She grins. “As long as you come back,” she says.
“I promise to come back.” I pick up the largest vase of flowers, after I put on my coat. “Ready?” I ask Fin.
“A better question is whether or not you’re ready,” Lark murmurs. “She’s only had two cups of coffee.”
I guess I’ll take my chances.
Finch
My knees tremble as I walk into the place where my mom lives. Part of the reason is because Tag keeps trying to talk to me. “I didn’t have any expectations,” I say on a sigh.
“I know, but…” His voice trails off.
“Dude, it’s all right. I fucked you. I didn’t expect you to marry me.”
He heaves out a heavy breath and squeezes the bridge of his nose.
I absolutely hate coming to visit my mom, because I never know what I’ll find when I’m here. But at the same time I love coming here, because there is a part of me that wishes for more. I want a family. I want to have someone to call mine. But it will probably never be here. Not for any length of time, anyway.
I walk up to the information desk and the receptionist greets me by name. “Finch!” she cries. “So glad to see you!”
“How is she today?” I ask quietly. Tag is standing silently beside me, taking it all in.
“She’s not having a great day,” the receptionist admits. She winces. “I’m sorry.”
I always hope she’ll be having a good day. But she rarely does.
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll just pop in for a minute.” I point to the flowers. “Can you be sure some of the residents who never get flowers get these?”
She smiles. “Of course. I know just who to give them to.”
Tag sets his flowers on the counter, too.
“You can go on back home. Thanks for the help,” I tell him.
“I’ll come with you,” he says.
“I don’t need a chaperone.”
He looks down at me. “I don’t want to be your chaperone. But you might need a friend.” He falls into step beside me.
“I don’t need anything,” I mumble.“Okay,” he says. “Then I need it.” He glares at me.
“You’re just a regular goody two shoes, aren’t you? Are you going to pray over me next?”
His eyes narrow. “Do you need for me to pray over you?”
“Not on your life,” I snap.
He nods. We go through the assisted living facility to the section where mental health patients are housed. The doors are locked and we have to have special escorts to get to this part of the building. If my mother wasn’t quite so homicidal, this might not even be necessary.
I stop at her door and look through the tiny window. She’s sitting in a chair reading a book. She looks so normal. But she’s not. She never has been and she never will be, no matter how much I wish for her to be.
I knock and wait for her to call for me to enter. I have been hit in the head with books, pens, and other miscellaneous stuff since I was a little girl, simply for barging into her room. I’ve become a little wary.
She calls for me to enter, and I look up at Tag. He stands stoically by the door, but he doesn’t try to join me.
“Hi, Mom,” I say as I walk into the room. The door snicks closed behind me. Sometimes Mom knows who I am. Sometimes she doesn’t. I never know until I get here.
“Hi,” she says. Her eyes narrow at me. “What are you doing here?”
I sit down on the edge of her bed. “Just wanted to come by and say hi. To see if you need anything.”
“I need some magazines. And some chocolate. And I need for that nurse to stop stealing my toilet paper.”
“I’ll be sure and get you some chocolate.”
“Or did you steal my toilet paper?” Her face transforms into a snarl. Suddenly she jumps from the chair and flies at me, her tiny fists flailing.
I grab for her wrists. I have been restraining my mother ever since I can remember. Self-preservation at its finest. She struggles, and she manages to clip me on the mouth. I jerk my head back, but I can already taste the coppery flavor of blood as it floods my tongue.
She turns, picks up a pen from a nearby desk, and comes at me, wielding it like a knife. I freeze. My mother has tried to kill me more times than I can count. This time is no different. I weave to the left and she jabs the pen tip into the soft, meaty part of my upper arm. I wince and try to get my arms around her.
Suddenly, a voice rings out. “Stop!” Tag cries. He crosses the room, his strides quick and even. He wraps his arms around my mother, pinning her hands down. The pen clatters to the floor. She struggles. She cries out. She flails. Her face contorts into a rage-filled, fury-stricken visage of the woman she was a moment ago. “Out!” he shouts at me.
“Don’t hurt her,” I warn, and I go to get a nurse.
The nurse grabs a vial of medicine from a locked cabinet and runs into the room. She sticks a syringe into my mother’s shoulder, and Mom goes limp in Tag’s arms. He picks her up and carries her to her bed.
“It might be best if you didn’t come by for a few days, Finch,” the nurse says. “She’s been a little off this week.”
“Okay.” I try to close the door to the room inside my heart where hope dwells. Hope that she will someday be able to love me.
Mom mutters to herself as she fights sleep.
“Did something happen to set her off?” I ask. Last week, she thought her neighbor stole her purse and she was frantic for days.