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“Man things?” I ask.
“You know, like tools and shit. His drill broke and we just bought this new light fixture, and I would rather have it up on the ceiling versus taking up space in a box on the floor.”
“You’re such a demanding girlfriend,” I say while laughing.
“Learn from me. Demand information from him. Get to know your Dr. McHottie before he comes out to Mercy.”
“Yes, mom.”
I did as Valerie mentioned.I looked up Luke on social media. Nothing was reflecting as a warning sign for something to be off about him. He had a mostly private profile, but what was viewable was normal.
Puppies, memes, and photos of him in scrubs. He sounds perfect to me.
I texted him after Valerie left the bar and still didn’t have any replies by the time I got off work.
I pull my phone out of my purse once I pulled into my driveway and groan.
I had my phone on silent, and he totally did text me an hour ago.
I throw the phone back in my purse, get out of the car, and walk up my driveway. I curse my personal self-doubt and unlock my front door.
I live in a small cottage with a granny flat in the back yard. The granny flat in the back, I rent to my mom, even though it’s included with my rent. It helps me pay for her needs too. Or, rather, helps me to make sure that in her drunken stupor, she does not die. I change out of my work clothes and slip on my flip-flops to check on her. It’s become ridiculous that I’m her caretaker when she’s the parent, but it’s a routine that I have lived my entire life, or, at least, ever since I can remember.
My dad has never been around. In fact, my mom refers to him as a passing sperm donor, and he doesn’t even know that I exist. My mother injured herself at some job she used to have and now has life-long disability that comes in monthly. When she’s coherent, which isn’t often, she will tell you that she drinks to numb the pain, and I’m not sure what her disability really is because she hasn’t really had many days where she’s sober enough to talk about it. She keeps her medical records locked up, and I’ve never been privy to any personal information about her.
So you can say that I’m her caregiver, as I just know the surface shit about her, and I take care of her as much as I can. I make sure she has food in her fridge and I make sure she gets in the shower regularly, even if I have to do it myself. I also make sure that she doesn’t choke on her own vomit, which is, embarrassingly too often, something that I do.
I don’t bother knocking on her door; I walk into her space and almost recoil at the putrid smell. I’m not sure where it’s coming from, but I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t there yesterday. I go in search of her- the space isn’t very big- and find her immediately on the other side of her couch on the floor, asleep. A few feet away from her, I see the cause of the nasty smell and grab the carpet cleaner from under the sink.
I rush to my mom’s side and feel for her pulse. She’s fine and steady, and I don’t see any issue with her at the moment. I turn to clean up the vomit trail and push up my sleeves.
I’m not a large woman, I’m only five foot five and about a buck fifty. My mother is maybe two inches taller than me and at least two hundred pounds. When she’s passed out, she weighs a ton, but the good thing is that she’s impossible to wake in this state, so I drag her, quite literally, to where her bed is in the other room. With enough elbow grease and a lot of swearing, twenty minutes later, she’s safely in her bed with a waste basket beside the bed in case she’s coordinated enough to lean in that direction if she has to vomit again.
This is my life.
