten quarters.
Santi's parents are dead, mom in childbirth, dad from a car crash where he was the drunk behind the wheel. You always thought it was weird, you with just a mom, he with just a dad. Together you almost made a family.
"You want anything to eat?" You ask, motioning to the kitchen when Santi reappears. "Groceries should be here soon."
He shakes his head. "Nah, Frank's waiting for me in the truck, we're meeting up with the guys."
You visibly stiffen when you hear his name.
Frank. Frankie. Francisco Morales.
His face flashes into your head and you're surprised at the vitriol the memory brings. You can't help but grimace as you think of his unkempt dark hair and ugly baseball cap he never seems to leave home without.
"Still not his biggest fan, huh?"
You break from your reverie to find Santi smirking at you.
"Why do you say that?"
"Your face. Looks like you sucked on a lemon." Santi scans your eyes, voice softening at the edges.
“Just tired from the flight.”
“Liar.”
Santi was always able to see through your bullshit.
"Are either of you ever gonna tell me what happened?
You shrug, forcing yourself to sound less embittered. "We grew up, that's all."
Santi nods but there's no conviction in it. "Sure."
A rap comes at the screen door and you glance over to see your groceries are being delivered by a short young man with cycling gloves.
"Better let you settle in," Santi says, kissing your cheek before he starts to leave. "I'm here for a bit myself. Gimme a call when you find time for a drink."
"Sounds good."
You watch him leave over the delivery man's shoulder, the fading sunlight kissing his arms as he pulls open the door of the old blue truck at the end of the driveway.
The figure in the driver's seat is a dark blur against the shadow cast by the sunlight. But the silhouette is unmistakable, sharp nose, baseball cap, hair curled slightly out from the edges of it.
At your age you think that you shouldn't still carry that grudge for him. The one you've nurtured for decades, letting it grow bigger and uglier with each passing year.
You think you see his head tilt your way, but you force your attention to the man with the grocery bags.
Once the truck ambles away from the curb and the delivery boy given a tip, you stand at your kitchen table and once more are transported back in time.
THEN
At eight and eleven you and your sister are complete opposites. She loves makeup and magazines. You love climbing trees and running through sprinklers. The age gap isn’t huge, but as a pre-teen she finds you downright annoying.
"No, you can't come to the mall with me and my friends," she announces as she runs glassy strawberry lipgloss over her pout in the mirror.
Your mom is working double shifts again. You'll be left inside the stuffy all day by yourself and the prospect makes you feel restless.
"Please? I have money for a soda."
Your pride is forgotten as you think of following her friends around in the air conditioned mall. There will be samples at the pretzel placed and sometimes Hillary’s friends are nice and they share their fries with you in the food court.
Hillary however hates it when you’re clingy.
"I don't care. I'm not your babysitter."
She doesn't even cast a look your way when she heads out of the house, waving to her friends who wear the same belly shirts and thick eyeliner. You watch the three of them wander down the street, laughing shrilly before you slink miserable into the kitchen.
You make yourself up a peanut butter sandwich, determined not to let Hillary have all the fun.
You're not supposed to leave the house alone, but you're not spending another summer day inside by yourself. Your backpack is filled with a swimsuit, towel, sandwich and hat that used to belong to your dad. Your sunglasses perch on the end of your nose as you prepare for your adventure.
Just as you're pulling on your sneakers the front door bursts open and your cousin Santi is there, breathing heavily. As always his t-shirt is too big on his tiny frame, his black hair wet at the temples from summer sweat.
This is customary in your family, bursting into each other's homes. You don't do it half as often at Santi's though, because your uncle Diego is rough and loud. He's what they call a mean drunk, you overheard that at a family BBQ.
You guess that means your mom is a sleepy one.
"We're going on Travis' new airboat," Santi tells you with an excited laugh. "His dad says he'll take us all for a ride. You and Hillary want to come?"
Suddenly Hillary abandoning you isn't such a bad thing. You'll get to go on a river boat! She'll be so jealous when you tell her at supper tonight.
"She's not home but I wanna go."
"Okay, c'mon, Pip. Grab your bike."
Pip is the nickname given to you by the brotherly Santi by the time you were five years old. You absolutely hate it, but you’re in no position to fight. You want an escape from this house and he’s giving it to you.
Travis is there at the end of the driveway, oversized teeth full of braces. He scoffs when he sees you toting your pink bike after Santi.
"Seriously dude? She's like five."
Santi tells Travis to shut up as you mount your bike, the backpack sitting heavily on your shoulders. You ignore Travis' sneer.
"We have to pick up Frankie on the way," Santi tells you both as he clamors atop his rusted black bike.
"Who's Frankie?"
"New kid in our grade who moved in a few weeks ago. He's a couple streets over."
The three of you cycle the few blocks to Hunter Street, pulling in front of an old place with grey siding and lopsided railings on either side of the weathered steps.
A kid sits there on the steps wearing denim shorts and a blue T-shirt as you approach. His dark brown hair is thick, curling with sweat at the nape and under his ears.
"Hey Frankie," Santi calls out as you all glide forward, lifting a finger from the bike handle in greeting.
"Hey," Frankie says to the boys, ignoring you altogether. You're used to it as the only girl, the youngest, the tagalong. But you don't care as long as it gets you out of the house.
"Travis says his dad is gonna take us on the airboat," Santi says excitedly. "You wanna come?"
"Sure." He speaks quietly, like he's afraid of his own voice.
His feet look too large for his lanky body when he stands, grabbing his fallen bike from the grass and heading over. He doesn't introduce himself but Santi motions to you/
“This is my little cousin.”
“We call her Pip,” Travis pipes in and you shoot him a dark look. Frankie glances over at you now, nose wrinkling.
“Pip?”
“For Pipsqueak.”
Santi doesn't bother a more formal introduction so the four of you just pick up and go before you have time to give Frankie your real name. Not that it matters. You’ll always been known to his friends as Santi’s baby cousin.
Frankie isn't a very fast biker, almost at pace with you pumping your legs as fast as they will go. He's the tallest in the group so you don't know if he's being lazy or he's just not got the endurance.
"Where did you move from?" You ask through pants, trying to be friendly. It's intimidating talking to a boy, especially one older than you but something about Frankie feels different than the often cruel Travis.
He doesn't look at you when he answers. "Texas."
"You don't have an accent."
"We move around a lot," Frankie mumbles, cheeks pink from the heat. "Dad's in the army."
"Oh. Cool."
It’s not uncommon around here to be an army brat. Half the kids in your school are.
You've all been riding about fifteen minutes when the sun moves higher, bearing down on you against the black pavement. Frankie blinks against the bright sunlight, cupping a hand over his brow as the four of you ride, his raspy voice rising slightly to address the boys up ahead.
"I’m gonna go back for my sunglasses."
"No time!" Travis throws over his shoulder dismissively. "Dad says he's leaving at eleven sharp."
Frankie frowns but continues to pedal. He pulls away from you now, noticing that Travis is glancing back every so often and snickering. The three ride on ahead of you and you feel your cheeks burn, your legs are on fire as you fight to keep up with them.
With the dappled sunlight over their heads you think they could be brothers from behind. Dark hair in messy curls blowing back as you ride. Frankie’s shoulders are wider than the others, a stripe of sweat down his spine. Travis half crouches when he rides, always needing to prove himself a daredevil as he shouts out jokes to make Santi laugh.
Santi just pedals with focus, glancing back every so often to give you an encouraging smile until the four of you stop at the old park at the end of the block, feet landing on the pavement to stop the bikes.
"Shortcut," Santi announces, climbing off his bike. He and Travis start navigating their bikes through the bushes and you go to follow suit. There are large roots poking up from the ground, but you're used to it. This way is the fastest to the river.
"Looks kinda dangerous," Frankie offers softly as he dismounts. His dark eyes scan the darkened space, assessing the potential damage for his bike. You notice his bike is much nicer than anyone else's.
You’ve caught up to them now, keeping pace with the slower Frankie who stands at the mouth of the trail, still glancing around nervously.
"C'mon Frank," Santi laughs along with Travis, speeding up his steps.
"Yeah, stop being a little bitch,” Travis shouts over his shoulder. “I wanna see gators."
You watch Frankie's cheeks go red at the insult and he starts to lead his bike into the trail. Unlike Santi and Travis you've noticed that Frankie isn't loud. He's soft spoken and appears to be painfully shy.
"Not gonna be able to see a fucking thing out there," he mutters to himself, fingers tightening around the handle of his bike until his knuckles blanch. "Don't know why I'm even going."
Even at eight you can tell that Frankie is on the verge of frustrated tears when his head tilts down and he starts blinking fast.
You walk alongside Frankie feeling sorry for him, backpack hitting the back of your knees when you suddenly pause. You quickly slide the strap off your shoulder and unzip the bag, momentarily elated at the thought of being useful to one of the older boys.
You reach into the backpack and dig around past your peanut butter sandwich and apple, past the extra socks and handful of change before producing one of your father's old baseball caps. It's a dark navy cap with his work logo on the front that you extend Frankie's way, not quite brave enough to meet his eyes.
"Here. This'll help I think."
He stops walking as he glances over at your offering. He takes a moment to assess, nervous, like a feral cat brought indoors. He takes it from you gingerly with one hand still holding the bike for balance.
Now you raise your gaze to see him holding the cap by the brim, dark eyes scanning the logo on the front.
"Standard Heating Oil?"
"It's where my dad used to work," you say quietly. You don't talk about your dad much. You barely remember him. You're thankful when Frankie doesn't press it.
Frankie nods, pulling it over his dark curls. It's slightly too large but he pushes it up, his eyes reappearing. This close you can see that they’re almost black.
When you give him a nod and thumbs up he smiles shyly back at you. You notice a dimple in his right cheek when he does.
"Thanks, Pip."