In the middle of the night, I go to the bathroom. My mother is in the tub.
"Sorry," I say, after yelling. "Forgot you were in here."
She's been here since yesterday after I dragged her from the shed. I stare at her tail and remember all the times we would pretend to be mermaids. My childhood self would have enjoyed this.
"I have to use the bathroom," I say, hoping she'll get the idea.
She doesn't move, so I close the curtain myself.
As I try to ignore the awkwardness of having to pee while she's in here, she starts to sing. It's a sea chanty we made up when I was little. The lyrics were dumb and made no sense, but we loved it; we would sing it whenever we went to the beach.
"Do you--" I hesitate. "Do you remember who I am?"
"You're Margret," she says.
"Yes, but do you know who I am to you?"
"My caregiver."
I don't know what I expected. Reading books isn't working and no one on the internet has answers. No. Problems like this, you go to a specialist though I doubt any doctor would be able to help. In the living room, I scream into the couch cushions. My screams turn into sobs. The irony isn't lost on me; since college, I've tried my best to avoid her. Only when she's gone do I want her back. I laugh bitterly through my tears. It's like something out of my mother's stories. My tears stop. Her stories.
Around lunch, I sit on the toilet as she eats the salmon I gave her. Nerves run through my body; it's been so long since I've listened to one of her stories, I'm not sure I'll be able to tell it right. Guilt sits heavy in my stomach. On the bright side, most of her stories she made up as she went along. It shouldn't be that hard. I take a deep breath.
"Are you ready to hear a story?" I ask.
"Where is the book?" she says.
"I thought I'd tell you one without a book."
Her eyes light up. It's a good thing she's interested--it gives me hope--but I don't know if I can live up to her expectations. I start off fine, adding in my own stuff when I forget how it goes. In no time, she's immersed and hanging on my every wood. She gasps and laughs, splashing water in her excitement. Soon, she joins in--adding her own twists--and I can't keep the grin off my face. It feels like she's back. When the story ends, she claps her hands with a smile.
"That was wonderful!" she says.
"Did you remember it?"
"What do you mean?"
My smile vanishes and my heart sinks.
"We changed some of the parts, but it's still your story," I say. "You don't remember?"
She shakes her head.
When she embodies the mermaid, I see that amazing imagination of hers. Out of all of her personalities and all of the stories I've read, I had hoped in this form her own story would reach her. I leave the bathroom without a word.
I want to cry my eyes out, but I stop myself. I have to keep trying. I look through the book piles. Maybe I have to find the right story. As I look, I find a book I don't remember my mother ever reading to me. Every book my mother read to me, I marked in some way. Some with crayon, some with paint. It's how I knew I liked them. The only imperfections this one has are the few pages that were torn when my mother tore the house apart. There's writing just under the author's dedication. I assume it's something my mother wrote, but after looking closer, I know it isn't.
"May this help you remember to shine," I read. "Love, Paul."
YOU ARE READING
The Pain You Hide
General Fiction"All the stories I tell you are real," she whispered. "I just listen to what the characters have to say.." "You're lying!" I shouted I was so shocked. "It's true, but you don't have to believe me. Just know that if you believe in something hard enou...
