Can't Get Enough (Skyland, #3)(107)

“I don’t need Geneva monitoring nothing.” Mama’s voice pops like a whip in sudden irritation. “I can manage it myself.”

I don’t point out that we would not be here if that were the case, but Dr. Katz and I exchange a meaningful look.

“You’re also dehydrated,” Dr. Katz continues. “And there are signs of malnutrition.”

“Malnutrition?” I gasp. “What? Mama, you’ve been eating, haven’t you? I’ve seen you eat.”

Mama glances down and traces the ribboned edge of her blanket. “Of course.”

But has she been eating enough? Mama’s been in her room so much while I was in meetings all day. I should have paid closer attention to her diet. Mr. Bell said his father-in-law had to be tube fed at one point because he wouldn’t eat. Several families in my online support group reported the same thing. The idea of this happening to my mother brings home the severity of our situation, how complex this diagnosis makes life. Not just the diagnosis itself, but all the capillaries that flow from this disease. I’m so ill-equipped. I’ve been negligent. Inattentive. I should have… I wish I had… Why didn’t I…?

I set a clamp over the guilty thoughts attacking me. Those feelings cramping my belly and squeezing my heart are for later. Right now is about Mama.

“This is something to help you sleep,” Dr. Katz offers as the nurse comes in and gives Mama a pill and some water. “You need your rest.”

When he leaves, I help Mama find the channel for her stories and where to watch the game shows.

“Thank you, Hen,” Mama says, studying the remote in her hand. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

“You got nothing to be sorry about.” I sit on the bed beside her and take her hand in mine. “We had a scare. A bad day, but it’ll be okay.”

She huffs and drops her eyes to our clasped hands.

“My life feels like one long bad day lately.” She looks at me and her eyes are as clear as I’ve seen them in a long time, despite today’s panic. “Imagine waking up and not knowing what day it is. Or where you are.”

My breath catches at this rare glimpse into how Mama is processing everything. She never talks about it. I keep quiet, afraid anything I say will slam shut the door she’s cracking open.

“Some mornings to wake up and for a few minutes, not even know your name. It’s like fumbling in the dark. You keep reaching, trying to find something to hold on to, but it’s just pitch-black. I try so hard to remember, and there’s just nothing there.”

Tears burn my throat and I force words out. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“It’s terrifying,” she whispers, blinking at her own tears. “At first when I realized something was wrong, but I didn’t know what, I was so scared. When I started needing the Post-its, I figured it was… Well, I knew.”

I’ll never forget coming home and seeing Post-it notes all over the house.

Your name is Elizabeth.

Your daughter is Hendrix.

Your sister is Geneva.

Your husband John is dead.

Dozens of small yellow notes scribbled with the most basic information, glowing on the walls like pinprick lights to guide Mama through the dark.

“I can’t decide if I want to slow it all down.” Mama sniffs and raises her eyes to meet mine with breathtaking candor. “Or if we could skip all this hard stuff and the good Lord could just take me home.”

“Don’t say that.” I drop my forehead to her hand. “I want you here as long as possible.”

“Here?” she scoffs. “Where exactly is here? Some days I don’t know for sure.”

I shake my head, eyes closed tight even as tears slip over my cheeks and water Mama’s hand.

“Look at me,” Mama commands, some of the old strength in her voice compelling me to lift my head. “Don’t worry. God ain’t through with me yet, so I guess I’ll stay.”

Her smile is wobbly, but somehow it reaches her eyes. “You not getting rid of this old lady that easy.”

I let out a teary laugh and kiss her knuckles. “Good.”

“I just don’t want to be a burden to you, Hen.” She shakes her head. “Or to Geneva. All this fuss for me and—”

“Don’t even think like that,” I cut in. “We’re family. It’s what we do for each other. It’s what you’ve done in some way for everyone else through the years, especially me. It’s my turn.”

I lean forward to kiss her forehead. “And I love you. You’re never a burden, Mama.”

“Okay,” she says, patting my hand. “Well, if I’m gonna be in this place a few days like the doctor says, I’m gonna need my stuff.”

She goes through the list of things she needs brought from home. It ranges from her Velcro hair rollers to her special hand lotion she can only ever find at Rite Aid.

“And my devotional,” Mama mumbles, lashes fluttering closed as the meds kick in. “It’s on my nightstand.”

Outside her room, the nurse pulls the door closed and turns to me.

“She’ll be fine here tonight,” she says. “I suggest you go home and get some rest, especially since I heard you mention your aunt is still recovering there.”