Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Many artists volunteer their services to teach the patients new crafts. The workshops include gardening, sewing, knitting, and baking. I wish my mom would take an interest in an activity. It will be good for her to keep busy.
We stop in front of the second-last door.
“She’s having one of her not-so-good days,” he says as he knocks.
My smile is apprehensive. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“Hello, Mary,” he says in a bright tone, opening the door. “Look who came to visit.”
He gives me an encouraging nod before turning, his Crocs squeaking on the floor as he briskly walks away to take care of his never-ending duties.
My mom sits in a chair next to the window, watching a sitcom on the wall-mounted television. By habit, I take everything in with a glance. I want to reassure myself that my mom is well cared for. The bed is made, the crisp white linen without a crease. As always, the hardwood floor shines, and the mirror is spotless. The crystal drops of the French shabby chic chandelier throw rainbows over the floor. The furniture is white with golden gilded edges. A vase of pink roses stands on the dresser. Their sweet fragrance perfumes the air. The room is homely and pretty. The flowers from the garden add a nice touch. I make a mental note to thank Bertrand.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, going over.
She doesn’t acknowledge me.
I pick up the remote and switch off the television. “It’s a beautiful day. Would you like to have tea in the garden?”
Her mouth thins. “No, ‘Hi, Mom. How are you?’”
I drop my bag on the loveseat at the foot-end of the bed and blow out a quiet sigh. “I was coming to that. How are you?”
She turns to fully face me, her expression pinched. “I can’t sleep. Haven’t slept in days. These fucking people won’t give me more sleeping pills.”
Sinking down into the chair across from her, I say as gently as I can, “They can’t exceed the dose the doctor prescribed.”
She scoffs. “Don’t speak to me like I’m a child. Did you bring my cigarettes?”
“You quit,” I say a bit more sternly. “Remember?”
“Why the fuck must I quit? Why the fuck can’t I have a fag when I want one? Or a beer? Or a fucking drink? You locked me up in this prison. The least you can do is bring me a fucking packet of smokes.”
I groan. “Mom.”
“What?”
“We’re not alone in the house. Please mind your language.”
“Now I can’t speak? What’s the matter? Do you think you’re too good for me, Miss Goody Two Shoes?”
“Mom, please.”
“Just say it. You think you’re better than me.”
“I only want you to get well.”
She snickers. “I’ll be fucking great if I can just have a fucking fag. What the fuck is wrong with you?” Her look is sly. “You’ve got a fancy job now, don’t you? You’re all hoity-toity in that new place where you live. Are you too stingy to buy your mother a lousy fucking packet of cigarettes?”
Already, a tension headache is building behind my temples. “We talked about this. The doctor explained why you shouldn’t smoke. If you start again, your lungs will get worse. Besides, you’re over the most difficult part already. You just have to hang in there a few more days. The craving will pass. How about some tea instead?”
“Will you stop with your fucking tea?” she yells.
I flinch at the outburst.
Immediately, she changes tactics, saying in a soft voice, “You’re my little darling girl. My good little girl. Do you remember the fun we had on Saturdays? Don’t you miss those days?”
Not even for a second.
“Why don’t you run out and get us a six-pack and a packet of smokes?” Grabbing my hand, she giggles. “We can have a party just like in the good old days. Oh, it’ll be so much fun. This place is so fucking serious. We can let our hair down and unwind a little. You’re so stuck up. You can do with letting your hair down. Let your mama teach you how to have fun.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. Alcohol is prohibited. You know you’re not yourself when you drink. And even if I wanted to, I can’t support your smoking habit any longer. I can barely take care of myself, and now—” I cut off, hesitating to continue.
My mom pulls away. “Why not? Why can’t you afford it?”
For a moment, there’s a flicker of something in her eyes, something I want so badly to believe is concern. Just for once, I want to be the child and not the adult. I want to confide in my mother so that she can tell me everything will be all right. She’s been where I am now. Even if she can’t help me, she can give me understanding and compassion.
Taking a deep breath, I admit, “I’m pregnant.”