With Eyes Wide Open And Mouths Sewn Shut

ONE

I stare death in the face every morning before I go to work, faking a smile like everything's alright. She never smiles back. She doesn't do much of anything anymore.

I'm on the verge of a breakdown. Balancing a busy work life and my sixty-year-old mother on hospice is not easy. Not to mention the stack of medical bills piling higher each month on my kitchen counter. It's times like this I wish Dad were still in the picture. Having someone to share the responsibility with would've helped. Instead, he had to run off with some woman he met on the internet when I was thirteen.

Dad of the year right there. At least it brought Mom and me closer together.

"Morning Mom," I say, sitting down next to the hospital bed we placed in the living room.

A nasal cannula rests in her nose. The tubing connects to the large oxygen tank stationed next to her bedside. Her gray, wispy hair lays a tangled mess around her head. She's missing patches here and there.

Even with the aging changes, I can still see myself in her. We have the same pointed nose and sharp jawline. Her eye color is a bit lighter than mine. More of a caramel to my dark oak. Beneath her wrinkles are the same freckles that kiss my face.

Fake laughter from the television rips me away from my comparison. The television stays permanently on an oldies network. She used to laugh at the shows. Now she lays in silence, staring with glazed eyes at nothing.

"I made your favorite, strawberry and banana." I hold up the bowl filled with a freshly blended smoothie up in front of her face.

Her gaze slowly drifts to the bowl. I take that as a sign to start feeding her, making sure she swallows before I dip the spoon back into the mixture of fruit and vitamins.

I'm nearly done when I hear a knock at the door. Placing the spoon in the bowl, I set them on the counter and head toward the door.

Shae, my Mom's hospice nurse, stands outside the door. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. She wears royal blue scrubs with the company logo embroidered on her chest.

"Morning Mary. How's she doing today?" Shae asks, stepping inside.

I shut the door behind her and sigh. Rubbing the back of my neck I say, "The same. I hate seeing her like this. I wish she'd just talk to me. Squeeze my hand. Something."

Shae puts her hand on my shoulder. "I know. I wish there was something I could do for her."

"You and me both."

Shae sets her keys and phone down on the counter. She removes a small notebook from her pocket. It's her log on my mother, containing her vitals and other important details.

I let her get settled in, cleaning up the dishware from Mom's breakfast before I head out to work.

...

It's a quarter til nine when I pull into my designated parking space at work. My morning coffee has grown cold in my supposedly insulated tumbler. Regardless, I sip on it as I walk into The Daily Word– Nashville's biggest newspaper company behind The Tennessean.

I've worked at The Daily Word for three years now. The first story I ever wrote was about a high school soccer game. Now, I write about bigger news– particularly crime. There's something both horrifying and fascinating about criminal activity. There are two sides to every story, and I tell both.

My attention to detail didn't go unnoticed. The paper granted me my own page featured every Friday, not to mention a crime blog associated with the paper.

I walk into the bustling office and head to the third floor. Phones ring and keyboards clack all around me. When I make it to my floor, Dave– my favorite co-worker and editor of everything I write, swivels around in his black chair and points his pencil at me. He's wearing his typical outfit. A plaid, button-down shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

"Boss man was looking for you," he says, moving the pencil up and down as he speaks.

I sigh. "Great."

Dave places the pencil's eraser in between his lips.

I reach for the door to my office when he asks, "How's your mom?"

I shake my head. It's the first time someone other than Shae has asked me that in the last few weeks. I can tell everyone has been tiptoeing around the subject. I can't blame them though.

"Not good, Dave. She stopped talking a week and a half ago. Apparently, Alzheimer's can make you forget how to talk."

He drops the pencil from his lips, his eyes shifting downward. "I'm sorry, Mary."

With Mom, it started with forgetting little things. Doctor's appointments. Holidays. My birthday. Then she started wandering at night, thinking she was running late for something, or that she needed to shop at the grocery store at midnight. I didn't realize she was wandering until I got the call from the police at two in the morning. A patrol car had found her crossing a street with an empty carriage. When they asked her what she was doing, she told them that she needed to get groceries so she could make me dinner in a few hours.

The doctors quickly diagnosed her with Alzheimer's, prescribing her medicine to help slow down the disease. That was a year and a half ago.

"Mary," a deep voice calls from down the hall.

Dave spins his chair around to face his computer. "Good luck," he whispers.

"Victor," I say, addressing the man walking toward me. "I have that article finished. I was going to hand it in today."

He reaches me, stopping a few feet away. His gray hair is combed over to the left side today. He wears a brown suit with a black tie.

"Good, that's great, but I need to talk to you in my office if you have a minute."

I'm ready to drop to the floor and break down and cry. But instead, I smile.

"Sure, let me set my stuff down and I'll be right there."