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)
I can be a monster outside of this place. I’ve done things, horrible things, and I don’t regret a single one of them. But I draw the line at my mother.
Maybe Hugh knows it. Maybe he did all this on purpose, knowing that I wouldn’t be willing to hound my mother to change her POA or to speak up for me in any way. And even if that’s the case, I still won’t do it, especially not if it’s only going to hurt her.
We sit in quiet for a few minutes and I watch Tara work as mother hums to herself. It’s a tuneless sound and I don’t recognize the melody, but it seems to calm her down at least. Tara’s lean, gorgeous legs flex as she bends down to cut the plants, and I stare at her arms, her back, the glimpse of her breasts at a distance when she stoops down to gather the clippings. Mom seems happy, and I’m happy in a strange way, and I let us stay like that for a few minutes at least. I don’t know how many more moments like this I’ll get, and I want to cherish what I have.
I should’ve come home a long time ago. I regret it now, sitting with my poor mother. I didn’t quite realize the extent of her decline because whenever she was having a bad day, Hugh wouldn’t let me speak to her. Now though, I can see the cracks at the edges and how far she’s gone, and I hate myself for staying away, but when my father was alive, this place was like a hell for me. The idea of coming back to it, for any reason at all, was akin to voluntarily throwing myself into fire.
I couldn’t do it, but I wish I’d been stronger.
“You know, Mom, I’ve been thinking. When was the last time you did a painting?”
“Oh, I can’t remember, it’s been so long.”
“Do you want to try? It doesn’t have to be much. I can bring you paper and watercolors and you can sit in bed.”
“I don’t know, sweetie, maybe. I’ll think about it.”
I nod a little and cross my legs, leaning forward on my elbows. “I’m glad you let Tara stay.”
“She’s a good girl,” Mom says quietly. “A very good girl. I know how you feel about her.”
“Mom.”
“You always did like her, didn’t you? She was around a lot because—” She stops herself, frowning, and shakes her head. “You liked her.”
“She was too young for me.”
“Ah, she’s what, five years younger? That’s nothing, that’s how old—” She stops again, frowning deeper, and shifts in her chair. “Now why can’t I remember?”
“Mom?”
“Nothing, I was just saying, you always looked at Tara. Everyone knew it. I used to make bets with—” She grunts then, shaking her head. “God, there’s something—” She slams her hands down on the arms of the chair.
“Mom,” I say, starting to rise. “Maybe that’s enough for today.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. I just want to know when Cait’s getting home.”
I stare at her and feel my heart break. I don’t know what to say and Mom shakes her head, mumbling to herself, speaking nonsense about her husband and Hugh and the nurse, none of it making any sense. She finally turns to me, twisting in her chair, and her eyes seem far away as she looks into my face, reaching out slowly to touch my cheek.
“Orin? When’s Cait getting home?” I pull away from her hand, suddenly vibrating with horror. “She’s been out too damn late. I think it’s that girl Tara. That bad one from the rotten family. She’s a bad influence, Orin, and you know it. When’s Cait getting home?” Mom rocks from side to side, teeth clenched, and I have to get up. I pace away, trembling, and call for Eunika.
She comes quickly and helps calm Mom down enough to get her back inside. I trail after them, feeling like I’m dripping blood and gore as we go. Hearing my mother ask when Cait’s coming back and listening to her confuse me for my father is too much, too fucking much. Once Mom’s safely on the elevator, I turn and stride back outside, head pounding. Little cracks are forming all over me, and I feel like I might shatter and break and scream into the empty garden.
I don’t know where I’m going. I head into the pathways, moving through the maze of cactus patches until I slow and come to a stop.
Tara’s up ahead. I watch her work, breathing hard, trying to calm down, and from this close, I can see the way her face is screwed up in concentration like she’s entirely in the moment and each motion she makes is the precise right motion she intended. Only after she collects some clipping does she look up and notice me.