Mommy’s creepy breathing goes on for a long time—every inhale a scrape, every exhale a groan—like something heavy, a moose or something—is sitting on her chest. I finally sit up, squinting into the darkness. The fire gives off just enough light to see the outline of Grover. He sits behind his mother, legs on either side like a human armchair, holding her, rocking gently and humming.
What is it about this hateful woman that makes me feel guilty for wanting to take Andrew away? I mean, he isn’t hers. He’s ours. He belongs at home with my parents.
I turn onto my side. She isn’t my problem. Why am I obsessing over her? Because she was once a mom who just sort of got lost somewhere. It isn’t fair.
Mommy’s coughing gets worse. I cover my ears, trying to stop the noise from making me care. She won’t see a doctor, but with lungs that sound like that, I’m not sure she’s gonna make it without some major medical intervention—oxygen for one.
I rack my brain for something herbal—something Mom told me about last summer when we spent so much time studying the plant life here. There was something that helped with lungs—respiration. I kind of think it was that Old Man’s Beard stuff Grover smeared all over Amelia’s leg.
I move closer to Mommy’s area, careful not to rattle her feathers—none of us needs her to go off on me again. “Grover?” I’m hoping my whisper gets his attention—not hers.
He raises his head, frowning.
“Old Man’s Beard. I think you can make tea with it—supposed to help with respiratory issues—my mom taught me.” I shift from foot to foot, not sure if I really want to go out in the dark by myself. “Want me to go look for some?”
He grunts and motions for me to come closer, so I do. Then, yanking me down, he forces me between a rock and this person who, if given the chance, could really hurt me. “No—I don’t want—” But it’s too late. Before I know it, I’m the human chair, sitting behind the smelly old woman, and he’s out the door in search of Old Man’s Beard.
If this isn’t the most awkward moment of my life—I don’t know what is. Mommy’s chest gurgles as she forces her breath out, then gasps to pull it back in. It hurts me just to listen. Never in my life did I picture myself doing this—holding a mean, stinking old woman on her deathbed. But here I am.
“Sing…to me,” she croaks, and I wonder if she has any idea who is rocking her. My chest tightens as I search my brain for something to sing. All I can think of is the theme from The Addams Family. Da-da-da-da—click, click.
Definitely not.
Then I have it. My favorite Christmas song.
“Silent night, holy night.” My voice wobbles, but I keep singing.
“All is calm, all is bright.
Round yon virgin mother and child.
Holy infant, so tender and mild.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.”
At the end, I hum, rocking her like I do Andrew. Her breathing finally slows, and her head tips to the side. Oh my gosh, Did she just die? I hold my hand close to her mouth. Please don’t be dead. She’s not. Just asleep. Thank God.
We sit there for what seems like hours. The rock I’m leaning against digs into my backbone. The good thing is that the wet dog odor no longer burns my nostrils. I must be getting used to it.
After a while, Mommy opens her eyes, sensing someone behind her. She jerks and turns around. “You!” She’s about to let me have it when Andrew pads over and climbs into her lap. He sticks his thumb into his mouth and leans against her. She forgets about me and strokes his dark curls.
He raises up suddenly and gives her the most serious, grown-up look: brows pulled together, lips curving downward. “Mommy? I’m ready to go home now.”
Oh, great, Andrew. She’s gonna blow her stack. But Mommy just sits there—frozen in time. Staring at something that isn’t really there. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t move.
A bright ray of sunlight bursts through the gaps at the opening of the cave. It’s so startling that I actually jump in surprise. It’s morning already; Grover should have been back hours ago. If he doesn’t show up, what are we supposed to do?
On the other side of the cave, Amelia stirs. Of course she does. One more problem I have to deal with. Which one of them is gonna freak out first? Flip a coin.
“Darcie?” Her voice pitches high. Worried.
I have absolutely no idea what to do. I’m scared to move, if you want the truth.
“Darcie?” Louder this time.
“She over here!” calls Andrew. “With Mommy.”
Mommy turns her body completely around and looks me square in the face. Her breath smells of rotting teeth; a white film etched into the wrinkles around her mouth. But I don’t turn away. I don’t even flinch. She mutters under her breath, but not to me—like she’s talking to someone I can’t see.
“Grover went out to get you something for your cough,” I tell her. “He’ll, uh, be right back.” I hope so, anyway.
She scrunches up her face like I just gave her an impossible riddle to solve and says, “Grover?”
“Yeah, you know…your son. The guy who takes care of you?”
She gives me a blank look.
I scuttle out from behind her, careful not to jolt her body too much. “Do you remember Grover?”
She narrows her eyes.
Amelia hobbles toward us. “What in God’s name are you doing over here?”
I ignore her, though the huffiness in her voice makes me question my logic—Mommy’s my focus now. This could be the moment. “Big guy, long hair…wears those creepy animal pelts…”
Mommy searches my eyes, then drops them to Andrew—really seeing him for the first time, I guess, because her eyes widen a bit and her eyebrows scrunch.
“He told me what happened…when he was little.” I say.
“Tell me.” She glides her eyes slowly back to my face. Her breathing is harsh and jagged, and her words come out like her throat is lined with sandpaper.
Fortunately, Amelia’s figured out this is a serious moment and—miracle of miracles—keeps quiet. She lowers herself onto the rug.
I keep my eyes on Mommy. “Do you want a drink first? Maybe some tea?” I’m not sure if she can handle the story, and I’m not sure I’m ready to tell it.
She shakes her head, coughs, then motions for me to talk.
“Well…Grover told me you guys used to live in the old logger’s cabin at the edge of the forest.”
Amelia gasps, and not subtly either—but a loud, exaggerated gulp of air. I shoot her a “do you mind?” look, and she covers her mouth.
Mommy stares at the floor, and a tear trickles down her dirty cheek.
“He said there wasn’t much money, but you were a good mom—you used to play with him and sing to him.”
She raises her head and smiles, black and brown teeth poking through her parted lips. I swallow down the lump in my throat. This is the part I really don’t want to say—the part that might break her—again. I’m scared of what will happen when I say it. But I take a deep breath. “He said he was in foster care.” I don’t pause—just rattle on, hoping to cover as much ground as possible in one minute or less.
I sneak a quick look at Amelia. Her eyes are wide. This is her first time hearing all this, too. She nods, like I should keep going. Andrew snuggles into Mommy, sucking his thumb like a pro. I glance at the cave opening. Still no Grover, and I’m suddenly very nervous.
“But when he turned eighteen, he came back here. To take care of you. I think he’s been here about ten years or something.”
Mommy keeps her gaze to the floor, hugging and rocking Andrew. Her dirty grey hair hangs like a curtain over her face. I can’t see her eyes, but I’m for sure she’s crying. Her lungs wheeze as she pulls in her breath.
“I…didn’t…know.” She flicks her gaze back to me. “He didn’t…tell me.”
Which I’m sure he did, but her mind’s so messed up, she didn’t get it.
Andrew sits up then, squirming from her grasp. He puts his little hands on her wrinkled cheek, looks her straight in the eye and says, “S’okay Mommy. Don’t cry.”
And, omg, I’m about to lose it. That kid has a way of caring about every single person he meets—I want to be just like him.
“Mommy?” I say, my voice surprisingly bright. “Can I fix your hair? Do you have a brush or something?”
She gives me a half-smile, then points to a metal box that’s half-hidden under a pile of junk. I pull it out and open it. Inside are treasures: a fancy gold brush, some papers—probably Grover’s birth certificate, maybe a marriage certificate because there’s a gold ring. A piece of hair in a small bag. I pull out the brush and close the box. I’m dying to go through it, but it’s not my business.
I move in behind Mommy and brush her hair. It’s knotted and filthy—probably full of head lice—I bet we have it too. I think back to my mom trying to fix my hair, only a few days ago, when I thought being popular would solve all of my problems.
“I wish my hair was as pretty as yours, Mommy,” I say. “The frizz on my head won’t settle down with any amount of brushing. I’m a human Brillo pad.”
Mommy shakes her head slowly. “You…are…beautiful.” She turns her head and smiles up at me. Her teeth are rotten, but it’s a lovely smile.
Amelia moves in next to me. “Let’s braid it. Would you like that, Mommy?”
The old woman tilts her head, only just now noticing Amelia. She reaches up and strokes Amelia’s long braid. “Pretty.” She’s smiling now—loving the attention. We get her hair braided, wash her face and hands, and make her some willow bark tea. Her breathing is still labored, but her eyes are clear for the first time in days—maybe years. It’s like her brain found this last little island of clarity to stand on.
Amelia and I straighten Mommy’s little room—shake out her rugs, fluff the pillows, and get her settled again for a nap. She’s tired.
“Sing to me,” she says. We sing Jingle Bells and Frosty the Snowman. She smiles and even laughs—I think—though it might have been coughing. “Sing Silent Night again.”
And we do until she—and Andrew—fall asleep.
This whole experience has been the worst of my life, but as I look at this pitiful old woman, with her hair fixed and her face washed clean of dirt and whatever she coughed up, maybe I did something right for once—without thinking first about me. Maybe for the first time in my life, I helped a person who really needed it.
Amelia and I add wood to the fire when a shadow floods the room. Grover is back.