Page 7 of Gone Tonight
“To the bus stop. I still have half a shift left.”
Mom moves past me, toward the front door.
“Wait!”
She turns around, avoiding my eyes. “Where did I put my purse?”
A week ago, her words would have been innocuous. Now, they sear me.
“How can you just go to work? We’ve got to talk—we need to make a plan.”
“Honey, there’s plenty of time for talking.”
“No there isn’t! We don’t havetime!” I gasp out the words.
My mother closes her eyes briefly.
“Look, Catherine, I know this is hard. But you need to understand— I have to keep moving. I can’t stop and think or I’m going to lose it, okay?”
She walks back into her bedroom and retrieves her purse. I follow, unable to stop the questions spilling from my mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me about your mother?”
“Because she didn’t care about us, and I stopped caring about her a long time ago.”
My mom moves to the front door. She leans over to slip on her right sneaker, pressing her palm against the wall for balance.
“You couldn’t even bring up the fact that shedied?”
“Catherine, don’t push me.”
I can’t put on the brakes. “You’ve been hiding everything from me! You told Dr. Chen you’ve been noticing this forfour months—why didn’t you say anything? We could have…”
My voice trails off.
My mom puts on her other shoe. “Exactly. What could we have done?”
“There are medicines.…”
She shakes her head. “They don’t work for everyone. Their effects wear off and they don’t stop the progression of the disease, only some of the symptoms. There is no cure.”
She’s reciting things I’ve told her through the years, facts I’ve gleaned from my textbooks and college lectures and evidence I’ve witnessed firsthand.
She gives me a quick, hard hug. Then she leaves.
I have no idea what to do. I’d expected our routine to shatter. I was planning to tell my supervisor I had a family emergency and needed a few days off.
How can my mother be going about her typical day?
My breaths are too quick and shallow, and I know my bloodpressure has risen to a number that would alarm me if I was monitoring a patient.
I look around the apartment. It’s still as a tomb.
A vision of the future invades my imagination: Post-it notes stuck everywhere to remind my mother to make sure the stove is turned off and to flush the toilet. A dead bolt on the door with the lock constantly engaged. My mother splayed on the couch, her hair lank and dirty, refusing to shower.
Or worse. It could get so much worse.
Itwillget so much worse.
The walls of the apartment fly toward me.
