up!â
Desiree had a cold washcloth on Mamaâs head. Her eyelids fluttered the way Daddyâs did earlier when Mama woke him up on the couch. Then they came into focus, and she started crying again, as did me and Desiree.
I cleared my throat. âMa, we gotta go see him. We got to go see Daddy.â
Desiree reached for her motherâs arm and helped her to her feet in the lobby just outside Desmondâs room.
âI canât see him like that.â
Desiree snapped, âCome on, Mama, we have to. And he might not be as fucking bad as they saying.â
I rubbed Mamaâs back and suppressed a new sob that wanted to break loose.
Daddy looked like a vegetable, plain and simple, like he was on somebodyâs damn plate. It was hard as hell to look at him like that in that bed, attached to all those damn tubes. Yeah, it was hard to stomach. Was he better off this way or dead?
Mama took steps back and covered her face with her hand, shouting in a muffled voice, âDear Lord, no! No!â
I wrapped my arms around her, and we both cried again. I tried to reach out to Desiree, but she shrugged my hand off her shoulders, ran to a corner, and bawled. Then my anger got the best of me. Mamaâs hug wasnât helping, so I pulled myself away, ran to the window, and punched out the glass till my hand was cut and wouldnât stop bleeding. Yep, this was the start of the end of things.
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Daddy never made any progress. Oh, he could see us hear us, but he couldnât do shit else. No talking, moving, responding, nothing. Just seeing and hearing. Poor Daddy. Poor Daddy. Of all people, why did this shit have to happen to him?
Despite all the visits nurses made to our home to show us how to work the equipment, Mama had a hard-ass time when he finally came home. Her cigarette intake had increased from half a pack a day to one and a half packs a day. Every time you turned around, she had a cigarette in her fucking hand. Shit, weâd probably all die of cancer, thanks to her.
A lot of things changed after Daddyâs accident. For starters, Mama stopped wearing makeup, and getting her nails and feet done. She wore house robes all day and looked sleepy all of the time. She stopped doing the house chores, leaving me to do them, since Desireeâs lazy punk ass, sure as hell, wasnât going to do any of them. All she did was run the street.
Mama stopped cooking the meals that made Daddy fall in love with her and stay his ass home all the time. Instead of pot roast, red potatoes, string beans, lasagna, salad, grilled salmon and rice pilaf, it was now frozen burritos, cup of noodles and shit. Or I broke down and cooked something. But that was usually a waste of food and time, because Mama didnât bother eating, and Desiree would get home late and crash.
Sometimes I had to stay home from school to care for Daddy because mama wouldnât make it out their bed. Before I left for school, I always checked with her to see if she was gonna get up and tend to him. Usually, she wouldnât budge, making me throw my backpack down and tend to Daddy.
Today was no different. She was lying across her bed in the same gown sheâd worn the day before. I cleared my throat as I stood in the doorway, but she didnât respond. I knocked softly on the door. Nothing.
âMama.â
âHumph?â She rolled over and squinted her eyes at me.
âDo you need me to stay home with Daddy, or do you got it?â
âAhh. Shit.â She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and gave me a sad smile.
I twisted my lips to the side and waited.
âEvery time I go to sleep, I wake up just knowing this shit is a nightmare. Then it takes something like what you just said to remind me that it ainât.â
I sat down next to her on the bed and glanced at Daddy, whose eyes were closed.
âWe are gonna get through this, Mama, if we canât get through anything.â
She gave me a