Visiting Mom

If you’re honest with yourself (and let’s face it, you’re usually the only one that you’re honest with), Mom was a beautiful woman. In the 70s. And still moderately attractive in the 80s. Today she looks more like one of the Russ Troll dolls. Shrunken in on herself, thin as a rail, half a foot shorter than you remember her being. What hair the chemo hasn’t made fall out stands on end like she’s been electrocuted. Her skin has a grayish tint to it and you can see even from the door that it’s paper thin.

Beth got mom’s looks. Your half sister (yeah, her dad fucked off too. You remember him going to the c-store for a scratcher and a tall boy at seven AM and never coming back.) stands about 5’6” in heels and has the Eastern European curves and build (breasts made for having babies attached to them and strong child bearing hips). The dark roots are showing through her chin length bobbed platinum blonde hair which is artfully streaked with with a single strand of pink.

You guess your own looks came from your dad. Dark, poker straight, hair, a little longer than what would be considered professional, skin that tans well but fades quickly allowing you to pass as native is currently pale enough to pass for Black Irish. You have warm brown eyes and a face that looks like a million other faces. It’s come in handy in your line of work to be able to just fade into the crowd. Your build can only be described as average. You are, in fact, the very definition of nondescript.

Mom’s hooked up to monitors and an IV drip of god knows what, an oxygen cannula looped under her septum. Her eyes look almost feverish as she looks across the room at you. “So you managed to come see your mother kick the fucking bucket, huh?” Yeah, mom had the vocabulary of a well educated sailor.

You swallow hard. “You’re gonna beat this Ma.”

“Not a chance, Shithead,” she chuckles dryly, using your childhood nickname. “This is it kid. The big C had managed to work its way through just about every goddamn inch of this old body. Mamma is ready to head out. But you gotta promise me something.”

“Anything Ma.” You’re sure you should be tearing up right now, but your eyes aren’t even damp. Mom doesn’t expect you to cry. She’s known you for forty three years and nine months.

“I need you to...” The coughing fit hits hard and her monitors start going haywire. She motions you over to her side as she hacks up what looks to be half of her lung. You rush over and kneel at her side just as the fit subsides.

She breathes hard, wheezing and gasping before she forces the words out. Her last words, it seems as her heart monitor flatlines.

The crash team rushes in, but at this point there’s nothing they can do. She’s gone. As you hold Beth’s sobbing form in your arms you ponder Mom’s last words. “Take care of your sisters.”

Sisters?