Miles
I
check my phone for messages on my way to the bathroom. In the past, I’d wait until my coffee was brewing before I touched my phone, but now that Prince Francis and Kitty are part of my life, I look forward to the regular updates.
Kitty often sends gifs and pictures of her and Prince Francis. This morning’s picture was taken in my childhood bed, Kitty smiling sleepily at the camera and Prince Francis curled around the top of her head. Underneath is the caption:
like my new hat?
But under that caption are several other messages, sent about an hour ago.
Kitty:
Question: is your mother’s house haunted?
Kitty:
Another Question: is there a child living here that I don’t know about?
Kitty:
Question three: is it possible that there are things hiding in this closet?
Under the last question is a picture of the closet in my younger brother Toby’s room.
Kitty:
Such as small critters and/or possibly a portal to another dimension through which the undead can make their way into our realm?
I drag a hand down my face. I probably should have filled Kitty in on the whole story when it comes to my family, but talking about my younger brother isn’t particularly pleasant. Also, I don’t think my mother’s house is haunted, but I haven’t lived there in a lot of years, so I suppose anything is possible. I’ve never really put much stock into the idea of the undead coming back to creep people out. But I don’t discount the possibility of alien life forms, so I suppose I can’t exactly discount undead ones, either.
I decide I need a shower and a few minutes of mental preparation before I tackle the questions from Kitty.
Fifteen minutes later I’m standing in my kitchen as I hit Call on her contact. She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, hold on, I’m dealing with some bad behavior.” The phone thumps on what must be a hard surface. “One more time, Chumble Buns, and you’re getting the spray bottle. I’m serious. No more climbing the curtains. Your mom would be very, very disappointed in you if she could see you now.”
I hear some more rustling around and then, “I told you, and you didn’t listen.”
It’s followed by a hiss and loud meow, then feet pattering on the floor. A moment later Kitty heavy-breathes in my ear. “Do you mind if I call you back later? I need to make sure Chumble Buns isn’t about to knock every last thing off the kitchen counter in a fit of cat rage.”
“Sure. I’m taking my mother to see the home later. I could call after? I can even stop by.” This is probably a better conversation in person, anyway. “Can I ask what happened last night, though? Even if it’s the abridged version?”
“Yes to stopping by later. Just shoot me a message when you’re on your way. And Prince Francis was basically screaming his head off wanting to get into that room with the closed door. So I let him in, and then he yelled at the wall for a couple of hours. I didn’t know what to make of it and was kind of worried that there was a missing child somewhere because it looks like a kid’s room?” That last sentence is phrased as a question.
“Like it belongs to a young boy?”
“Yeah, but from like two decades ago.”
I blow out a breath. “I’ll explain later.”
“Okay. I gotta go!” And with that she ends the call.
The toast I was in the middle of making when I called Kitty no longer seems appealing. I slather it with butter, though, aware that this morning is team practice, and then team brunch, followed by my allergist appointment and then an early game. If I don’t put something in my stomach, it’ll be hard to focus on my job.
As it is, it’s going to be tough not to let my mind wander.
I don’t like talking about my younger brother.
It’s all tied up in the reason my family fell apart. And I often feel like all that loss contributed to my mom’s fragile mental state.
I stand at the counter, counting my breaths, willing the memories to stay on lockdown. Once my emotions are back under control, I get ready for work on autopilot and pick up Josh on the way to the arena.
“Hey, man, how’s your girlfriend? When’s she sleeping over again?” Josh needles me the second he’s in my car.
I wait until he’s buckled in before I pull away from the curb.
“What is this, middle school? Get off my jock.” I’m clearly moody as fuck this morning.
I can feel Josh’s frown without even looking his way.
“Who pissed in your cornflakes?”
“No one.” I’m snippy and short. And on edge.
“Why are you lying? I’ve been your best friend since seventh grade. You can’t bullshit me.”
I sigh. “Kitty stayed at my mother’s place last night so she could keep an eye on Prince Francis in hopes that he would become a less destructive asshole, and she found Toby’s room.”
“Okay.” He waits for me to continue.
“It doesn’t sound like it’s changed at all since my parents split.” I grip the wheel and try not to grind my teeth. I don’t need an appointment to the dentist to round out this shit-tastic situation. I brake for the red light and glance at Josh.
His eyebrows always tell a story. One is arched up under his hair, the other is flat across the top of his left eye. “Do you mean it’s still decorated for an eight-year-old?”
“Yeah. Seems that way.”
“You’ve been there plenty of times. How didn’t you know this?”
“My mom always kept the door closed, and I never had the impulse to look,” I admit. And maybe I was burying my head in the sand about how much my mother continued to struggle with what happened.
It’s Josh’s turn to sigh. “Man, that’s . . . rough. Are you okay? Do you need to grab a beer or something after the game today? We could have drinks, lots of them. Get good and shitfaced if you want.” Josh was around for the aftermath of the split, but not what happened leading up to it. Still, he knows how hard it all was for me back then. And still seems to be, despite it being nearly twenty years ago.
“I can’t. I’m taking my mother to the home so she can check it out. And then I need to explain it to Kitty, since apparently Prince Francis was being a loud asshole last night, standing outside Toby’s door and making all kinds of noise. Anyway, I’ll take a rain check on the drinks. Let’s change the subject. I need to focus on something else.” I tap on the steering wheel, wishing I could erase the thoughts in my head and the history attached to them.
“Okay, I’ll drop it for now, but we need a guys’ night soon.”
I nod my agreement and switch conversation gears. “I’ve been analyzing Parker’s performance the last couple of games, and I think I’ve figured out a pattern in his plays.” I feel like I should have made these connections sooner, but with everything else that’s been happening, my focus has been split, which isn’t great
at the beginning of the season when the first games can set the tone for the season.
Josh rolls with it. “Okay. Lay it out for me.”
“Sixty-seven percent of the time he passes to the right wing instead of the left wing players. It seems like Montreal figured that out, so they kept putting their strongest players on the right during the last game.”
Josh is silent for a moment before he mutters, “Damn. You’re right. Why didn’t we see that last game?”
Because my head is all over the place, and I didn’t put it together until I watched the replays and made notes on Parker, but I keep that part to myself. “There were a lot of chippy play distractions. But when Parker relies on the left wing for passing, he’s fifty percent more likely to make a shot on net. Especially if he’s on the same line as Mason. If we can make Parker aware of the pattern, we can start to use it to the team’s advantage.”
“Okay, this is good stuff, Miles. We can talk to Coach Davis about this and make a plan to tackle it with Parker.”
Parker is young, and very, very good on the ice. But he’s also a Gen Z kid, and his entire life he’s been told he’s amazing by his parents. It’s like they showered him in fucking confetti every time he wiped his ass. He’s always looking for praise, and constructive criticism needs to be layered carefully with a kid like him; otherwise, we can shoot his game to shit.
We meet with Coach Davis before practice to review the analytics from the last game and pull up the video footage,
fast-forwarding to the goal Parker scored. Which happens to be when he passed to Mason on the left.
“If we can get Parker to make a few adjustments, it’ll go a long way in helping this team get off to a solid start this season.”
Coach Davis claps me on the shoulder. “This is good stuff, Thorn.”
“Thanks.” I bite back the grin, happy to have a win amid the chaos that is currently my life. Would it have been better if I’d made the connection before last game? Absolutely, but it’s a step in the right direction and proving myself an asset to the team.
Davis pulls Parker aside and gives him some pointers, and it works, which elevates the positive energy on the ice. It’s a good headspace for the players to be in when they’re heading into a game this evening.
After team brunch, I have my allergist appointment.
I’m nervous, especially since it’s sandwiched in the middle of my workday, but if I’m stopping at my mom’s later, I’d like to know how bad this allergy is so I can plan accordingly.
“You sure you want to go on your own?” Josh asks. “I don’t mind tagging along, in case you need a ride to the hospital again. Or do you want to call Nurse Kitty?”
I shoot him a look. “You’re going to razz me forever over that, aren’t you?”
“I can’t believe she slept at your house and nothing happened.”
“I already told you, I wasn’t in any condition to try to make a move.” Also, our mutual lack of appreciation for each other only
shifted after the hospital fiasco. “I gotta roll. I’ll be back in time for the game.”
He goes back to watching a replay of the team’s last game against Boston, and I head to my allergist appointment. I’m a bit anxious when they do the scratch test with cat dander. I almost expect my arm to swell to twice its size.
While it’s clear I have a cat allergy, it’s not the kind that should cause my throat to close and parts of my body to swell. I leave the office with an itchy arm and the knowledge that I can be in my mother’s house without asphyxiating. Unfortunately, I still need additional tests to find out what caused the extreme reaction.
Parker plays like a dream in the game against Boston, which means I get more positive feedback from Coach. It’s the boost I need before I head to the hospital to pick up my mother.
My mom has been moved from a regular hospital room into one of their on-site short-term care wings. It’s a middle ground between a hospital and a home. Her insurance covers it, and while it’s not quite like an apartment, it’s also not as sterile as a hospital room, either.
My mom is sitting in front of the window, staring out at the parking lot. She’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She used to braid it a lot when we were young, but I’m learning that with this disease things that were once rote become difficult, and sometimes impossible.
She looks normal today, and I cross my fingers that all the good of this day continues with our visit to the home. “Hey, Mom. How’s it going?”
Her eyes light up, and for a second I think maybe it’s a lucid day. “Toby! I’m so glad you’re here.”
Disappointment is a crushing weight I don’t expect and don’t know how to handle. I plaster on what I hope is a semi-genuine smile. “It’s Miles, Mom.”
“Miles? Oh. Yes.” Her expression shifts, confusion pulling her brows together as she looks past me. “Why don’t you ever bring your brother along? Doesn’t he want to visit, too? How much longer am I going to have to stay here? Is that why he won’t visit? Because I’m here?”
I avoid the questions about my brother, because they tend to cause me more headaches and her more stress. Instead, I focus on the stuff I can answer. “We’re going to look at an apartment tonight, so hopefully you’ll like it there.”
“An apartment? But I have a house.”
I don’t understand how she can know she has a house but half the time thinks I’m my brother. I explain, like I do every time I see her, that the house is a lot to take care of, and that the apartment will have programs and activities and people to help manage.
“But I like my garden. And so does Prince Francis. How is my boy? I miss him. Will I be able to bring him with me?” She fiddles with the heart necklace she wears all the time. It was a Mother’s Day gift from my dad when our family was still intact.
“He’s good, Mom. I have a friend named Kitty who’s helping
me take care of Prince Francis,” I remind her. Sometimes she remembers who Kitty is, and sometimes she doesn’t. Today it’s apparently the latter.
“A friend? Is she your girlfriend? Why don’t you bring her by, and we can have dinner together?” She threads her arm through mine. “Does Miles have a girlfriend yet? He was a bit of a late bloomer.”
I remind myself it’s not my mother’s fault that her brain is failing her and she forgets our conversation from a minute ago. Instead of correcting her, I roll with it. It’s easier for both of us this way, even if it makes me feel like shit. “Miles doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
My mother tsks. “He’s already thirty. What in the world is he waiting for?”
“Probably the right girl to come along.”
Once we’re signed out of the hospital, I help my mother into my car and make the short trip to Regency Village, the retirement complex with varying levels of care. It’s like a small, self-contained town with bungalow row houses for independent living. There are also four low-rise apartment buildings with increasing levels of care, including full-time nursing. My mother’s current situation requires daily monitoring and a support worker.
We’re greeted by a kind woman who looks to be in her early forties. She gives us a tour of the facilities, and then we’re shown an apartment like the one my mother will have if we decide this is the right fit.
“There’s only one bedroom. Where will you sleep, Toby?” My mother looks up at me, her expression reflecting her concern.
She’s only in her mid-sixties. How could this be happening? The more time I spend with her, the guiltier I feel for not seeing this sooner.
“I have my own place in the city, Mom.”
“Oh. Hmm. Do you work in the city?” she asks for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah. I’m a data analyst for the NHL.”
“Oh. That’s good. I always knew you’d do great things.” She pats my hand and wanders around the apartment. She opens the fridge door and frowns. “I need to go grocery shopping. There’s nothing to eat. I wanted to make you a sandwich.”
Any small remaining hope I had that maybe she could handle living on her own disappears. And so does the hope that she isn’t going to need as much support as the hospital staff warned. “You’re not at home, Mom. We’re here looking at an apartment.” Every day feels like Groundhog Day. I can’t imagine what this must be like for her. It would be terrifying to lose who you are most of the time. To not know where you are or why.
The receptionist gives me a sympathetic smile. “Would you like a minute?”
“Please.” This is hard enough without an audience, and the emotions are clawing at me, making it even more challenging.
My mom wrings her hands. “Why can’t I just go back to my house? I don’t understand why we’re looking at apartments when I have a place to live already.”
I go with blunt honesty, which is probably the worst thing I
can do under the circumstances, but my frustration wins out over my empathy. “Because you were wandering around the street in your pajamas, and you didn’t know where you were.”
She frowns and crosses her arms over her chest. “What a horrible thing to make up, Toby. I would never leave the house in my pajamas!”
“You have early-onset dementia, Mom. I’m not Toby. He’s been dead for twenty years. I’m Miles, your other son. Most of the time you don’t know who I am, and you probably won’t remember this conversation tomorrow. Or even an hour from now.” The truth doesn’t feel good as it rolls off my tongue; it feels cruel and hurtful and like the last thing I should say, but it’s already out and too late to take it back.
“You’re trying to confuse me! Why are you putting me in a home? What did I do to deserve this?” She pushes by me and heads for the door, and I follow, wishing I’d thought this through better. Wishing that my dad didn’t live on the other side of the country and my brother was here to help me with this.
My mom is so agitated that she starts yelling, and the nurses intervene. They call the hospital and get permission to give her a sedative to calm her down. It’s my fault she’s reacting like this, because I couldn’t hold my frustration in, and I pushed too much truth on her.
One of the nurses gives my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s not her fault, and it’s not yours either. I know it’s hard, but this is the best and safest place for your mother.”
I don’t know that I agree about it not being my fault, but she’s
right about my mom needing to be somewhere safe. “I’ll come back tomorrow and sign the paperwork.”
By the time I drop my mother off at the hospital I’m exhausted, but I still need to head back to her house and see how Kitty is making out. And explain what the heck is going on with the room she found. I don’t know why I haven’t been up front with her in the first place, other than I feel kind of like a jerk for not seeing the signs until it was too late.
Part of me wishes that my dad had handled things differently. That he had tried harder to help her after Toby died. That he hadn’t moved so far away and left me to deal with this on my own.
I call him on the short drive from the hospital to my mom’s house. “Hey, Miles, I saw the game this afternoon. That was a great win.”
“Thanks. Parker’s really getting his feet under him this season.” I start with the easy stuff, although the win this afternoon feels like it happened a million years ago.
“That your doing? I noticed he’s changed things up since the last game against Ottawa.” My dad was the one who always took Toby and me to hockey games.
“Mm. I just assess the data and give those findings to the coach; management and the players do the rest.”
“I think you probably had more to do with it than that, but it’s good you’re settling in with the team. With you on their side, they should have a banner season.”
“We’ll see.” I drum on the wheel, not sure how to say what really needs to be said.
“How’s Tabitha? Are things better?”
I could lie, but there isn’t much of a point. “I took her to see an apartment tonight, and it was tough on her.”
“How is it on you?” His voice is laced with concern.
“She’s having trouble staying in the present. She’s going to need care, more than I realized,” I admit.
“How much care? Is she going to need financial help? Are you?”
“Her insurance should cover it,” I assure him. “Most of the time she thinks I’m Toby.”
He’s quiet for a few moments before he says. “I’m sorry, Miles. I didn’t realize it was this bad. I could take some time off, come visit, and help while you’re getting her settled.”
I consider that: my dad coming out here, potentially staying with me, helping clear out the house he hasn’t stepped foot in since they got divorced when I was a teen. As much as it would be nice to have support, I’m not sure it’s better for any of us. “I’ve got it handled, Dad.”
“Are you sure? You’ve got a lot on your plate with this new job and now your mom needing all this support. It’s okay to ask for some help if you need it.”
“Honestly, it’s okay.” I don’t know if that’s true, but based on her reaction to the home, I can’t see her dealing well with seeing my dad. “Once she’s in the assisted living facility, it’ll be fine. It’s just getting her there. And I have a network here, so you don’t need to worry about me. I gotta go, though. I’m checking in with the cat sitter.”
“You’re a good son. It’s times like these I wish I lived closer. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this on your own.”
“It’s all right, Dad. I’ll be on the west coast soon enough. Thanks for listening.”
“Any time, Miles. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
I end the call with a promise to talk later in the week with an update. Would it be good to have my dad to lean on? Maybe. But he’s spent a lot of years separating himself from the past, and for him it’s better if it stays that way. And, more selfishly, it’s probably better for me, because I don’t know that my mom can handle more of the past haunting her.