Em Garner - Contaminated

Being afraid has become normal.

“Mom,” I whisper. “Please. Go back to bed. Okay?”

She doesn’t move. It’s not too bright in here, though there’s light coming from the bedroom and from the front windows that look out onto the landing. She’s mostly shadow. I can’t see her face.

I reached for her hand, tense. “C’mon. You need to sleep.”

She lets me take it. She lets me lead her back to bed this one more time. She gets under the covers as placidly and easily as she did the other times. She closes her eyes.

The video says that we’re supposed to restrain them when they’re alone, or when they’re in public, but it didn’t say anything about when they’re sleeping. Are we supposed to tie them to their beds so they don’t go wandering? How else can I make sure she stays here, for her own safety and my peace of mind?

I look in the tote bag, and, yes, there is a set of long elastic cords that loop through the wrist restraints and are meant to be hooked to something. Not quite a leash meant to attach to the collar. They didn’t go that far. But there’s no question this is meant to keep someone from going too far.

She doesn’t move or protest as I hook her wrists together and run the loop through the wooden slats of the headboard and secure them. I try to make sure they’re not too tight, but there’s not much I can do. They fit how they fit.

My mother doesn’t balk at any of this. There’s enough room that she can move around in bed, but if she tries to get out of it, she won’t get more than a few steps. Unless she breaks the headboard. That would require a big, aggressive effort, something the collar’s supposed to prevent. I’ll just have to hope she doesn’t decide she needs to get free. Or that nothing catches on fire while we’re sleeping. Or nobody breaks in…

I shake myself. My eyes are drooping and I’m so tired, I can’t see straight. All of my muscles ache. I feel… old.

Standing in her doorway, I turn out the light. I hear her sigh. She shifts a little in the sheets, and they rustle. I hesitate, thinking about sleep.

But I go to her, anyway, to check on her one last time. To make sure the restraints aren’t too tight, that she has room, that the blankets haven’t fallen away. This room, with the damage to the ceiling and the windows, can get cold.

I look down at her. This is my mom. I’ve tied my mother to the bed with something only a little better than handcuffs because I’m afraid of what she might do if she’s left loose. She wears a collar on her neck that shocks her if she so much as tries to defend herself against someone lifting her nightgown when she doesn’t want them to, she can’t speak, she can’t even be sure she’ll make it to a toilet on time.

And this is all too much for me. When I was looking for her, all I could think of was how much I wanted her home. How I needed to find her, and that it didn’t matter what else happened, because she’d be here with us. I thought I’d take care of her the way I take care of the patients in the assisted-living home, that it would be maybe a little hard, but not impossible. But I can’t take care of her like she’s them, because she isn’t. She’s not old, and I’m too young for this. I haven’t had her home here for even one day, and already I’m stressing out about what might happen.

I can’t do this.

“I can’t do this,” I say aloud.

Then I’m on my knees next to the bed. My forehead dents the mattress as I press my face into sheets I made sure were clean for her because I couldn’t make sure they were new. The floor’s hard and cold under my knees. I’m chilly in this room without blankets to cover me or a sweater or anything. And I cry.

I cry and cry, letting it all out. Everything I’ve been saving up all these months. Every time I wanted to cry and didn’t, it all comes out now. Big, nasty, ripping sobs tear at my chest and throat. Tears boil out of me. Snot spouts from my nose. I swallow my tears and the thick paste of snot makes me shiver. Gross. I cry in sharp, hitching sobs that hurt my throat and chest. I pound the floor with my fist, and it hurts.

I’m crying so hard, I don’t feel the bed shake or move, don’t notice my mom as she sits. Not until her hand is on my head. Her fingers tangle for a moment in my hair, and I look up, shocked. Her fist pulls, hurting me a little, but it’s an accident, the pulling.

She strokes my hair with a clumsy fist. She croons. It’s a wordless hum, no tune to it. It lasts only a moment or two before her hand falls away and she’s still again.

But she did it. My mom reacted to me. I’m frozen, tasting salt, unable to see in the dark with swollen eyes. I can’t tell if she’s looking at me, but I think she is.

I don’t want to move. I can’t move. And the next thing I know, I’m asleep.

OF COURSE I’VE OVERSLEPT, AND OF COURSE Opal doesn’t care. She used to be a good student, never getting into trouble or needing reminders about her homework. This, like everything else, has changed.

I wake on the floor of my mom’s bedroom. I’m covered by a blanket, but I don’t have a pillow and the floor is hard, cold, and pretty dirty. I’m stiff when I get up, blinking and disoriented. I’m not sure what time it is, just that it’s not the right time.

My mom’s not in her bed. The restraints are still attached to the headboard, though. For one scary moment I wonder if she got herself loose, but then I hear the bubble of Opal’s laughter and I know she’s the one who let Mom free. Scrubbing my face with my hand, I go into the kitchen, where Opal’s demonstrating some sort of dance that she learned on TV to my mom, who’s sitting at the table with a plate of uneaten toast in front of her.

“See? Like this! Around the world and up and down, to the side, to the side…” Opal breaks off when she sees me. She has the decency to look guilty. “You didn’t wake me up on time. I missed the bus.”

“You still have to go to school, Opal. Even if it’s late.”

“Can’t I please stay home with Mama today?” Opal’s lower lip quivers. “Velvet, it’s Mama. I haven’t seen her in so long.”

I can’t blame her for wanting to stay home. We haven’t been with our mom for a long time. I took the day off to stay home. Opal’s just a kid who can barely wait long enough to eat dinner before dessert. How can I ask her to go back to school the first day our mom’s home with us?

As if on cue, the phone rings. We all look at it, but my mom’s the one who gets out of the chair. She swings at the old-fashioned phone, attached to the wall by a long cord, and knocks it to the floor, where I scoop it up before she can do anything else.

Opal and I are staring at her. Opal’s eyes are wide, and I can feel wariness in my own expression. My mom turns, hands out, and knocks the plate of toast off the table. It breaks on the floor.

“Opal! Get the plate!” I scoop up the phone and put it to my ear. “Hello?”

It’s the school, wanting to know where Opal is. I tell them she’s not feeling well, and Opal, in the background, begins to make loud, disgusting barfing noises. She even takes the rest of her orange juice and tosses it into the sink for effect. I try not to laugh. Besides, I need her to be picking up the pieces of plate before my mom steps in them with her bare feet and cuts herself.

Too late, my mom moves. Her foot comes down on a piece of broken plate. I tell the school secretary I’m sure Opal will be feeling fine soon and hang up, then grab my mom by the arm to keep her from moving again.

“Sit, Mom.” I push her into the chair and lift up her foot, which is cut, but not too bad.

“Is she okay?” Opal bends to look, too. “Mama, does that hurt?”