Page 30 of As the Years Pass

“I’m so glad you came,” he says softly, and there’s so much emotion clogging up my throat that I can’t answer him back. But it isn’t needed. He squeezes me a little tighter, and then finally lets go. He smiles up at me, patting me on the shoulder before gesturing for me to come inside the rest of the way. The door closes, and the weight of seeing my mother presses down on my chest a little more.

“Where’s Mom?” I ask, having to clear my throat.

“Let’s get you settled first,” he says, hobbling past me and down a short hall. I follow him into a spacious bedroom. Everything is white and soft yellows. The bed is a queen with too many throw pillows, the curtains sheer and drawn back, letting in the bright light. I put my bag beside the closet door.

“I’m fine to see her,” I say.

He nods, giving me a knowing smile. “She’ll be happy to see you, despite what she says.”

I smirk. “Her smart mouth is still the same then?”

“I keep telling her it’ll be the last thing to go.”

I huff out a laugh, but the sadness tightens my throat.

Dad sighs heavily, then we’re moving again. Down the hall. Through the living room, across the kitchen/dining room, and down another short hallway. He stops outside a closed door, and to the right, there is a large bathroom.

“Just let me see her,” I say.

I understand he’s trying to prepare me, but if I don’t get this over with, I won’t do it at all. It’s just my mother, and this is going to hurt, but I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t see her one last time, even if she told me she didn’t want me to. Even if I was already supposed to have had my last time.

Dad nods, then opens the door and steps in.

I hesitate, taking in the room. It’s dim, the curtains drawn, only the light of the TV brightens the room, but just barely. The bed is against the middle of the wall on the right, a small form lying on the left side. Hospital machinery is in the far corner, but nothing is on and I’m not sure why it’s here at all.

Actually, knowing her, she’s likely supposed to be using it, but refuses.

“Honey, Emmet is here,” Dad says softly, walking into the room and stopping beside her. He leans down, kissing her forehead.

Her breathing is loud and noisy, but she makes a sound of acknowledgment, and he heads back to me.

“Do you want a chair?” he asks.

“No,” I say breathlessly, my eyes still on her, though I can hardly make her out in the dark.

He nods and pats me on the arm. “You can do this, son,” he says softly as he heads out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Em,” my mother manages to say in a voice that sounds nothing like hers and something more out of my nightmares. I push the thoughts away, not allowing her last moments here to be scary.

She may live another few weeks. Hell, she may go another month. But this is my last time seeing her, I know that. And I need to make the best of it.

When we did this the first time, it was a surprise. They were preparing to leave, and I thought I was going to visit. It was easier to handle that way. Plus, I’d seen her every day, so the way the cancer changed her was only noticeable when I looked at old photos of us.

I move to the bed, my feet feeling like lead. I kneel on the floor beside her bed. It’s only when I settle on my knees, do I realize my eyes are closed.

Her breathing is louder than ever, the rattle in her chest a sound I will never be able to forget.

Why did I ever think not coming here was an option?

Tears burn my eyes as I force them open and take her hand. It’s small, frail, and freezing. It’s what I imagine a skeleton would feel like, and I hate that because this is my mother. The woman who kissed my boo-boos, read me bedtime stories, and taught me how to ride a bike.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, finally getting the courage to look up. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but I can make out enough. She’s skin and bones, looking a hundred years old and not sixty-five. Tears well, threatening to spill over, but I hold them back. If she sees how upset I am, it’ll only upset her.

This is, after all, the reason she didn’t want me to come.

“Em,” she repeats, a small smile gracing her lips. She blinks slowly, then turns her head to face me even more slowly. “I told… you… not to… come.”

After speaking those words, she focuses on catching her breath.