My Mother Wasn’t in Her Room

I came home from my business trip a day early and found my seventy-year-old mother’s cancer medication lined up on a concrete basement floor beside an air mattress.

That was after I found my husband upstairs drinking beer with his brother in the bedroom I had prepared for her.

When I asked where my mother was, Eric barely looked away from the football game.

“Downstairs.”

I thought I had misheard him.

“What do you mean, downstairs?”

His younger brother, Matt, stopped chewing his pizza.

Eric took another sip of beer.

“I moved her stuff to the basement. We needed the room.”

“You moved my mother?”

“Rachel, don’t start.”

Then he pointed vaguely around the room—the bed, the television, the house itself.

“It’s my room. Just like this entire house. I’m the man of the house.”

For a few seconds, I didn’t answer.

I looked at the beer bottles on my mother’s nightstand.

Then I went downstairs.

My mother, Linda, had been diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer six weeks earlier.

She had spent most of her seventy years trying not to inconvenience anyone.

When I was a child, she apologized to waitresses when they brought her the wrong meal. She apologized to doctors for taking too long to describe symptoms. She once drove home on a flat tire because she didn’t want to call me during a work meeting.

Cancer didn’t change that.

If anything, it made it worse.

“I’m sorry you’re having to do all this,” she told me after her second chemotherapy appointment.

I was helping her into my car.

“Mom, stop apologizing.”

“You have a job. You have a husband.”

“And you’re my mother.”

She looked down at her hands.

“I just don’t want to be a burden.”

When her oncologist explained that the treatments would probably leave her exhausted and unsteady, I asked her to stay with us.

Our house outside Columbus had four bedrooms. The downstairs guest room was directly across from a full bathroom and had French doors looking toward the backyard.

It was the obvious place for her.

Eric agreed.

At least, I thought he did.

The first week went smoothly.

Mom slept a lot. She ate toast, soup, crackers, and whatever else she could keep down. I drove her to appointments and arranged my work schedule around her treatment days.

Eric was polite.

But he wasn’t warm.

One evening, while I was loading the dishwasher, he leaned against the kitchen island.

“How long is your mom staying?”

I looked over my shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“Like a month?”

“Maybe longer.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I just thought we’d have some idea.”

“She’s getting chemotherapy, Eric. I can’t give you a checkout date.”

He raised both hands.

“I’m just asking.”

I let it go.

Two weeks later, my company sent me to Seattle for four days.

I almost declined.

Mom insisted I go.

“Rachel, you can’t stop working because of me.”

The night before my flight, I filled the refrigerator with prepared meals. I labeled containers. I put her medications into the weekly organizer and taped her appointment information to the refrigerator.

I gave Eric one instruction more than once.

“Check on her.”

“I will.”

“She won’t ask if she needs something.”

“Rachel.”

He looked annoyed.

“I know how to check on somebody.”

I kissed Mom goodbye the next morning.

She hugged me longer than usual.

Then she whispered:

“Don’t worry about me.”

I should have.

My meetings in Seattle finished a day early.

There was an available seat on an evening flight home, so I changed my reservation.

I considered texting Eric.

Then I decided I’d surprise him.

My rideshare dropped me in our driveway shortly after eight.

The house lights were on.

Before I even opened the front door, I could hear the television.

Football.

Loud.

I stepped inside and saw two empty pizza boxes on the kitchen island.

There were beer bottles beside them.

Then I heard Matt laughing.

The sound was coming from my mother’s room.

I left my suitcase beside the front door.

The bedroom door was partly open.

Eric was stretched across the foot of the bed with a beer in his hand. Matt was in the armchair beside the window.

A bowl of chips sat on Mom’s bedside table.

The television was showing a game.

Eric turned around.

His face changed.

“You’re home.”

“Where’s my mother?”

Matt looked at Eric.

Eric muted the television.

“She’s fine.”

“Where is she?”

“Downstairs.”

I stared at him.

“Why?”

He sighed.

Not nervously.

Irritated.

“Matt came over for the game. The TV down there is tiny, and your mom said she didn’t care where she slept.”

“You moved her into the basement?”

“It’s finished.”

“There isn’t a bathroom down there.”

“She can come upstairs.”

“She’s on chemotherapy.”

Matt put his beer down.

“Maybe I should go.”

Eric shook his head.

“Nobody needs to go. Rachel’s making this into something it isn’t.”

I looked at him.

“How long has she been down there?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

That was enough.

I turned around.

The Air Mattress

Our basement wasn’t horrible.

That’s what Eric tried to tell me later.

And technically, he was right.

It was finished. There was carpet in half of it, a couch, storage shelves, and an old television.

But the far side had bare concrete flooring.

That’s where I found my mother.

Someone had inflated the camping mattress we kept in the garage and put a fitted sheet over it.

Mom was lying on top of it beneath one of our old blankets.

Her medications were lined up beside her on the floor.

Her water bottle was there too.

A plastic grocery bag held her clothes.

She tried to sit up when she saw me.

“Rachel?”

I crouched beside her.

“Mom.”

She blinked at me.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

“Why are you down here?”

She immediately looked toward the stairs.

Then back at me.

“It’s okay.”

“No. Tell me.”

“Eric and Matt wanted to watch the game.”

I looked at the mattress.

“How long have you been sleeping here?”

She hesitated.

“Just since yesterday.”

I closed my eyes for a second.

“Mom, why didn’t you call me?”

Her answer came immediately.

“I didn’t want to ruin your trip.”

Of course.

Then she reached for my hand.

“Please don’t be angry with Eric. They needed the room.”

I looked at her.

“You need the room.”

“I can sleep anywhere.”

“No, you can’t.”

She gave me that same apologetic little smile I had seen my entire life.

“I’m causing trouble.”

I stood.

“You’re not causing anything.”

I picked up the grocery bag.

Then I gathered her medication.

“We’re going upstairs.”

“Rachel—”

“Mom. Upstairs.”

She must have heard something in my voice because she didn’t argue again.

I helped her to her feet.

Halfway up the stairs, she had to stop.

She gripped the railing with both hands and lowered her head.

I waited behind her.

That staircase had fourteen steps.

I counted every one.

By the time we reached the first floor, Eric and Matt were standing in the hallway.

Matt already had his jacket on.

I walked Mom toward her bedroom.

Eric stepped forward.

“Rachel, can we talk?”

“Move.”

He moved.

I helped Mom sit on the edge of her bed.

The football game was still frozen on the television.

I picked up the remote and shut it off.

Then I collected the bottles.

Matt appeared at the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson.”

My mother looked embarrassed.

Imagine that.

She was embarrassed.

“It’s fine, Matt.”

I turned around.

“No, it isn’t.”

Matt looked at the floor.

“I’m going home.”

Eric said nothing.

I waited until I heard the front door close.

Then I looked at my husband.

“Kitchen.”

He followed me.

I put the empty bottles on the counter.

“Did she volunteer to move downstairs?”

“She said she didn’t mind.”