High Tide Read Online Free PDF Page A

which you can afford to spend time in a dusty closet, digging through ink-stained, aging pieces of paper, or to look through photographs of the deceased that still retain some kind of discernable contours—you can touch it, this feeling.
    Turns out—we’ve lived.



Mother
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    Mother tries to remember where she’s seen it before.
    Faces peering at her from a glaring brightness.
    Big eyes. Lips that are saying something, smiling, cooing, scolding. Faces that pull her from the comforting darkness and into the light.
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    An avenue.
    For a moment she sees her father; he points out the leaves overhead. She is a child in her stroller, a child absorbing every single detail. She sees the leaves and becomes them, submerges herself in them and their silky movement.
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    The faces in this narrow room are like the leaves. They form a canopy high overhead, full of rustling movement and a teasing wind. The faces look at her as she lies there like a dried-up worm, wedged between the body pillow and the wall. A pair of hands throw open the curtains—a window fills with light.
    â€œGood morning! Time to get up,” a light voice says.
    The face leans in very close—it’s a woman’s face.
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    Mother opens an eye. The other is crusted over with pus. She looks at the faces and her toothless mouth whispers a few syllables in greeting. Mother is afraid of the daytime, afraid of the daily routine. She’ll be rolled over, picked up, moved, washed—it hurts and it makes her uneasy. Mother wants to tell them she doesn’t understand why she needs to get up anymore. She’s tired, but they won’t leave her alone.
    â€œAnd the worst is she somehow gets in there with her left hand. She grabs and tears at the diaper and then smears shit all over the place. She’s out of her mind. I’ve got to change the bedding twice a day—all of it.”
    Mother closes the one eye and pretends this talk isn’t about her. For several years now her good eye has been covered by a film, a rapidly swirling fog with tiny black spots.
    â€œYou have to figure something out. You can probably do something like tie a shirt over her chest,” says a second voice that’s lower, infused with darkness.
    Mother likes that voice better.
    â€œShe doesn’t get in from the top, but from the bottom along her thigh. The entire bed is flooded by morning. She pees so, so much. And if there’s shit I can’t even come in here without gagging. You wouldn’t believe the smell,” the first voice complains, white and clear as a ray of light.
    You can’t hide from that voice, so Mother just shuts her eye tighter.
    â€œMaybe like something for a baby. A onesie that buttons up the sides.”
    â€œWon’t work. Since the last treatment she’s completely lost it. Look at how small she is—but she’s heavy, as heavy as a rock. She’s dead weight, ten times heavier than me. I make her stand up so her legs won’t totally atrophy. A few minutes a day. When I come home from work I have her sit up. You can’t believe how hard it is. I’ve sprained my back—it hurts. No, no, no. No onesies, no pants. She can’t even lift her legs. It would just mean extra clothes for me to wash. No, no, no. I had an idea yesterday—I’ll secure the diaper with electrical tape. Or a wide strip of duct tape. What do you think?”
    â€œYou can’t do that, Mom. Her skin’ll get infected.”
    â€œYou think so? Well, then I don’t know.”
    Mother pretends she is dead. Pretends this stupid conversation isn’t about her. People only talk like that about children who misbehave. She’s not a bad child, never has been. No, no, no.
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    The light voice disappears and the door closes.
    Something warm slips under her neck, she feels warmth. Mother feels a soft, youthful breath on her cheek and opens her good eye.
    â€œDrink some