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nicholewithanh“Do you still have your visitor?” Cindy places a slight emphasis on the word “visitor” and gives me a meaningful look. Her watery blue eyes are filled with concern and I gulp down my embarrassment. It glides around in my stomach like a jellyfish trying to swim its way out through my throat.
“Yeah. My mom’s still with us.”
She shakes her head and I can practically hear her tsking my mother as she walks off with a shelving cart. Everyone says that my mother should know better than to inflict her company on Tom and I for so long. This includes my younger sister.
When I get home, she’s smoking on our back deck and watching a video on her cell phone. This is where she’s held court since arriving at the beginning of July. We tried to convince her to get a job - any job - so that she could get her own apartment after her landlord sold her condo back in Canada.
She didn’t.
My sister offered to co-sign on a place until she got a job and a few pay cheques in.
She still didn’t.
“I would never do that to you,” my mother had scoffed. She would never make herself my sister’s responsibility, but she would to me. She drove 673 miles and crossed a border to do it - on Canada Day no less. That’s roughly 1083 kilometers.
She blows out a cloud of smoke into the July heat and props her elbow up on the patio table, her cigarette held like a wand between her finger tips. “I don’t know, my girl.” She sighs.
“You don’t know what?” I’m careful to keep my face neutral. If she catches the wrong tone or expression, she’ll lay on the guilt so hard that I’ll convince myself that I said something truly demonic and need to be exorcized.
“Calgary might not be the right place for me,” she says, flicking her cigarette into the ashtray that I ordered from Amazon just for her. It’s turquoise and has a brown lid that’s been banished to the opposite end of the table since she arrived.
“It wasn’t the right place for me either,” I say.
“Yes, but people like me.”
“I hope that they like me too.” Once again, she’s putting me down to raise herself up.
“Don’t make this about yourself. You know what I mean. People are drawn to me and I haven’t made a connection in years. Maybe it’s time I move on. Lots of people on Tiktok are saying they’re moving to other countries.”
Shit, shit, shit. I don’t want to see my mother on the streets, but I also don’t want her staying for six months, which is the longest she’s legally allowed to stay in the US without a visa.
Even having her for a month is making my coworkers shake their heads at me. “You’ll never get rid of her once you let her in for that long.”
But who wants to see their parent homeless? It seemed like the right thing to do - not to let her get left behind. I thought they were being heartless. That it was my duty as her daughter to take care of her. “She’d do it for me,” I told myself.
“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” I say. “You can’t stay in a different country forever. What will you have to come back to?”
“I don’t know, Nichole!” she snaps. “I’m just thinking outloud. You don’t have to make me feel bad for it.”
A gentle haze of smoke drifts in the evening sunlight and the tip of her Belmont glows a fiery orange as she inhales. When I stand up, she shoots me an accusatory look.
“I have to start on dinner,” I say, walking through her cloud.
“Well, don’t look so miserable,” she calls after me. “I’ll make dinner for everyone tomorrow. It’ll be fabulous!”
“Yeah. My mom’s still with us.”
She shakes her head and I can practically hear her tsking my mother as she walks off with a shelving cart. Everyone says that my mother should know better than to inflict her company on Tom and I for so long. This includes my younger sister.
When I get home, she’s smoking on our back deck and watching a video on her cell phone. This is where she’s held court since arriving at the beginning of July. We tried to convince her to get a job - any job - so that she could get her own apartment after her landlord sold her condo back in Canada.
She didn’t.
My sister offered to co-sign on a place until she got a job and a few pay cheques in.
She still didn’t.
“I would never do that to you,” my mother had scoffed. She would never make herself my sister’s responsibility, but she would to me. She drove 673 miles and crossed a border to do it - on Canada Day no less. That’s roughly 1083 kilometers.
She blows out a cloud of smoke into the July heat and props her elbow up on the patio table, her cigarette held like a wand between her finger tips. “I don’t know, my girl.” She sighs.
“You don’t know what?” I’m careful to keep my face neutral. If she catches the wrong tone or expression, she’ll lay on the guilt so hard that I’ll convince myself that I said something truly demonic and need to be exorcized.
“Calgary might not be the right place for me,” she says, flicking her cigarette into the ashtray that I ordered from Amazon just for her. It’s turquoise and has a brown lid that’s been banished to the opposite end of the table since she arrived.
“It wasn’t the right place for me either,” I say.
“Yes, but people like me.”
“I hope that they like me too.” Once again, she’s putting me down to raise herself up.
“Don’t make this about yourself. You know what I mean. People are drawn to me and I haven’t made a connection in years. Maybe it’s time I move on. Lots of people on Tiktok are saying they’re moving to other countries.”
Shit, shit, shit. I don’t want to see my mother on the streets, but I also don’t want her staying for six months, which is the longest she’s legally allowed to stay in the US without a visa.
Even having her for a month is making my coworkers shake their heads at me. “You’ll never get rid of her once you let her in for that long.”
But who wants to see their parent homeless? It seemed like the right thing to do - not to let her get left behind. I thought they were being heartless. That it was my duty as her daughter to take care of her. “She’d do it for me,” I told myself.
“I don’t know if that’s a great idea,” I say. “You can’t stay in a different country forever. What will you have to come back to?”
“I don’t know, Nichole!” she snaps. “I’m just thinking outloud. You don’t have to make me feel bad for it.”
A gentle haze of smoke drifts in the evening sunlight and the tip of her Belmont glows a fiery orange as she inhales. When I stand up, she shoots me an accusatory look.
“I have to start on dinner,” I say, walking through her cloud.
“Well, don’t look so miserable,” she calls after me. “I’ll make dinner for everyone tomorrow. It’ll be fabulous!”
