Page 78 of Secrets That Bind Us

Dean

Age Twenty-Eight

Marie’s getting sicker.

She needs me more often than not.

Small tasks are too hard–walking, cooking, bathing.

Her paranoia has gotten to her, too.

She grips me tight one night when her nurse and I help her into bed after using the facilities. Her nurse leaves to grab a new glass of water. “Dean.” She almost hisses my name. I know she’s in so much pain. “Listen to me. I need you to listen to me.”

I sit next to her, taking her tiny, frail hand in mine. “I’m here, Mama. You tell me what you need. I got you.”

“I have to die in this house, Dean. You hear me?” They’ve been trying to have her go into hospice, but she’s refused.

“She’s gonna come back. And I need to protect her.

Even in spirit. You understand? This house holds onto things.

Both good and bad, and I need to be here.

My baby is coming back. She’s coming back, Dean honey.

They whisper things. Mean things. Ugly things.

But they show me things, too. Some good.

Some very, very bad. I have to keep her safe.

She’s coming back. But not for me. For you.

But I have to die here. Okay? You promise me that, Dean. You swear it to me.”

Tears in my eyes, still not ready to let the only real mother I’ve ever known go, I simply nod. “Okay, Mama. You rest now, okay? I promise.” I rasp out.

Reverend Bishop enters the room with the glass of water the nurse went to retrieve and trades places with me when she’s softly snoring.

Mama has one last good day, where I wheel her and her oxygen tank to the back porch so she can enjoy the sight of the sunflowers in full bloom.

With a heavy heart, I encourage her to write a letter to Verity.

The next morning, Reverend Bishop calls me.

And I call the coroner.

THREE DAYS LATER

Verity does come back.

But not to Adelaide.

She stays the next town over.

She follows Marie’s last wishes to a T.

I catch a glimpse of her at the funeral home, flanked by Zoey and Evan– her rocks. I want to go to her. I want to stand by her side and hold her hand.

She leaves the day before the service. But I know her. She’s grieving in her solitude. But I want to mourn with her. I want to grieve with her.I deserve that, don’t I? She was my mama, too. But I don’t get that chance.

She doesn't come for the wake.

A part of me resents her a little for it.

That goddamn string only tugs, tugs, tugs harder .

“One last time…” I tell my bleeding heart.

But even I know that’s a lie.

So I mourn alone.