Arcadia's Gift - By Jesi Lea Ryan Page 0,31

from lack of washing. On her night stand were several prescription bottles and an empty bottle of Gray Goose vodka. Not. Good. The room stunk of neglect and depression. What was it about this room that sent me into an emotional spiral? I’d felt fine two minutes ago. Now, I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking.

"Cady, hun, can you run a bath for me?" my mom asked. She was bent at the waist with her elbows propped on her knees. She rubbed her eyes with her fists so hard I worried for her corneas.

Steeling my shoulders, I pushed through the gloom. I didn't have time today for a breakdown. Forcing one reluctant foot in front of the other, I made my way to the bathroom. I plugged the tub and turned on the hot water, dumping a heaping dose of bubble bath into the swirling water, sending the scent of cucumber and melon swirling around the room with the steam.

I sat down on the closed toilet lid. The gloom was less intense in here, but no less depressing. Dirty pajamas and underwear were balled up in a heap behind the door. The towels were soiled and spots of water dotted on the mirror. These things just didn't happen in my mother's house.

Crossing over to the linen closet, I found a set of fresh towels and replaced the ones on the rack. I then scooped up the dirty laundry and piled it in the hamper, squishing it all in to fit. When we were expecting company or planning for an occasion, my mother occasionally would hire a maid to come in to clean. She received a discount because she referred the maid service to her clients for their open houses. I made a mental note to look up the woman's name in Mom's planner and have her come in, at least until Mom was back to functioning like a normal adult.

I blew my nose on a wad of toilet paper and took a couple of deep breaths.

"Mom," I said, leaving the bathroom. "I'll make some sandwiches for lunch. You should eat something. You look like you've lost twenty pounds."

She stood in front of her dresser, fingering a pair of socks like she couldn't figure out what they were for.

"Do you need any help?" I offered.

She looked up at me as if seeing me for the first time. Lately, that was how she always looked at me. "Oh... no. I'll be down soon."

"Don't forget the bath water. It's still running, and you don't want it to overflow."

She nodded, selected a pair of socks and closed the drawer.

By the time I reached the kitchen, my sadness had begun to abate. Maybe it was just the horror of my mother's depression that was triggering it. She was supposed to be seeing a therapist as well. She'd gone to two appointments so far, one while I was still in the hospital. Obviously, it wasn't working.

I slapped together a couple of double-decker PB&J's and set them on the table with an open bag of potato chips. I was almost done eating by the time Mom stumbled down the steps dressed semi-normally in wrinkled slacks and a sweater which fit her fine a few weeks ago, but hung on her now. Her breasts had shrunk so much, they were practically invisible under the fabric.

Just being in her presence filled my mind with grief. The strange thing was I'd thought I was getting better...or at least making some progress. I no longer slept all day, I was dressing in regular clothes rather than lounging in pajamas, I even went for stretches of time without thinking about Lony, not that she was ever very far from my thoughts. But seeing Mom set something off in me, triggering the sorrow to bubble back up.

I got up to wash the dishes so I didn't have to watch her nibbling at her sandwich with squirrel bites. We didn't talk.

I ended up driving us to the appointment in her BMW. She never mentioned that she was too impaired by pills to drive. She simply handed me the keys and climbed in the passenger side without a word.

We pulled into the parking lot of a new office building on the west side of town. My father's company had constructed the building only a year before. As with many of the buildings and homes he’d built, I couldn't look at it without pride catching in my throat.

Speaking of my dad...across the parking lot, he