“I do tend to fall asleep with the television on,” she admitted.
“Is that what your boyfriend or husband likes?” He glanced at her casually over his shoulder until she’d caught up with him, then looked her directly in the eye.
“No.” She grinned a bit shyly. “It’s just me. I was taking care of my mother for a while towards the end, so…” She paused, her lips twisted as she glanced away from him, breaking their eye-lock. “I didn’t have time for a social life, nothing like that, anyway.”
“Ahhh, I see.” He slowly nodded and tried to throw on a face as if he were truly sorry, but he wasn’t… far from it. Relief flooded through him like a gentle ocean wave, leaving behind nothing but a trace of paradise across his pallet.
“Well.” He shrugged. “Hopefully after you get some shut eye, in the morning, you will feel much better.”
She looked down at the basket, perusing the items, turning them here and there with a discerning eye, clearly reading the small print and taking in the illustrations of plants and the like.
“I think I’ll just try the chamomile tea.” She set it aside as they approached the counter, then opened her purse and removed her wallet.
“No.”He put his hands over hers, not missing the way she sucked in her breath at the touch. “It’s on the house.”
“Awww, thanks, Julian. That is very sweet.”
But I bet you’re sweeter… Wish I could find out.
“You’re welcome.” He watched her walk out the small shopping area, then look over her shoulder at him as he was now the one left behind. They both stood there for a moment, just staring at one another. He waved and she waved back, a slightly crooked grin on her face before she disappeared out the front door. The customary chime rang as she exited, letting him no with no shred of uncertainty that an angel had vanished from his mist. He stood for a long while, relishing that moment until a grunt and impatient tapping of a foot brought him out of his quixotic daydreams. Angela now stood right beside him, and he hadn’t even noticed.
“I take it she’ll be your last appointment tomorrow?” Her matte red lipstick appeared slightly shiny as she slicked the tip of her tongue over her upper lip and eyed him up and down, an ‘all-knowing’ expression on her face.
“If I have it my way, she will.”
“Mmmm hmmm, just as I thought!” She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowed in mock disapproval.
“Mind your business.” He grinned, thumped her on the nose and walked away.
“Don’t get comfy!” she screamed out. “You have an orange back lizard crawling up a grape vine in ten minutes! We’re prepping now!”
~***~
It was six in the morning, and for the first time in weeks, Milan had slept like a newborn baby. She’d forgotten how good it could be, and boy did her body and mind appreciate it. She flung the thick, cream-colored sheets off her long, bare legs, then stood and stretched.
“Mmmmmm!”
Stretching left and right, she pushed up on her tippy toes, causing her over-sized black T-shirt to rise, brush against her hips. She turned to her nightstand and smiled happily at the ripped open bag of tea, and the teabag in the cup, with its string hanging gracefully over the rim.
Drank it all up…it was tasty, too…
Making her way out of her master suite, she moseyed into her chocolate and taupe kitchen and retrieved a ceramic bowl to make some maple oatmeal. The slightly chilly morning had put her in the mood for the comfort cereal of rolled oats with just the right touch of cinnamon to top it off. As she got her spoon out of the island drawer and started the hot water, she glanced over at the shiny, onyx kitchen table and took notice of the pile of paperwork with ‘Soul Inscriptions’ written in big, black font across the top of the first page.
Oh yeah…
Taking small steps towards it, she reached the stack and sat down, crossing her ankles as she leaned comfortably to the side in the chair. Flipping through, she read page for page, only pausing to get back up and finish making her breakfast. She returned to her seat, slowly stirring the aromatic breakfast, the sweetness wafting, causing her stomach to fuss as she continued to painstakingly read each sheet. Reaching forward, she grabbed an ink pen that had been lying there from the evening before and signed her name on the bottom of each page in between bites of warm deliciousness.
Swallowing, she continued on, then accidentally got a dollop of the oatmeal on the final page. The light brown blob set pitifully, soiling the sheet in an unsightly way.
“Damn it…”
Milan rose from her seat, grabbed a napkin off the island, and did her best to rub at the stain until all that remained was a semi-wet splotch. Somewhat satisfied, she slumped back down into the seat, signed the last page, and turned back to the front page, noting Julian’s number. She cleared her throat and finished the meal, savoring the final morsels. Her mind drifted to the previous evening, one filled with her doing what she hoped she’d stop soon — cry.
It dawned on her right then, too. She hadn’t had oatmeal in months. She knew why; it had been a conscious choice, but she shoved the thoughts out of her mind. Instead, she drifted back into the moment when her face became wet while she’d sat in front of that man, making a damn fool of herself. She hated public scenes like that, but once she felt that dry lump in her throat, there was no going back. Before she knew it, the tears were flowing, and she thought she’d been all cried out. Mom was gone. Mom had been gone, in most respects, for over a year. No, not physically — that happened all too recently — but she had checked out quite a while ago. That was the worse part of the shit. The woman’s once steel-trap mind had rotted like a two-day-old apple core left out in the sun. Her body wasn’t functioning properly, skin-hugging bones, becoming one and the same. The woman didn’t know who she was or where she was at, the majority of the time, her hazy eyes dancing about in wonder…
It had been an uphill battle with no end in sight, and emotional exhaustion set in as hired hospice nurses tended to the woman while Milan used up all of her family emergency time. Soon, she had to return to work, because it would have turned to unpaid leave, and she simply couldn’t afford that and pay for Mom’s medicines and treatment, too. She’d known the end was near. Hospice was ready, but her heart wasn’t. She’d grip her mother’s frail hand, and just sit there beside her, listening as the woman moaned and groaned, and oftentimes woke up frightened from a sound sleep, like a little child certain that a hideous, malevolent monster dwelled in the recesses of the guest bedroom closet. Yeah…the one with the brand new yellow curtains…
“It’s okay, Mom…” she’d whisper as she’d dab at her mother’s moist face with the carefully folded edge of a handkerchief. Katrina’s eyes had become more and more expressionless as time passed. How very cruel the disease was, stealing the most essential bits and pieces of what the woman loved most — her treasured memories, wrapped in golden delight yet slipping away as if they were hot and greased with the greatest of ease. What a vicious, calculating, evil way to go. A quintessential personal legacy was aggressively erased, leaving a woman behind who didn’t, at any given time, know her own name, what day it was, where she’d been, or where she was going. The child she’d birthed and the ones before that never drew breath had neither appellations nor distinguishable faces, and the people she loved were distant, cloudy blurs, never to be clear and memorable again. Milan had been told in church that there was a place called Hell that was heated with ever-lasting flames designed to singe the flesh over an entire demonic lifetime. The place was a dungeon of travesty and wrapped in brimstone, but surely, what her mother endured was her own private viewing of such an experience.
All Milan could do was mourn her while the woman was still technically alive, and she hated herself for at times looking down at her mother in that bed thinking the unthinkable. A thick breathing tube ran out of her mother’s nose and catheter attached to her form while she barely moved under the stiff white sheets. This only spurred on the obs
ession as she listened to the woman’s at times labored breathing, and her eyelids flutter just so. The deliberations haunted Milan, chased her, and made her look them in their dirty faces, making her feel all the guiltier.
She would at times, way past midnight, stand there biting her nail down to the crux wishing that the poor woman’s pain would cease, realizing that only death could administer that damnable command. It was at these times, angry, heated tears would flood her face and she’d internally curse the world, the universe and all that dwelled within, across and in between. Katrina had clung to a stingy shred of life, a semblance of dignity, but oftentimes, Milan questioned if her mother was hanging on for herself or for her daughter, who cried almost every morning right outside of her closed bedroom door before entering. In those moments, she realized that she really understood nothing at all. She had no knowledge of what her mother recalled from day to day, for the information changed as quickly as a coin hitting the ground.
Every daybreak, she’d sit at her mother’s side and read an article out of a magazine, usually Vanity Fair or Family Circle, two of the subscriptions the woman relished. The glossy pages being turned were the only sound, as perfume samples from the printed thing wafted up, making her queasy as it mixed with the strange odors from the ointments covering her mother’s body. Milan would push that aside, and tend to more pleasant matters. She’d comb her hair just how her mother liked it, taking the brass brush and moving the fine, thinning hairs just so. She’d apply a thin layer of shimmery pink lipstick along her lips, and place her gold clip-on earrings just right, to make the woman look as she did when she could do all this and more, on her own. It didn’t matter that Katrina could no longer appreciate or care about her own appearance. Milan knew in her heart that her mother would never dress without putting on a bit of lipstick and earrings. It simply never happened.
Happened…yes, what the hell happened?
To this day, Milan wasn’t sure what transpired. It was literally like a light switch had been flipped inside of the woman, shutting the woman’s entire world down. The lady that would race about, listening to opera music, helping at her church on Sunday mornings, and cooking home-made, savory stews during the cooler months while joking and re-telling the latest celebrity gossip. Who was the woman her mother had become?
One day, Mom forgot a thing or two, nothing severe. Then, within a few weeks, they were arguing — something they rarely engaged in. Her mother simply wasn’t the quarrelsome type; she was a peaceful soul with a zest for life. Regardless, the spats began, marched in as if they’d always been a part of the lady’s fabric and dared anyone to think it peculiar. One of the worse episodes had to do with an incident that could have had dire consequences. Mom had almost set her own house on fire. Had Milan not stopped by after work to bring her some dinner, the place would’ve been up in flames, engulfed and swallowed by a treacherous blaze, never to be seen again, with her inside it and the news stations on site. Her mother ferociously protested, calling Milan a balled-faced liar, declaring she wasn’t cooking a damn thing. She could see on her mother’s face that she’d meant what she said; this was no act. She’d never seen her mother become so wound up about a thing such as this, her defenses at a fever pitch. But the old woman griped, balling her fist tight and shaking it about in her face, declaring that Milan was stupid and a complete fool. Her mother had never spoken to her that way before. Ever. Yes, something was quite wrong…
So wrong, that Milan questioned if she were going crazy her damned self, but there on the counter sat a partially cut onion, a butcher knife with a few thin slices of the thing clinging to the serrated edge, two yellow peppers and a packet of ground chuck defrosting in a plastic bowl on the counter, it’s bloodied juices warm to the touch.
The pan burned oil and before long, a fire had ignited. She knew then that something terrible was happening with her mother, something absolutely dreadful. She couldn’t ask anyone what they’d seen. Mom lived alone. There were no witnesses to the manifestations, only a burnt pan that was now airing out and cooling down on the patio. Her father had died several years prior, and Milan was all the woman had. After a couple days’ deliberation and a few more exhausting disputes, she took her mother to the doctor. During the visit, she couldn’t believe her ears. No, she must’ve misheard… Her heart sank somewhere lower than her knees, her feet, and the soil beneath them. It travelled to the lowest place on Earth and her faith soon followed suit. Katrina Parker was diagnosed with dementia and it was also determined, she’d had at least two recent mild strokes. Milan gasped and lost her footing at the revelation, slumping onto the wall, clutching the fabric of her white and pink polka dot shirt.
How could it be that this woman, so full of life and with a heart made of pure gold, was going out like this? No, she wouldn’t let this happen! Milan and Katrina fought, side by side. Determined to beat the odds, resolute to keep ahead of the vicious, unpredictable tide — but it was no use. More strokes came, and soon, Mom could barely speak. The doctors didn’t know what was causing them, this a great mystery with no conclusion, never to be solved. It was apparent that her mother was unable to care for herself, and at times, she even grew violent during forgetful phases. How could this be? Her friend, the person she was closest to in this entire wide world, was losing her grasp on reality and life, right in front of her eyes. How could existence be so punishing?
This caused Milan to question life, period. She went into a dark purple tunnel and came out coated in tar-covered debris that clung to her emotions, dragging her away within its depressing clutch. She wrapped herself in it like a blanket, despite how it tore at her need for relief. She would not speak or eat for quite some time. What the hell was there to say?
Why did good people die in painful ways, while the bad people slipped away of old age in their sleep? Who was making these rules?! Who was responsible for allowing these sorts of injustices to take place, all day, every day? Was it the same God that demanded to be worshiped, while simultaneously snuffing out the woman that had praised him for the majority of her life and made sure her one and only daughter did, too?
We’ll understand it by and by?
No! Milan wanted an explanation right NOW! Yet…God wasn’t answering. He was the same God she’d read about while gripping her Bible and reading the scriptures. He said all she had to do was ask. She asked that her mother be healed. Did God lie?
God, how did you let this happen? Is this some sort of game? Perhaps a joke?
Here was the same God that allowed her childhood best buddy to be molested by her stepfather. The same God who sat back and watched her father have a heart attack while later that evening, a mass murderer got to enjoy a three course meal with tax payer dollars. Was it the same God that allowed the innocent to be damned, and the damned, to be declared innocent?
As she contemplated all of this, a tinge of poker-hot anger moved inside of her. It sparked internally like a flung cigarette spark, leaving a hole inside of her heart. Where are you, God? Just curious…
She burnt up with antagonism, and was destined to be a mountain of molten ashes. Actually, that was only what she told herself so she could simply survive her current lot in life, day by day. Rage over the whole, sordid mess was Milan’s gasoline. But in reality it was more than a damn twinge of anger; it was a full throttle apparition that had walked across her room, in its murky form, an embodiment of her own hatred for a Creator that was so pitiless and brutal, one she vowed to not have anything further to do with. Once a deeply spiritual person, and believing in the golden rule, she tossed that aside while the grieving process took hold of her and wouldn’t relinquish her to her former glory. She’d changed. She no longer liked herself. The unhappiness and heartache was killing her slowly but surely, and she wondered if she’d ever wake up and feel okay again. But then, one evening, she found herself on her knees…
God, I need you…help me get through this!
Some days, she had to give herself pep talks simply to o
pen her eyes and face the newfound daylight. Other days, she promised herself she was okay, everything would be just peachy, and then she’d find herself wishing she could just go somewhere and disappear without a trace.
She only wanted to be free again. She wanted to forgive herself, forgive her mother for leaving like that, forgive God, forgive the world and everyone involved with aiding in her pain. She didn’t know what would make it better, and for the festering sore inside of her heart to finally heal, but then she’d seen a co-worker donning a beautiful tattoo of a bird on her arm and it struck her. She could step out of her comfort zone. Just maybe, she could do something personal like that, something totally different, and memorialize the woman that she’d never forget, and owed everything to. She was a successful accountant with a major firm because of that woman. She had a sense of self, because of that woman. Milan’s mother raised her to be self-sufficient and goal-oriented, but to also have fun while she was doing it.
Milan understood how to be responsible and enjoy life, but now, enjoyment was something she could no longer comprehend, let alone relish. Being responsible felt like a shackle attached to her ankle, dragging her down farther than she already was, and at times, that felt pretty fucking low.
I can’t do this, today…
She pulled herself out of the depressing thoughts before they mounted too high, destroying her entire week. This was a constant battle, but today, she wanted to attempt to win this mêlée. She took hold of the beautiful sketch Julian had drawn and focused on it, smiling down at it like the fine thing that it was. She went somewhere else, somewhere that was safe, but much to her own surprise, her thoughts morphed into more pleasant territory — Mr. Savant himself. His appearance, his smile, his eyes…his body. She grinned to herself, then palmed her heat-flushed cheek and tossed the drawing aside. Oh my…
He sure was cute… Men hate being called ‘cute’. I didn’t call him cute though; I’m just thinking is all. No harm in that…
Scandalous Heroes Box Set Page 61