Page 5 of Love Marks
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I get back to the apartment around five. Climbing the stairs with bags of groceries slung over my shoulder, I flip through my mail. I’m getting close to defaulting on my student loan payments. They sent me a letter about it last month. Something-something debt collectors and bad credit. I just can’t pay them right now with mom’s hospital bills taking priority. That and rent. I shove the mail into my bag and slip Sheila’s letters under her door. Nothing from Charlie. If he even exists.
When I step into my apartment, it smells amazing — like basil and bacon. I smile a little.
“Carbonara?” I call out.
“You know it!” My mom calls back.
I get into the kitchen with the grocery bags and drop them on the floor and start unloading. She stands in front of the stove, a scarf around her head and an apron around her waist. I’ve always thought she was so beautiful, my mom. People say we look the same, but I think I look like my dad. Sometimes when my mom looks at me, I know I look like my dad. He left when I was a kid. Too young to really remember, which I suppose is a type of blessing. I don’t really think about him, but I know it hurts my mom a lot.
“You shouldn’t be up and about like this,” I say, putting eggs into the fridge.
“You’re right. I should just do nothing all day and let you head off to a nine-hour shift with nothing but a grain of rice to hold you over.”
“Hey, I had a granola bar earlier,” I defend myself.
She grabs a bag of rice from the grocery bag and chucks it towards my head. Luckily, I grab it before it smacks me across the face.
“You need to eat,” she says.
“And you need to relax,” I challenge. We stand across from each other, arms crossed. Finally, she rolls her eyes and brings me in for a hug. I sigh into her arms, and she rubs my back and it’s just us for a moment in time. Then she releases me.
“Go sit. I’ll finish dinner and unpacking the groceries,” I say, shooing her out of the kitchen.
“Fine. You’re a better chef than me anyways.” She sulks off into the living room and I finish unloading the rest of the groceries. The sauce is basically done so I put the pasta into the boiling water and set a timer, chopping some more basil.
“Sheila came over today. Says she’s thinking of moving out,” my mom calls out from the couch.
“What?” I almost drop the spoon right into the scalding hot sauce. Sticking my head out from the kitchen, I find my mom reclined on the couch.
“What do you mean, moving out? She’s lived here forever.”
“Well, she can hardly function in her condition, stuck in that apartment. She’s moving to Nevada so her son can take care of her.”
“Nevada? What, like, Vegas?” Bright lights flash in my head. That pyramid hotel. Sand. Strippers. “And she accused me of working at a strip club,” I scoff.
“I knew you’d be upset.” She shakes her head.
“I’m not upset,” I protest, going back into the kitchen and stirring the sauce.
“Well, don’t tell her I told you. She said she wanted to tell you herself, but you know I can never keep a secret.”
Straining out the pasta, I realize that my mom is right, as usual. I am upset. I guess Sheila has always been a constant here, so it’s weird to imagine life without her.
Dinner is a quiet affair. My mom twirls the spaghetti with her fork for so long, I know that she feels nauseous and doesn’t want to eat.
“Just try to get some of it down,” I encourage her, bringing my bowl to the sink and washing up.
“You should go, or you’ll be late,” she says, gesturing towards the clock. It’s almost 6:30.
“Shit. I still need to shower,” I groan.
“Too bad. You’ll have to go smelly.” She smiles at me and takes a bite, chewing slowly. I run into my room and change into the same dress I wore three nights ago. Spritzing myself more perfume than usual, I toss my hair up and grab my bag.
“Don’t forget the pepper spray!” My mom calls out to me from the living room.
I grab the pepper spray from my dresser and stick it at the bottom of my bag just in case. I kiss my mom’s cheek on my way out and she gives me her best smile, but I can tell that she’s not feeling well.