Page 37 of The Deals We Make

Am I?

I can’t see a life here. I’m the CEO of a company that employs three thousand people. I can’t just up and move it across the country because my mom is…

I don’t know what she is.

Becca found a private doctor willing to make a house call because, well, I did what I normally do and threw money at the problem. She was clear that there won’t be a full diagnosis tomorrow. It’ll be the start of a journey to begin understanding what happened to her.

Guilt ripples through me as I look at her. She’s…diminished. She seems shorter than I remember. Definitely more fragile. Emotionally and physically.

“Mom,” I say, walking to her calmly. I crouch down next to her chair and take her hand. It’s cold in mine. “I understand this must be frightening for you.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she squeezes my fingers.

“It’s okay. All of it. But, if you want to stay in this house, you need to let me help you clean it so it’s safe and healthy for you. Or I can find you a smaller place, perhaps a little apartment that might be easier to clean.”

I stop shy of suggesting she come live with me. That would need a lot more consideration.

“I want to stay here. This is my home.”

I nod. “It’s been a really good home to you. But if that’s what you really want, then some things are going to have to change for you to be safe.”

She turns to look at me, and there is something almost childlike about the gesture. “I don’t want to throw anything away.”

I nod again. “I know. You’ve obviously worked very hard to collect all these things. But they’re going to make you sick. And you really need to be able to use the bathroom and walk down the stairs safely.”

“Can you store it all in the garage?”

“I will,” I say. But I don’t promise. Anything with mold, anything easy enough to replace, will go in the garbage. Cereal boxes folded in half, out-of-date flyers from the grocery store, half eaten food will all go straight into the yard skip I’ve arranged to be delivered this afternoon.

She takes a breath. It ends on a wheeze.

“I cleaned out the bathtub. Why don’t you go take a bath or a shower, and I’ll strip your bedding and wash it. I can get it dry by tonight.”

“I don’t need you to do that,” she says, snatching her hand back from me.

“I know you don’t need me to, but I’d like to. It’ll feel nice to be clean. I’ll put my toiletries at the end of the bath so you can use them.”

“Fine,” she agrees, and I let out a whoosh of breath.

Feels like I just won a point in a game of tennis.

But my mom’s life isn’t a game.

Just as I finish watching her walk upstairs and close the bathroom door, I hear the clatter of a truck outside. It must be the delivery of the yard skip for the waste. But when I open the door, it’s Vex who is standing on the porch. “The driver wants to know where to put the skip.”

I look confused between the two. “Did you two come together?” I ask.

Vex shakes his head. “Just got here at the same time.”

“I’ll go tell him to put it on the drive.” I go to grab my boots.

“I got it, Cal. It’s cold. Stay inside.”

Before I can argue, he’s gone. From the living room window, I watch as he shares a few words with the driver, helps him reverse the truck up the driveway, and waits until it’s unchained.

He always was so utterly competent. I used to love the quiet and stoic way he went about fixing things.

When the truck disappears down the road, Vex walks back toward the house. His shoulders are hunched against the biting cold, and he cups his hands before blowing warm air into them. When he knocks on the door, I contemplate ignoring him. But I can’t.