Kimberly Meter - A Sinclair Homecoming

“Of course,” she said. “How about I grab a coffee in the lounge? Would that give you enough time?”

He nodded, and Morgan exited the room, the sharp click of her heels receding down the hall. Wade sighed as he came around to his mother’s side, saying, “Here’s the deal, Mama...I’ve seen the house. No more games. No more lies.”

“What are you saying? Are you calling me a liar? Wade Neal Sinclair, shame on you. I’ve never lied to you in my life.”

“Mama, that house ought to be burned to the ground,” he said, shocking her. “I don’t even have words to describe the mess you’ve got going on in that place. And the smell? I nearly threw up. I couldn’t handle being in there for longer than five minutes. And then Miranda tells me that you’ve been sleeping in the bathtub? What the hell is that about? C’mon, Mama...you’ve gotta know that’s not okay.”

Her chin lifted. “That Miranda is the problem. She’s got you all riled up.”

“No. Miranda isn’t the problem. I hate to say this but it seems, right now, you’re the problem.” At her pale and wounded expression, Wade tried to soften the blow. “Mama...I know you’ve had a rough time of things with Simone dying but she wasn’t your only child. We all loved her but we have to let her go.”

“Don’t tell me about letting go. I’m sick and tired of everyone talking about things they know nothing about. You don’t have children and I pray that when you do, you never know the pain of losing one.” Tears welled in Jennelle’s eyes and her heart monitor began to beep in warning.

Ah, hell, that can’t be good. He’d gone and upset her. He started to apologize but Jennelle’s watery cry strangled the life out of him. “Simone was my special g-girl and you can’t tell me to s-stop missing her.”

Helplessness overwhelmed him at the evidence of his mother’s unhealthy grief, and he didn’t know what to do or say that wouldn’t make it worse—was that possible?—but he knew things had to change. “Of course not, Mama,” he said in a conciliatory manner meant to be soothing. “We all miss her. But...there was something creepy about that room.” He knew instinctively that he probably shouldn’t mention he’d seen the room but damn it, something had to be said and done about it. “You can’t keep a shrine to her. It’s not right. Simone wouldn’t have wanted that.”

“You obviously think I’m crazy just like your brother and sister. Go ahead and join the Judas team. I’m used to the feeling of this knife in my back.”

He bit back a hot retort. “Listen, Dr. O’Hare seems like a really nice lady. Why not just give her what she needs so we can start fixing this mess you’re caught up in.”

“What if she says I’m crazy? What then? Will you believe her?”

Ahhh, that was a good question. He didn’t want to believe any of this but after seeing what he saw last night, he couldn’t ignore that his mother may very well need some professional help. “Just because you need a little help doesn’t mean people are going to cart you off to a mental institution,” he said, dodging her question a bit. “I don’t pretend to know anything about what creates a hoarder—”

“Don’t call me that word.”

“Mama, face facts. You are a hoarder.”

“I am not. I’m a collector and have been since you were a boy. Was I a hoarder then, too?”

“Of course not, but you can’t try and tell me that your house was this bad when we were growing up. I couldn’t walk through the living room without tripping on something, and there is definitely something dead in that kitchen,” he said, trying for patience but Lord, his mother could push a saint. He’d forgotten how difficult she could be when she dug her heels in. Now he knew why Miranda wanted to push her into oncoming traffic at times.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said with a sniff as if he’d just uttered complete nonsense. “Something dead. There’s no need to exaggerate to the extreme. Yes, the house is a bit disorganized but I am not a hoarder and I will not sit here and allow people to put a label on me that doesn’t belong.”

“Mama,” he said sharply when he realized they were going nowhere fast. “I’m not going to debate semantics with you. APS has determined you are a hoarder. Whether you agree with the term or not is immaterial. I’m dealing in facts, not feelings at the moment. You want to get back into your house?” She nodded petulantly. “Okay, then. The plan to accomplish that is to do whatever needs to be done and that includes talking to Dr. O’Hare, cleaning up that house and getting rid of that damn shrine to your dead daughter.”

“I don’t see what Simone’s room has to do with anything,” Jennelle muttered. “Her room was spotless.”

“Which only makes it doubly creepy because the rest of the house is a trash dump.” She gasped and looked away, hurt. He stopped, biting his tongue at his harsh words. He was no better than Trace if he couldn’t rein in his temper. His mother needed understanding, not shaming. He drew a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry, Mama...I don’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m just frustrated is all and worried, too,” he said.

Her dull answer, “Don’t worry, I’m used to it,” cut him deep but he supposed he had it coming. She sighed, heavy and wounded, as she added with a small shrug, “I don’t know what I did to deserve this but there’s not much I can do about it except suffer through it, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. I’m just trying to get you back into your house.” At that she nodded, and he felt the first tiny concession on her part. “So you’ll talk to Dr. O’Hare?”

A long pause stretched between them until Jennelle offered a grudging “Yes,” but there remained that mulish expression on her face that never boded well, and Wade knew better than to hope for smooth sailing but he’d take it.

“Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll go get her.”

Although Morgan had said she’d return after coffee, he needed out of that room with his mother. The knowledge that he’d been happy to leave the situation resting on his siblings’ shoulders didn’t feel good. He didn’t know how Miranda handled this day in and day out. He was already looking to bail and he’d only been dealing with his mother for a day. He figured a trip to the jail to see his dad was also on the schedule. Truthfully, he’d rather eat raw monkey brains than see his dad in those orange jail smocks. Simone’s death had tipped everyone’s world upside down and he hadn’t realized that not everyone had found their equilibrium again.

He spotted Dr. O’Hare pouring creamer into her coffee and reluctantly drew her attention. “She’s ready for you,” he said, but stopped her with a gentle touch on her arm. “Dr. O’Hare, may I have a private word with you before you go in?”

She smiled. “Of course. I can imagine this ordeal is very trying for your entire family.”

“Yeah, something like that. Listen, I’m just going to come out and say it—my mom is difficult. Hell, my whole family is difficult. If you looked the word up in the dictionary, our family picture would probably be staring right back at you. But I can’t even imagine what my mom has been going through because frankly, I haven’t been here. I feel bad about that now that I see what’s been going on. All I’m saying is, please try not to take anything she may say personally. Sometimes my mom’s filter is nonexistent.”

“First, please call me Morgan. I like my patients and their families to feel comfortable with me. Unless you’re more comfortable with Dr. O’Hare, of course. Either way is fine with me.”

He ought to keep things professional and with a certain amount of distance but he liked her name. It rolled off his tongue nicely. And he did feel less stiff when he used her given name. “All right, Morgan it is,” he agreed with a small smile in return, but he really needed to ask what was truly worrying him. “Can you help my mom? Please tell me you’ve seen worse cases.”