year. She always relied on Victor to put them up. What if he was—
The thought was too much to bear. Jace pounded on the front door,
noticing all the curtains were drawn shut. When he got no answer, he
pounded again and again until the door swung open.
“What?”
Jace didn’t care that Victor was scowling, or mind the black circles
under his eyes. He was too glad that Victor was alive and…
Unfortunately, he wasn’t well. His cheeks were too gaunt and bloodless,
at least from what Jace could see. Most of Victor’s face was hidden
beneath a full beard.
Victor sighed. “Don’t look at me like that. In fact, it’s probably best
you don’t see me at all.”
The door was swinging shut when Jace snapped out of it, putting a
shoulder against it to stop its progress. “Victor! What’s going on?”
The resistance on the door let up. Victor gestured for him to come in.
Jace did so with increasing unease. The interior was dark, only slivers of
light coming from between the curtains. And it was cold. Was the heat
even on? Mrs. Hemingway would have never allowed this. When Jace
had seen her last, she was struggling, but she still maintained herself and
her home.
The door clicked shut. Jace turned to find Victor watching him, arms
crossed over his chest.
“Where’s your mother. Is she okay?”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “She’s great.”
“I’m sorry,” Jace said, his voice wavering. “You’re freaking me out.
Just talk to me. Did something happen? Did she pass away?”
Victor exhaled, his arms dropping to his sides. “She’s still alive. If
you’re going to stay, come downstairs to my room. I can’t stand being up
here anymore.”
Jace followed him down. Victor’s door was closed. The second it
opened, he heard a few high-pitched meows.
“Hurry up,” Victor said, squeezing into the room. “Don’t let him get
out.”
Jace followed, expecting a disaster beyond, but the room was still
organized. One of the comfy chairs from upstairs was here now, as was a
side table. The bed was covered in quilts and a few books. The basement
window was unobscured, allowing natural daylight in. Best of all was the
big-eyed kitten that stumbled over to greet them. Jace’s worry was
momentarily forgotten as he stooped to pet gray fur, the kitten’s orange
eyes brimming with so much innocence that the poor thing looked like it
had just received a lobotomy.
“You’re so tiny!” Jace said to it before laughing. When he looked up,
even Victor had a subtle smile on his face.
“That’s Samson. Cute little thing, isn’t he?”
“He’s so adorable that it’s overwhelming. You should make him
wear a grotesque mask or something.”
“Now there’s an idea. Whatever happened to that werewolf mask of
mine?”
Stowed away in a dresser drawer at Jace’s Houston apartment, but he
wasn’t about to admit that. “I pictured you as more of a dog person,” he
teased. “Cats are so domestic.”
Victor grimaced. “He was supposed to be for my mom. I thought
having something to focus on would help her.”
Jace turned his attention away from the cat. “What happened?”
Victor sat on the edge of the bed, head hung, long hair obscuring his
face. “She kept getting worse—forgetting where she’d put things right
after setting them down, or acting confused about where she was.
Sometimes she would get paranoid, like I was trying to trick her. It was
horrible, but I was taking care of her. She was never hungry or dirty.”
Victor raised his head, brushing the hair from his angry eyes. “I took
care of her better than any stupid nurse in a crappy state-run home! I love
her! What can they possibly do for her that I can’t?”
Jace sat next to Victor on the bed, putting an arm around him and
mumbling how sorry he was. The words were insufficient, but all he
could think to say.
“She was wandering the neighborhood in her nightgown,” Victor
said. “First snow of the year. Someone out walking their dog spotted
Mom. When they tried talking to her, she wasn’t making any sense, so
they called the police. If I hadn’t been working that night—” His voice
ended in a squeak. Jace pulled him close, letting him cry while his mind
raced, trying to find a way he could make this right.
“We can get her back,” he said. “Have you tried?”
“Of course I’ve tried,” Victor said, pulling away. “They say she
needs twenty-four hour supervision.”
It killed Jace to say it, but he had to. “Maybe she does. I mean, you
can’t always watch her. You have to work or go out for groceries
sometime.”
Victor tensed, his lips pulled back to retort, but then he shook his
head. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Can we go visit her? I’d like to see her again.”
“It’s a long walk, but yeah.”
“I can drive you,” Jace said. He eyed Victor. Mrs. Hemingway
probably wouldn’t like seeing her son in this condition. When was the
last time he’d taken a shower or eaten a decent meal? “I wanna grab
something to eat first,” he suggested casually.
Victor shrugged his indifference.
Jace took his hand, noticing how cold it was. “Is the heat turned on?”
“Got shut off a few weeks ago.”
“Can they do that in winter?”
Victor shrugged again.
Okay. Enough was enough. As much as Jace didn’t want to hurt
Victor’s feelings, he also didn’t like seeing him in such a pathetic state.
After nagging and briefly arguing, he got Victor to hand over the utility
bills to the house. “Maybe we can bring her home for Christmas,” he
said, knowing he was being manipulative. “Do you want her coming
home to a cold house?”
Once he had the information he needed, he made a few calls, then
headed into town alone to take care of business. He had a very stupid
discussion with a man at the gas company who insisted Jace couldn’t
have the gas turned back on because the service wasn’t in his name. He
argued that he only wanted to pay the debt, which would then mean they
could resume service. In the end, he spoke with the man’s manager, who
was much more sensible. She helped Jace and assured him that the gas
would be back on within the hour.
Looking at the other bills, Jace saw the electricity was on the verge
of being turned off, so he went to pay it too. So much for his savings
account! Then he went to the grocery store, picking up the same cheap
staples he lived on, along with some food for Samson. By the time he got
back to Victor’s house, the heater was blowing much-needed warmth
through the vents. He walked through the house, opening curtains before
dragging Victor upstairs.
“I’m hungry and need to cook something,” Jace said, not leaving him
a choice. “I can’t afford to eat out.”
Victor came along reluctantly, Samson happy to follow and gleeful
when a can of gooey cat food was slopped onto a plate for him. Victor
watched the cat gobble it all up, chuckling at his scoffing noises. “He’s
only had dry kibble before.”
Jace smiled. “Well then, Merry Christmas, Samson. There’s more
where that came from.”
A couple of frozen pizzas and generic-brand soda filled their
stomachs. After eating, Victor looked better. Not great, but halfway
human. He was acting less morose too. “Visiting hours are only until six
p.m.,” he said, looking hopeful.
“Then you still have time to get cleaned up,” Jace said pointedly.
“Do me a favor and lose the beard.”
“Why?” Victor asked. “You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine, but I’m not sure I can find your lips in there. Make it easy
on me and shave it off.”
“What do you need to find my lips for?” Victor asked, but he headed
toward the bathroom without further prompting.
When he heard the shower running, Jace exhaled. They’d been on
the brink of disaster, but things were going to be okay. Samson wobbled
across the table to him, plopped down on the placemat, belly swollen
with food, and stared at Jace with big eyes.
“Don’t worry, little guy,” Jace said. “I’m going to make it all better.”
Closing his eyes contentedly, Samson began to purr.
* * * * *
The nursing home wasn’t quite what Jace had expected. In his mind,
he had pictured more flowers, sunlight streaming through every lace-
curtained window. Or nurses chatting happily as they slowly rolled a
wheelchair-bound patient through gardens. Heaven before actually
getting to Heaven. Faced with reality, Jace realized just how na.ve this
vision was.
His first impression after being buzzed inside was that they’d
reached a waiting room full of elderly patients. A television blared in one
corner of the room, wrinkled faces gathered around to absorb the latest
daytime soap opera. Random clusters of tables were filled with elderly
crossword enthusiasts, chairs occupied by magazine readers. Everywhere
else they looked, old people sat and observed their surroundings with
weary eyes. Waiting. Jace thought they would have to sit among them
and wait too, until he realized this was it. This was their destination.
He glanced over at Victor, who didn’t show any surprise, even when
an old woman walked up to them. She was muttering under her breath,
touching her ear, then her shoulder. Ear. Shoulder. Over and over again.
“Hello,” Jace tried.
The old woman didn’t stop her stream of incoherent mumbling, or
her strange touching ritual, even as she wandered away again.
“Mom’s room is this way,” Victor said, nodding toward the right.
Ahead of them was a nurses station, hallways branching out on either
side of it. Victor seemed eager to skirt this, but one of the nurses spotted
them.
“Excuse me? Mr. Hemingway?”
Victor stopped, shoulders tense as he turned. “What?”
The nurse, heavyset with tightly curled hair, narrowed her eyes.
“You know you have to sign in and out.”
Victor stomped over to the station and grabbed a clipboard from the
counter. The nurse turned her attention to Jace, regarding him with the
same suspicion, but relaxing a little when he smiled. He read her name
tag. Sandra Bennett.
“Visiting hours end at six,” she said.
Victor tossed down the pen, having finished signing in. “No one can
forbid me from seeing my mother,” he said before turning and walking
down the hall.
The nurse watched him go, her face turning red with anger.
“The holidays are rough on him,” Jace explained.
“That’s understandable,” she said grudgingly. “Then again, they’re
rough on us all.” Something over Jace’s shoulder caught her eye.
“Marcy, you put your robe back on!” Sighing, the nurse rushed off. Jace
stared after her, his eyes unwillingly taking in more wrinkled flesh than
he ever wanted to see before he hurried after Victor.
His stomach felt tight with dread. Being here wasn’t quite the same
as being in a mental hospital, but it was disturbingly close. He could
already see why Victor wanted his mother at home, no matter how
difficult taking care of her might be. Jace braced himself for anything
when entering the room Victor led them to. Maybe Mrs. Hemingway
would be restrained to the bed, or raving like a lunatic.
He exhaled with relief when they found her sitting in a chair by the
window, watching the light snow flurries with a pleasant smile. She
looked good. Not older or more haggard. She was clean and had a rosy
glow to her cheeks. Jace could almost imagine that her being here was
some terrible mistake.
The room itself wasn’t impressive. Two single beds with rails that
could be lowered and raised. They navigated around these, Victor taking
the lead and stopping two feet away from his mother.
“Hello,” he said.
“Oh, hello!” she replied.
Why weren’t they hugging? Why didn’t she look more excited to see
her son?
“How are you doing?” Victor asked.
“Fine. Did you come to tell me it’s time for lunch?”
“No,” Victor replied. “Lunch is over. Didn’t you eat?”
“Oh, that’s right! I did eat. Thank you.” Mrs. Hemingway turned
back to the window, as if this concluded their business.
“Jace is here,” Victor said.
Stepping closer and feeling awkward, Jace said hello.
Mrs. Hemingway smiled and nodded cordially. “Hello.”
Dread settled at the bottom of Jace’s stomach. She seemed distant, if
not downright cold. Victor didn’t seem perturbed. He sat on the edge of
the nearest bed. Mrs. Hemingway seemed a little put off by this behavior,
but he soon distracted her with conversation.
“I used to love building snowmen,” he said, nodding at the window.
“I always thought they should have a beard. You told me once that Santa
has a beard to help keep him warm in cold weather, so I figured
snowmen needed one too.”
Mrs. Hemingway laughed. “You can use a mop,” she said. “Or cut a
beard out of felt.”
“That’s exactly what you did,” Victor said. “Every year you’d come
up with something different. Remember the year we used straw?”
Mrs. Hemingway’s smile faltered. “How do you know all that? Who
are you?”
Jace felt like crying, or maybe running to the nurses station to tell
them something had gone horribly wrong. How could she not remember
her own son? The worst was that Victor didn’t seem fazed by this, which
meant he had lived through it before.
“Look at my face,” he said, brushing the hair from it. “Look
carefully.”
Mrs. Hemingway shifted in her seat. She was trying. Her eyes
narrowed in concentration, then puzzlement, and finally joy. “Richard!
Oh, I’m so sorry.” She stood, placed her hands on Victor’s cheeks. “How
silly of me. Oh, you look handsome. When did your hair get so long?”
Victor smiled, gently moving away her hands. “I keep meaning to
get it cut,” he said. “Sit down, Rachel. Please.”
Jace tried to keep up. Who was Richard? For the next fifteen
minutes, he listened as Victor repeatedly guided the conversation back to
his childhood. A few times Mrs. Hemingway acted confused about who
either of them were. She mentioned Richard again too. Eventually,
Victor seemed exhausted and gestured that they should go.
“You need to sign out,” Sandra said from the nurses station.
“I’m just going out for a smoke,” Victor snapped. “I’m not leaving
my mother alone so quickly.”
