When my well-meaning friend drops me off in front of the apartment, an older man clad in a black, tattered winter coat smiles at me. His teeth are yellow and tobacco-stained. He greets me, and I shake his hand. It's dirty. I'm not sure why I shake it. I hear him calling behind me when my mother lets me into her apartment, asking for my number. I ignore him. My mom looks bad, but nearly as bad as last week. Arm cut open wide, past the cottage cheese fat, and down to the dark red muscle. Her right eye was swollen shut, leaking fresh blood over the dried, crusted blood already decorating her cheeks like glitter. I wiped it all off of her cheeks using sandpapery hospital towels while she lied to the police.
Whatever. As she leads me through the lobby, stale odors assault my nostrils. Mildew, sweat, sickness. The stairs are dark and narrow on the way to her unit. She ushers me through the door, and I am greeted with a small, simple room. Her bed is covered with threadbare blankets and polyester sheets. We make small talk while I help her undress, stiff and uncomfortable. It's a strange role reversal, having your mother lift her hands over her head while you shimmy her shirt up and over the thick cast wrapped around her left arm. I avert my eyes, but see her anyway. Her body looks like mine, except for the collection of loose skin and stretch marks sitting comfortably on her stomach. Probably the cheapest place I've ever lived. I gently help her sit in the tub, adjusting the showerhead to spray water at the back of her head.
It reminds me of something. My own head, tipped back, warm water washing suds out of long black hair. A pale hand covered in age spots brushes wet hair out of my eyes and places a neon green bucket to the side, surrounded by bath toys. The room is bathed in a buttery yellow glow.
I blink and reappear in reality, eyes tracking chunks of dried blood swirling down the drain and coloring the water muddy brown. Her hair is long, flowing down her back and pooling at the bottom of the tub. A pang of jealousy pulls my face into a poorly contained scowl.
The task is finished unceremoniously. I wrap her in a towel and help her out of the tub. She jokes with me nervously, and I laugh to be polite. Her eyes keep searching mine like she can somehow turn over my cornea and pull out the spare key to my thoughts. She doesn't. I clip the hooks of her bra into place and braid her hair into a single neat plait, ignoring her requests for a high bun. I tell her the pressure of it on her scalp wouldn't be good for her tender head. She pouts but eventually relents. Truthfully, I just think it's ugly, but why tell her that? The silence is thick as she pulls her jeans back up her thighs. I ask her if she needs anything else, like a waiter collecting dirty plates, and she doesn't meet my eyes as she says, “No.” I turn and grip the cold doorknob and pull, stepping into the narrow, carpeted hallway. Her voice is tense as it cuts through the silence,
“I love you.”
I close the door with a grimace.