It had been the week from hell.
A series of unfortunate events that should have come with a warning.
It started off with some moron from overseas trying to hack into my bank account. I had no clue that it happened until the bank notified me that my account had been temporarily suspended. No big deal except I was in the middle of ordering a foot-long sub and had just asked the lady serving to pack on extra olives and meatball sauce. Great—when you have money to pay for it. Unfortunately, I had no cash in my purse and a card that wouldn’t work. It was embarrassing, mortifying…I could go on. I walked away hungry and with a very annoyed sandwich artist mouthing off profanities even after I explained my situation.
From then on, things went downhill. The photocopy machine decided to be my arch-nemesis. Paper jam alert in some secret crevice that gave me a paper cut when I went in to retrieve it. My computer did this update thing and I lost all my contacts in the process. Then the icing on the already screwed-up cake—my boss told me she was retiring. Since it was her law firm, I would be jobless in just two short months.
It was a shitty week.
There had to be a bottle of wine calling my name. Until I found out that the truck carrying the latest shipment of alcohol broke down outside of Anchorage and the only thing that Billy, our local grocer, had stocked in his store was beer.
I didn’t care for beer.
Mom, as usual, was my knight in shining armor. She knew exactly how to make me feel better and it involved her world-class lasagne. Five types of cheese melted in between a Bolognese sauce that was so saucy it made you drool just staring at it.
Though, I should have known it was a ploy. Smelled the rat that followed the delicious meal.
“I’m going to put the house on the market.”
The lasagne that sits on the plate in front of me suddenly loses its appeal. With my fork sitting firmly between my fingers, I place it down on the edge of the plate and raise my eyes to meet Mom’s. I’m sure this is some sort of joke. A prank to tip me over the edge after a bad week. I’m mentally scrambling to check the date. No, it’s not April Fool’s Day. Not that mom was the type of person to pull pranks.
My brother, Flynn, silently chews on his last bite. Upon his final swallow, his expression mirrors mine as we stare in confusion, awaiting her explanation.
Mom pushes her chair out, and walks towards the counter where she retrieves a yellow envelope that had been sitting around for weeks. She carefully removes the contents and places them in the middle of the table. It’s a brochure: Rose Meadow Care Facility. I flick through the brochure, pages of people sitting around the facility with smiles on their old faces. Mom is only fifty-five, and this place appears to be a senior citizens’ gateway to death.
“Mom, I don’t understand. You want to sell our house?”
She nods, keeping her lips tight and emotions restrained. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way, the two of you taking care of me. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that. I don’t want to be a burden on you.”
“Mom.” I push my chair back and fall onto my knees, clasping her hand in mine. “You’re not a burden. Please don’t do this. I’ll find another job. Granted, it may not pay as well as now but I could pick up a third job. Many people have three jobs. If that’s what I need to do to pay for a full-time nurse.”
She shakes her head, ignoring my desperate pleas. This is just another one of her episodes. This will pass. Tomorrow we will all wake up and this conversation will be forgotten.
“I know what you’re thinking, Milana, and this won’t pass. I’ve spoken to a professional who will follow through with my plans despite my condition. I can’t do this anymore. You have to understand that I only want the best for you both and that’s not staying here.”
She called me by my full name. She only did that when I was in trouble and when she was dead serious about something. On its own accord, my head is shaking left to right, fear turning into anger, refusing to allow her to do this. She isn’t thinking straight. This is our family home. A home that my grandpapa built with his bare hands. He would be rolling over in his grave if he knew his only daughter was selling this place.
“This is not the best for us!” I raise my voice, pulling away from her. “You’re our mother. Taking care of you is our job. Just keep the house and we’ll sort something out.”
“Full-time help is costly, and frankly—I’m tired.” She lowers her head, keeping her gaze down. “I don’t know what will happen tomorrow let alone five minutes from now. I need to be somewhere with people who know how to help me.”
Flynn is quietly sitting at the table, offering no words to stop Mom from making this rash decision. I glare at him, demanding he speak up and help me convince her this is stupid. When he doesn’t say a word, I begin to panic at the thought of this going ahead. The knot in my stomach is tightening; my fingers twitching while I hold down the urge to dry heave from the tightness in my chest.
“I promise you we can keep the house, Mom. Like I said, I’ll just get another job.”
“About that…” She pulls another piece of paper out of the envelope. “One of the ladies at the facility has a daughter that owns a recruitment agency in California. She’s looking for a personal assistant and it pays four times the amount you earn here. I’ve recommended you for the job.”
She hands the paper to me. It has the name of the agency and a description of the job.
Personal Assistant to a well-known client. Must have extensive organizational skills with the ability to multitask and handle all matters in a confidential manner.
“I can’t move to California!” Arguing, I almost throw the paper back at her in disgust. This idea is ludicrous. “As if I could leave you here…and what about Flynn?”
“Your brother would go with you. Besides, you’ve come a long way from your teenage rebellion days. I think this will be good for you.”
Flynn’s chair scrapes along the wooden floor as his body reacts instantly. “Move to California? Us?”
“You always said you wanted to become a musician. This could be your chance.”
“Mom, he plays the drums and I’m sure a million people in California do. No, we’re not moving, end of story.” My arms fold, demanding this conversation stop.
Mom remains quiet, lowering her brows and retaining a concerned expression. She is deep in thought; staring at the two of us with her motherly stance. She knew we were angry, she knew that all we had known was this house and her. Change didn’t exist in our world, and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.
“If you are hired for this job, I’ll reconsider selling the house. Perhaps we could rent it out to a family and that could pay for the facility.” She clears the plates off the table and places them in the sink. Running the water slowly, she turns back around with a stern look on her aged face. “Otherwise, I’ll put it on the market.”
I wanted to scream at her. Tell her to stop being selfish and think about our needs. It wasn’t just about the house, it was about her. I needed her. The thought of her being alone terrified me. Yet deep inside, underneath all the resentment and rage, I knew that she wore the burden on her shoulders every day and no matter what we did, nothing could erase the diagnosis we had been given. Mom had early-onset Alzheimer’s disease and nothing in the world could stop it.
Not me.
Not Flynn.
And no amount of money in the world.