Chapter 1 - She Called Me a Guest
The first thing I saw after six years away was my mother on her knees.
Not waiting at the door.
Not smiling.
Not crying.
Scrubbing red wine from the marble floor of the house I had bought for her.
The second thing I saw was my brother stepping over her hand.
“You missed a spot.”
For three seconds, I could not move.
My suitcase stood behind me in the foyer.
Outside, the car from the airport was still pulling away.
Inside, my sixty-eight-year-old mother wore a gray housekeeping uniform several sizes too large.
Her hair had gone thin.
Her shoulders had folded inward.
Both wrists were bruised.
I had prepared myself for age.
I had not prepared for fear.
“Mom?”
She looked up.
Her eyes found my face.
Then moved past it.
No recognition.
No surprise.
Nothing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Guests are supposed to use the front entrance.”
I stared at her.
I was standing at the front entrance.
“Mom. It’s Jessi.”
She recoiled when I crouched beside her.
“No.”
Her fingers tightened around the rag.
“Jessi lives far away.”
My stomach turned cold.
Then I heard a voice from the staircase.
“Jessi?”
Luca stood halfway down the stairs wearing our father's old monogrammed robe.
My older brother had always known how to fill a room.
Forty years old now.
Tall.
Well-fed.
Perfect haircut.
Bare feet on white marble.
He recovered from surprise almost immediately.
“The international superstar finally remembers Ohio exists.”
I stood.
“I called.”
“Once every few months.”
“I sent ten thousand dollars every month.”
Something moved behind his eyes.
Small.
Fast.
Then Wendy appeared above him carrying a mimosa.
Eleven in the morning.
She looked at my travel clothes.
Then my suitcase.
“You should’ve told us you were coming. The guest room isn’t ready.”
The guest room.
I looked back at Mom.
“Why is she dressed like that?”
Luca laughed.
“She likes helping.”
My mother had arthritis in both hands.
“She likes scrubbing floors?”
“Routine is good for her.”
Mom began wiping faster.
Almost frantic.
“Mom.”
No response.
“Stop cleaning.”
She looked toward Luca before she looked at me.
That frightened me more than the bruises.
Luca noticed.
“Don’t upset her.”
“I'm upsetting her?”
“She gets confused.”
“How long?”
He sighed.
“Here we go.”
“How long has she been like this?”
“Memory started slipping last year.”
“And nobody told me?”
“We told you she was having issues.”
“You said she was forgetful.”
“She is forgetful.”
“She doesn’t know who I am.”
Wendy descended another step.
“Jessi, you just got here.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe don't come in accusing everyone.”
I turned toward her.
“I asked a question.”
“You always ask questions like accusations.”
Luca smiled faintly.
The two of them looked comfortable in this house.
Too comfortable.
The art had changed.
Dad's photographs were gone.
The cream sofa I bought Mom had been replaced with something white and modern that no sane person would buy for an older woman who drank coffee every morning.
A bar cart stood where her antique sewing table used to be.
Nothing looked like her.
Not even her.
I crouched again.
“Mom, can you stand?”
She nodded automatically.
When I touched her elbow, she jerked away.
A small plastic bottle fell from her pocket.
No pharmacy label.
No name.
Just white pills.
It hit the marble and rolled between us.
Luca stepped forward immediately.
“I’ll take that.”
I picked it up first.
His face changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“What is this?”
“Her medication.”
“For what?”
“Anxiety.”
“Prescribed by whom?”
“Jessi.”
I stood.
“What did you make her take?”
His expression hardened.
“Watch yourself.”
I looked at Mom’s hands.
Raw knuckles.
Bruised wrists.
Then at Luca’s robe.
Then at the glass of champagne Wendy held in the middle of a weekday morning.
“I send ten thousand dollars every month for her care.”
Nobody spoke.
“Where is the money?”
Luca laughed once.
A dismissive sound.
“You really think ten grand is some fortune?”
“For one retired woman in a paid-off house?”
“This house costs money.”
“I pay the property taxes.”
Silence.
“I pay insurance.”
Wendy looked at Luca.
“I pay utilities from the care account.”
Luca’s smile disappeared.
Mom stared at the bottle in my hand.
Her lower lip began trembling.
“Mom?”
She pointed at the pills.
“Every month.”
“What?”
Her eyes stayed on the bottle.
“Every month… he says I have to take those.”
I looked at Luca.
He did not look angry anymore.
He looked calculating.
Then Mom added something even quieter.
“Or the lady comes back.”
Wendy's glass stopped halfway to her mouth.
I turned slowly.
“What lady?”
Mom folded in on herself.
Luca answered too quickly.
“Nobody.”
My mother shook her head.
“She makes me sign things.”
The room changed.
Not because I understood what she meant.
Because Luca did.
He stepped toward me.
“Give me the bottle.”
I closed my hand around it.
“No.”
Then, somewhere upstairs, a printer started running.
One page.
Then another.
Then another.
May you like
Luca looked toward the sound.
And for the first time since I walked in, my brother looked genuinely afraid.
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