Me Since You

by Laura Wiess

  I look at the chair.

  The only purse hanging on the back of it is mine.

  “Mom?” Knees shaking, I turn to the sunporch door.

  There’s a square of white paper taped on it, right in the center of the glass, and for a moment it doesn’t register. A flood of adrenaline sweeps through me, and I wobble toward it, staring at the one word in that note that stands out.

  Hospital.

  “Oh my God,” I say, and, clutching the door frame to steady myself, read the rest.

  Grandma called. Grandpa hurt himself. Took them to the hospital. Be back soon. Love, Mom P.S. Leave me a note if you go out.

  I blink, sweating, read it again, feel like dropping with relief and am about to call her when I hear car doors slam in the driveway and voices sounding way too loud and cheerful heading toward the porch.

  It’s them.

  “You scared the crap out of me,” I say, propping open the door and squinting into the eye-piercing sunlight. “What happened? How’s Grandpa?”

  My grandmother reaches the steps first. “Oh, he’s fine,” she says with a smile. “Hello, sleepyhead.” She hands me a big, bulging grocery bag and kisses my cheek. “I hope I didn’t wake you when I called this morning but you-know-who just had to go out into the garage to sharpen his lawn mower blade at what time, Albert?”

  “Six thirty,” my grandfather grumbles, coming up the steps behind her. “Why not? I’m not sleeping good these days anyway and it’s better to cut the lawn early when the sun isn’t as strong. Otherwise the grass will burn.”

  “That’s watering the garden, Albert, not cutting the grass,” my grandmother says, giving me a look and bustling past into the kitchen. “He hasn’t had his coffee yet.”

  “I’ll make some right now,” I say, more than a little boggled.

  “Wouldn’t have mattered,” he says, and, stopping in front of me, holds up a finger wrapped in an enormous swath of blinding-white gauze. “Just missed the tendon. You should have seen that sucker bleed.”

  “Come on, Dad,” my mother says, stepping into the porch and steering him past me. “Go in and sit down.” Her hair is loose, out of the freakish, punishing ponytail and tucked hastily behind her ears, and she’s wearing a blouse with all its buttons. “The doctor said you should take it easy today.”

  “Humph. What does he know? I’ve got undershorts older than that doctor,” he says, but weaves his way through the cats and over to a chair anyway. “I can still drive.” His face is pale, the circles under his eyes dark, and twin spots of color burn in his cheeks.

  “Now, maybe,” my mother says. “Not while you were bleeding.” She notices me standing there with the bag in my arms and shoves our grocery bags aside to clear a space for me to put it. “You found my note?”

  “Yes,” I say, dumping the bag on the counter and heading for the coffeepot. “But it was really weird, waking up with you not here. Really weird. Like, scary.”

  Our gazes meet.

  “I’m sorry. It was just so early . . .” A wide yawn interrupts her. “Oh, excuse me. You were sleeping so peacefully that I didn’t have the heart to wake you up.”

  Wait . . . what? “You came into my room? I didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s because you were sleeping,” my mother says, giving me an amused look.

  “Yeah, but my door was shut,” I say, frowning.

  “And I opened it,” she says, lips twitching. “Believe it or not, I do have that power.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” This bothers me. Not that she came in but that I never heard her do it. Has it happened before? Has anyone else done it? Did Daddy ever do it? I want to ask, but . . . Not now. I shake my head. “Forget it.”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t touch any of your stuff,” she says, and yawns again. “Sorry.”

  “Albert, why don’t you and Rachel go sit in the living room and relax for a while?” my grandmother says, reaching past us and prodding my grandfather’s shoulder. “You both look all worn out.”

  “Good idea. C’mon, Dad,” my mother says, waiting until he pushes himself up and then gently taking his arm and helping him out of the room.

  “I’ll call you when the coffee’s ready,” I say, and as I’m measuring out the grounds and filling the carafe with water, my grandmother comes over and begins rummaging through the big bag.

  “Ah! Here it is.” She plops one of those giant, family-sized packages of cut-up chicken on the counter, glances over at me and says, “We stopped back home after the hospital because your grandfather insisted he could drive and so I could get my ingredients. I’ve decided to make the chicken paprikás here instead of cooking it there and then bringing it all the way back.”

  “Oh.” This is a first. “Uh, cool.” I move some of our grocery bags to the crowded kitchen table, catching one as it starts to slide off of a pile of unread newspapers.

  “Well, I thought it was high time we all sat down for a meal as a family again,” she says briskly, washing her hands in the sink. “Structure is important and—”

  One of the cats jumps up on the counter, lured by the scent of the chicken.

  “No!” She shoos it down again. “Bad kitty.” She wags a stern finger at it and then turns to me. “How does your mother cook with all of these cats in here?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging and opening the first of yesterday’s grocery bags. “She hasn’t really cooked since we got them, I guess.” I gather the boxes of mac ’n’ cheese and carry them to the pantry.

  When I come out, my grandmother is waiting. “Well if no one’s cooking, what have you been eating?”

  “Pizza, Chinese food, the stuff you bring over,” I say, opening the next bag and pulling out the Cup Noodles. “This.” I hold one up. “Why?”

  She looks at the foam cup full of dehydrated noodles and powdered broth, then past me at the kitchen table piled with newspapers, mail, books, pens, an open carton of cigarettes and Petal curled up sleeping among it. “You can’t possible eat there.”

  “No, we eat on trays in the living room,” I say, and shake the Cup Noodles so that the hard, wizened little green peas and carrots inside rattle. “These things only take a couple of minutes, anyway.” I tote them to the pantry, and when I return another cat is poised to leap up onto the counter. “Come here, you,” I say, scooping him up and moving him. “That’s not allowed.”

  Sage, the cat, blows me off and trots back to twine around my grandmother’s ankles instead.

  “Move him, please, Rowan,” she says, shifting. “I don’t want to step on him.”

  I retrieve the cat and set him over on one of the chairs next to Stripe. “Now stay there.”

  Sage gives me a look, leaps down and trots right back to my grandmother.

  I pick him up again and take him into the living room. “Keep him here, okay? He’s being a brat,” I say, setting him on my mother’s lap and heading back to the kitchen.

  “I don’t know how anyone can get anything done around here with all of these interruptions,” my grandmother grumbles when I return, opening one of the bottom cabinet doors and peering inside. “Where does your mother keep the big pots?”

  “Not in there,” I say as three more cats run in from the living room, tails high and gazes expectant. “That’s where we keep the cat food.” And to them, “No, sorry. It’s not time yet. Go back to sleep. Go.” I herd them back out into the hall. “Good.”

  “The coffee’s done,” my grandmother says, and there’s a slight edge in her voice now that wasn’t there before. She plants her hands on her hips and, frowning, gazes around the room. “How in the world can you people find anything in this mess?”

  I hope my mother didn’t hear that. “Coffee,” I call quickly, and, grabbing a mug, pour myself a cup because I haven’t had any yet either. “Do you want me to bring it in, Mom?”

  “No, we’re here,” my mother says as she and my grandfather reappear and settle into kitchen chairs. “But you could still pour
it, and get the cream and sugar. Oh, and the Splenda. You don’t take sugar anymore, do you, Dad?”

  “No, I’m sweet enough,” he says, and flashes a cheesy grin.

  I gaze at my mother a moment, tempted to point out that I’m busy herding cats and putting away groceries, but instead say, “Sure,” and do as she asks. “Here you go.” I hand a mug to my grandfather and one to my mother and set Gran’s on the countertop, as she’s apparently given up the search for a pot and is busy rinsing the chicken parts and trying not to step on the cats winding around her ankles. They’re getting to her though; I can tell because her lips are pursed and there’s a sharp little V frown between her eyebrows. “Want some help?”

  “Not now,” she says, turning off the faucet. “Maybe later, with the nokedli.”

  “Okay,” I say, because the dumplings are my favorite part of the dish. “Just yell when you need me.” I glance at my watch. “Um, this is going be ready for supper, right? Around what, five o’clock?”

  “Why?” my mother says before my grandmother can answer. “I hope you don’t think you’re going anywhere tonight, Rowan, because you’re grounded thanks to that little disappearing act you pulled yesterday.”

  And there it is, my first punishment since my father died, announced right in front of my grandparents, and the sneaky looks they exchange make it obvious that they’re all in on it together. I’m tempted to balk, challenge her, to throw the tantrum my grandparents are apparently expecting . . . but I’m not really feeling it and I’m definitely not into becoming a community project, discussed and dissected over dinner, watched during free time for signs of another freak explosion . . .

  It’s just not worth it.

  “Yeah, okay,” I say with a shrug, and root through another bag. “And besides, where am I going to go, anyway? I’m not exactly popular these days, in case you haven’t noticed.” Where I was intending to go today—and still am—is down to the cleaner’s to see if I can get my job back, but I’ll bring that up later. I grab the jars of peanut butter and jelly from the bag and head for the pantry.

  “What about Nadia?” my mother says, losing the attitude. “Where’s she been?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, fussing with the stuff on the shelves and sorry I even brought it up. “Busy, I guess, or maybe on vacation. We haven’t hung out in a while.”

  “Well, you must have other friends,” my mother says, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving me a funny look. “What about Danica or—”

  “Oh no! No! Give me that, damn you!”

  I turn and see my furious grandmother caught in a tug-of-war with Sage, who is crouched up on the counter growling, a raw chicken leg clamped between his teeth.

  “Stop it! Let go!” my grandmother cries, raising a hand as if to swat him.

  “Sage, no! Mom, don’t let him get it, he’ll choke on the bones,” my mother says, jumping up and grabbing the cat. “No. That’s not yours.” Ignoring his threatening rumble, she wedges his bulk under her arm and, using one finger, pushes his bottom lip over his tooth and into the side of his mouth. He opens his jaws and she pulls the leg free. “Here.” She tries to hand it back to my grandmother, who looks at it like it’s suddenly crawling with maggots and turns away. “Oh, for God’s sake.” My mother tosses it into the sink and sets the cat on the floor. “No,” she tells Sage sternly. “That’s bad.”

  He goes into a quick fit of belly-washing and then rises, tail twitching, and stalks away.

  “That was close,” my mother says, reaching past my grandmother to the faucet and washing her hands in the sink. “We’re going to have to make sure all the bones are bagged up and put out in the garbage after dinner. Chicken bones are bad for cats. They get brittle after they’re cooked and could splinter and perforate their intestines.” She grabs a dish towel and dries her hands, then turns and meets my grandmother’s ominous gaze. “What?”

  “Is that all you have to say?”

  My mother looks at her, puzzled. “What else do you want me to say? Thank you for holding on to that chicken leg?”

  “No!” my grandmother says, cheeks flushed and mouth pulled tight. “Mother of mercy, Rachel, how can you live like this?”

  “Like what?” my mother says, and the question seems to infuriate my grandmother even more.

  “Like this! My God, look around you. It looks like a bomb went off in here! Groceries everywhere, shoes thrown around, dishes in the sink . . . And look at your kitchen table! Haven’t you even opened any mail since Nicky died?”

  Shocked, my mother tries to reply but my grandmother barrels on.

  “You can’t go on like this. I have tried to be patient and understanding, Rachel, I have, but you have responsibilities and you need to start taking care of them again.” She yanks a glass from the dish drainer, fills it with water and dumps it into the dying houseplant sitting on the windowsill. “There! Was that so hard?” Her gaze falls on my father’s wallet. “And this, still here after all these months!” She reaches for it—

  “Don’t,” my mother says, finding her voice.

  My grandmother hesitates and drops her hand, leaving the wallet where it is, but she isn’t done yet. “Well, then what about Rowan? She needs structure and guidance; she needs to know she can count on you to be a parent. Instead, she comes home to what? Clutter and neglect and irresponsibility! What kind of life is that? She says you haven’t even made a meal in months.”

  Oh great. Thanks, Gran. “Hey, don’t get me involved in this,” I say, holding up my hands and shaking my head as my mother flashes me a betrayed look. “She asked, Mom. What was I going to say?”

  “Don’t you dare blame her for being honest. You’re the one who is supposed to be in charge of your household. No wonder she’s acting out. What kind of stability does she have anymore?”

  “Now, wait a minute,” my mother says, straightening her shoulders.

  “No! I’ve waited too long already.” My grandmother snatches up the dish towel my mother has left on the counter and folds it, her motions quick and jerky. “Your father and I haven’t wanted to say anything because we know you’re doing the best you can but—” A cat leaps up onto the counter, and she slaps at it with the dish towel, making it panic and leap off again. “These cats! How many are there?”

  “Eleven,” my mother says, lifting her chin.

  “Eleven,” my grandmother repeats flatly. “What are you going to do with eleven cats, Rachel?”

  “What am I going to do with them?” my mother says coolly, and frowns. “Gee, I don’t know, Mom. What do you normally do with a pet? You bring it inside, you have it fixed, you feed it and you love it. That’s about it, I guess.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it,” my grandmother says, grabbing a paper towel from the roll. Wetting it, she scrubs the counter where the cat stood. “You’re letting everything go and—”

  “Wait, Edie,” my grandfather interrupts. “Maybe this isn’t the right time.”

  She turns on him. “Then when, Albert? If not now, when? We’ve talked about this over and over again, and you saw what that awful animal just did. We didn’t spend good money on all of this food just to waste it on cats!”

  “Enough,” my mother says with a tight, brittle smile and, reaching into her purse, digs out a handful of change. “How about I just pay you for the chicken leg and we drop the subject?”

  Chapter 66

  My jaw drops.

  “Hey!” My grandfather shifts in his seat and glares at her. “Don’t insult me.”

  “Well she’s insulting me,” my mother says, pointing at my grandmother.

  “She’s your mother,” he says. “She’s just trying to help.”

  “How, by accusing me of turning into some kind of lunatic cat hoarder?” my mother says, and, catching the guilty surprise on my grandmother’s face, barks a laugh. “Oh, come on, Mom. I mean, really.” She reaches over, picks a sleepy Petal up off of the table and cradles her in her arms.

&
nbsp; “I’m not accusing you of anything,” my grandmother says, pushing her glasses up higher on her nose and giving my mother a look. “I’m just saying that animals do not belong on the kitchen table. It’s unsanitary. Nicky never let Stripe up there.”

  “Well, I’m not Nicky, and besides, we don’t eat at the table anymore,” my mother says as Petal yawns and nuzzles her chin. “Look. This is Petal. Her mother was a stray, run over on the road. She left three hungry, orphaned kittens in my backyard. Petal was one of them. What did you want me to do, ignore them? Let them starve? Forget it. I saw a need, and I reached out to help, okay?”

  “You have eleven cats,” my grandmother says doggedly, opening a random cabinet, peering in and wrenching out a pot. The lid clatters to the floor and she scoops it up and sets them both on the stove with a bang. “Ten more than you had when Nicky died. You don’t see a problem here? No one has eleven cats.”

  “Well, then I guess I’m unique,” my mother says, and now there’s a quaver in her voice that wasn’t there before. “It’s not about the number, Mom, it’s about the need. What, is my compassion supposed to run out when I hit three? Five? Seven? Or just the socially acceptable numero uno?”

  “Nicky thought one was enough,” my grandmother says.

  “Don’t turn him into a saint just because he’s dead.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” my grandmother says, turning on the stove burner, uncapping the oil and pouring some into the pot.

  “Then stop wielding Nicky like a sword and bashing me over the head with what he would have wanted, okay?” my mother cries. “What am I, supposed to live the rest of my life trying to please a man who isn’t even alive anymore? He’s gone. The joint decisions are over. What I do from now on is my business.”

  “How can you say that?” my grandmother says, recapping the oil and slamming the bottle down on the countertop. “He’s your husband—”

  “Was,” my mother says, and the pain in her voice fills the room. “He was my husband and I would have loved him forever but now he’s gone. That was his decision, I had no say in the matter and the only stupid consolation prize left is that I get to make my own decisions now.”