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Mom’s sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette. She pretends to read the newspaper, but I catch her eyeing me as I reach into the pantry.
“You want some help?” she asks, her voice dry and bitter. She knows the answer even before I say it, but she asks anyway. She must think she has to.
“No,” I reply. “You just take it easy.”
She snorts. “I’m not crippled, you know.”
I smile. “I know.”
“I don’t need this damn thing.” She slaps the walker resting next to her chair. “It’s a scam, I tell you. The doctors are all out to make a buck. Look at these pills – just look at them.”
She shoves the basket that sits at the corner of our table, the one filled with eight prescription bottles, a jar of Fibercon, a pair of reading glasses, and a handful of tissues.
“I should flush these pills down the toilet, for all the good they’re doing me.”
I remind her that she hasn’t had a seizure in weeks, and she snaps at me. “I’ve got God to thank for that, not what’s in these bottles.”
She tugs at the pink sweater wrapped around her shoulders. The cuffs are frayed and there’s a run just below the collar, but she won’t part with it. My son gave it to her for her 80th birthday, right before he left for college.
“Are you cold? Want me to turn up the heat?”
“No. Stop treating me like a kid.” She smashes her cigarette into the ashtray and frowns. “I want to go home. I’m sick of being cooped up here and having you fuss over me all the time.”
I turn away. “We talked about this, remember? Your doctor said --”
“To hell with the doctor. I want to go home.”
I swallow hard and count to ten in my head. “Mom, you are home. You moved in with us last year.”
She lights another cigarette. “Damn doctors want to make out like I’m some kind of invalid. Well, I’m not. It’s one big scam.”
I place a cutting board on the counter and get the asparagus from the refrigerator. Mom’s muttering about how she’s getting ripped off, how the doctors want her to stay sick so she’ll have to keep coming back, and how my father would turn over in his grave if he saw how she had to live these days.
I hold the asparagus under the faucet.
“Don’t run the water so fast,” Mom barks. “You’ll knock the tips right off.”
I set the asparagus on paper towels to dry.
“A dish towel works better. And it’s cheaper, too.”
I put the stalks on the cutting board and pull a vegetable peeler from the drawer.
“What are you doing with that?”
Her words are shrill. I don’t respond.
“Claire, I asked you a question.”
I hear her push the chair away from the kitchen table.
“What are you --”
“I’m going to peel the ends.”
“What?” She’s shrieking now. “Didn’t you learn anything from me? You’ve got to break the ends off, not peel them.”
I feel my cheeks getting hot. “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t.”
I hear Mom fumble for her walker. I force myself to turn around and speak in a soft voice. “Peeling the stalks exposes the tender flesh underneath. I’ve been doing it for years.”
Mom scowls. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. I’ll show you how to do it right.”
I want to scream, to tell her that it’s bad enough that I’ve got to put up with her filthy cigarette smoke and her constant complaints. That I didn’t ask for any of this, and that she should feel damn lucky that I took her in because neither of my two sisters wanted any part of it. That I’d gladly send her back to her old apartment if I thought she wouldn’t break her neck or burn the place down inside of a week. And that, on top of everything else, I don’t need her to tell me how to cook.
Instead, I step away from the counter to make room for Mom. Her chin trembles as she struggles to steer the walker towards me. I fold my arms across my chest, knowing that any offer to help will be met with fury.
Mom bangs the walker into my cabinet, leaving a dent. For a moment, she rests, her chest heaving. Then, she straightens her back and grabs an asparagus stalk.
“Watch me, and you just might learn something.”
I stand beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. “I hope I will.”
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