Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88114 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“That’s right, Tara.” She frowns slightly as if trying to recall something, but shrugs it off. “Let’s go sit out back then.”
Eunika helps me get Mom into her chair. Together, we wheel her into the elevator, ride it down, and head out onto the porch. The morning is warm, but not overbearing and we sit in the shade of an awning, Mom’s chair placed at the balcony so she can see the cacti and bushes artfully arranged in geometric shapes down below. Some of the cacti are in bloom and little yellow blossoms burst out here and there, contrasting with the reddish-brown soil and the deep green flesh.
“Lovely,” Mom says once Eunika gets her settled and heads inside, though still within shouting distance. “You know, before that girl got here, this place was a mess and we barely had any cactuses. Can you imagine, a garden out here without cactuses?”
“Tara,” I remind her. “And she’s good. I think she really cares about the plants.”
“She must.” Mom shades her eyes, squinting, and smiles brightly again. “Speak of the devil, look at that.”
I follow Mom’s pointed finger and spot Tara standing down at one of the far beds meticulously pruning back some bushes that got a little too aggressive. She carefully picks up the clippings, places it all into a big bag, and probably plans on composting everything later. She moves with a surprising grace and beauty, and I’m struck by her all over again, how she seems to flit through the gardens like she was born in them. Mom lets out a happy sigh.
“She’s been here a while, hasn’t she?” Mom asks suddenly like she realizes that she’s having a hard time remembering and she’s just trying to grasp at whatever she can. “I feel like it’s been a long time, but I’m not sure. That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Seven years.”
“That’s right, your father let her live in the cottage.”
“Why did he do that? I never found out.”
Mom tilts her head like she’s hearing a far-off conversation. “I think he felt sorry for her.”
“Doesn’t sound like him.”
“He was mourning something. Someone. I can’t remember who.” Her frown deepens. “Your father never did anything out of kindness or without some ulterior motive.”
“No, he really didn’t. It must’ve been hard being married to him.”
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.