I sometimes visit my mother at her house. She’s not really old, she’s only in her fifties. But she has been unable to take care of herself since we lost my sister. It’s hard to visit them because I have a family of my own now. I grew up with a beautiful childless couple after my mother fell ill. Now I consider them my parents. However, sometimes I feel the need to spend time with the woman who raised me through the age of ten.
She makes me happy to see how clean and tidy she looks in the house. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to healthy and normal. They shower her every day and dress her carefully in her clothes. But somehow, clumps of hair always escape from the bun they put her hair in and form billowing tendrils around her head. She lets me hold her hand, but she never looks into her eyes. Instead, her eyes wander around the room, almost as if she’s looking at something. She sometimes smiles and mumbles at the thing she’s looking at. And sometimes she giggles helplessly. It’s hard to watch. But I go to see her because part of me still remembers the woman she was, and I really loved that woman. I remember how it felt to be her child.
She adored me because she had a hard time getting pregnant before having me. I still remember the early years before my sister was born. My mother spent hours playing with me while my father was at work. We would build Lego houses and pillow fortresses. She let me help her cook.
But it all started to go wrong when my sister Rose was born. She had a spinal malformation that left her paralyzed from the neck down. My mother’s life began to revolve around taking care of Rose. Rose could not sit or move by herself. She could only move her neck back and forth. My mother was always worried about choking. This worry was so constant and so all-consuming that it even got to me. I remember sitting next to Rose and watching her small chest rise and fall with each uncertain breath. I was only seven then.
It was gradual at first, but my parents started arguing more and more. And one day when I was 9, I woke up in another life. My father would pack up everything he owned and leave at night. He just disappeared from my life. It was just me, my mother and my handicapped sister. It was difficult for my mother to find work. I don’t think we had much savings. And Rose was a helpless two-year-old who couldn’t even sit up on her own. She couldn’t be left alone and we couldn’t afford to take care of her. I remember my mother crying a lot at that time. She slumped over on our worn sofa and she cried. I didn’t know what I could do to help. So I tried to take care of Rose as much as possible. I would roll her around the apartment in her stroller and have long, silly talks about her dolls. Sometimes my mother would sit and watch us dry-eyed and wooden. I knew I shouldn’t bother her no matter how much her blank face startled me. It was a difficult time, but Rose and I were too young to realize how bleak our situation was. We still had our old toys. We still had a roof over our heads. We didn’t know anything about the bills and the rent.
But then things seemed to improve. My mother finally managed to find a job. And miraculously, it was a job that allowed him to stay home and take care of Rose. There was a grand old hotel in the city where we lived. It had been very popular a few decades ago but its popularity had waned over time until it was turned into a sort of living room which quickly fell into disrepair. My mother’s new job was to take care of the old dilapidated building. She was happy to take the job and even more grateful for the free housing that came with it.
It’s hard to describe the emotion I felt when we moved to the Fairmont Hotel. It was much larger than our cramped three-room apartment. The hotel was four stories high, with each floor extending along long carpeted corridors. The vastness of the hotel was an unfathomable mystery to me. I was in awe of its musty, moth-eaten grandeur. I loved the creamy peeling wallpaper and rust stained carpet. And I loved the dusty old light fixtures that tinkled menacingly whenever a truck passed. I felt like I landed in a fairytale, like I was the prince of an abandoned castle like the Beast from Beauty and the Beast. Most of the units were empty, so the third and fourth floors were kept closed. But I could roam freely on the second floor and always played there when I got home from school. My favorite pastime was driving Rose through the corridors in a crazy rut. He loved the feeling of moving fast and screaming at the top of his lungs. My mom told us to shut up, but she smiled as she said it. For the first time in years, there were no wrinkles on her forehead.
But the hotel had a strange effect on Rose. She had always been a happy child, despite the many inconveniences brought by her illness. But she became sullen and restless. She was quite fluent now, but when we asked her what was bothering her, she would shut up and cry or mumble incoherent gossip about an old lady. She also had trouble sleeping at night. We both shared a room and she sometimes woke me up at night. It was always the same. When I woke up she was muttering angrily, her head cocked to the side as if looking at something. I learned from experience not to tell her about it because then she would always cry because of the “bad old lady”. She also started getting strange bruises on her legs. It was hard to imagine where she got those bruises from since we were still with her. When we asked her about it, she said the old lady pinched her. However, we were happier than we had been in a long time. And though Rose was often pale and silent, she was happy when I played with her.
But he went bad again. I find it hard to talk about this. I can’t remember the exact details of what happened. It comes to mind in a flash. But some of the images are burned into my memory. And I keep seeing her when I close my eyes.
Rose and I played our favorite game. I pushed her down the second floor corridor. The second floor hallway curves slightly then leads to a spiral staircase that opens to the lobby. Rose loved the thrill of me pretending to roll face first against the curved wall at the end of the hall, but of course I pushed her aside at the last second and we stopped on the landing of the stairs. We did this for about half an hour. I was getting tired of running. But Rose asked for one last try. So I got behind the pram and started pushing it against the wall. From that moment everything becomes blurry. I remember feeling exhausted. My arms felt like lead. But all the while my legs were pumping and pumping and I was running faster and faster. The wall came at us like a white-white fist. I remember imagining us crashing into it. But of course I would cancel at the last minute. I always have. But something went wrong. Somehow I could not. I think it had seemed to me that I lost all the control of the limbs. I think everything was foggy. The only thing I remember is to hurry up that empty white wall.
And I also remember the sound that the wheelchair emitted when it crumbled against the wall. There was a crack of broken plastic, and then Rose hurtled through the air like a rag doll. And she fell down the stairs. When I close my eyes, I can still see her little neck touching the stairs and her body folding over her head. There were screams everywhere. i think i shouted But so was my mother. She sat down at the foot of the spiral staircase with Rose’s crumpled body in her arms and screamed and screamed. It took all I had to get down to where my mother lay sobbing over Rose’s body. She looked at me but there was no recognition on her face. It was almost like she couldn’t see me through the tears. And then the most amazing thing happened. A cough came from the center of my mother’s arms. And then another. And then Rose’s stammering voice calling for mom. But in her grief, my mother was numb to what was happening. “Mother Mother! Rose is fine!” I had to shout it several times before she looked at me.
“What?”
“I think she’s fine…” I untied my mother’s arms and sure enough, Rose blinked and smiled at us amazingly even though her face was smeared with blood.
“How…” But one more smile from Rose and she forgot everything. She hugged Rose through her tears. I also tried to hug Rose, but my mother wouldn’t let her go. I noticed blood flowing from Rose’s mouth and nose.
“Mom, there is blood…”
“It’s nothing,” she said, rubbing the blood away with her sleeves. Rose’s neck twisted oddly to the side.
“Mom, I think we should take him to the hospital.”
“Absurdity!” She took Rose in her arms and carried her. She cooed like she was a little baby and Rose giggled happily. I don’t like to think about the period that followed. Part of me thinks I imagined it. But part of me is terrified that it actually happened. Rose was never the same after that day. Something was wrong with her. It is possible that he suffered some sort of internal damage from the fall. But somehow I could never get my mother to take her to the hospital. Her skin turned mottled and gray. And she started to smell awful. I had only heard something like this once before. We had a dead skunk in my school’s basement and the stench filled our classroom with filth before the cleaner removed the carcass. This is the smell of Rose. I don’t know if my mother noticed. But I think part of her knew something was wrong. We lived on the second floor next to the few tenants of the hotel. But after Rose fell, she moved us to the fourth floor.
It was horrible living on the fourth floor with my mother and Rose. The whole level was dusty and dark. Mom only turned on the lights at the end where we lived. The rest of the corridor was always in complete darkness. It was like being buried alive, a feeling heightened by the stench clinging to Rose’s tiny body. Rose scared me too. His personality had changed. she hated me. I don’t know how I knew that. But I could feel it. Fortunately, we no longer shared a room. Mom couldn’t bear to leave her alone at night, so Rose slept with her in a small crib. I don’t know how my mother could have ignored the smell that emanated from the rose in sweetish waves. I missed the old rose. I missed her so much that I even dreamed of her once. I was dozing off when it happened. She sat next to my bed like she never could if she was alive. And she was radiant and happy. But tears welled up in her eyes when she looked at me. And she reached out and touched my face. I felt a kind of peace that I hadn’t felt in a while, but then she looked around in surprise, as if she heard something.
“What is this?” I whispered.
“She’s here,” she said. And then she disappeared. I must have woken up at that moment, because even then I heard something, the sound of the door slowly closing. And I swear I heard the sound of a baby’s feet disappearing into my mother’s room. The sound filled me with a sort of slimy horror. I don’t know what I imagined. But that’s not what I saw when I sneaked a peek into my mother’s room. The room was completely dark except for the street light that streamed in through the window. My mother sat on the floor and played with Rose. And Rose sat up and laughed. A cloth was tied tightly around her neck, but her head still wobbled as she moved. They hit a mouse together. And then Rose looked up and saw me. She became very still and a kind of hiss escaped her marbled blue lips. Mother looked up too.
“What are you doing out of bed?” “ She says.
“Mom, why is Rose walking around?”
“She is cured. Can not you see? She is perfectly fine. I couldn’t see my mother’s face in the dark of the room, but I could see Rose’s gray, sunken face. She didn’t look well.
“Mom, can we take him to the doctor?” Please, Mom. I whimpered and begged, but couldn’t help it. “Tell that thing to go away,” Rose said.
“Go!” Mom yelled at me.
My life was a bit of hell after that. Rose only went out at night. She never left the room. Nobody has seen her. No one knew what she looked like. During the day I had to go to school and pretend everything was fine at home. I knew Rose was too young to hurt me, but she worried me. Sometimes she felt like she was following me. I would hear that soft footstep behind me, but if I turned around there would be no one.
And one day it finally happened. I was about to run down the stairs when I heard some kind of sobbing behind me. I turned around and found myself face to face with my mother. She carried Rose in her arms. His face was pale and drawn. And his lips were drawn in a kind of grimace.
“Mother?”
“NO. I’m not your mother.” She nudged me as she spoke. I reached out for her, but all I could reach was Rose’s rotting gray body. I felt myself losing my balance and as I fell, Rose fell with me. Mom yelled for Rose when we fell. But it was too late. Rose’s tiny body cushioned my fall and was crushed in the process. Mom hasn’t been the same since. I failed to tell the police that she pushed me. But they took her anyway and put her in a house. Everyone thought Rose had been dead for weeks. I was forced to go to a psychologist. But they found me a good new home.
However, I try to visit mom as much as possible. But I think part of her still hates me for causing Rose’s first accident. I think she pinches me sometimes, although I’ve never caught her doing it. Sometimes I feel intense pain when I sit with her. And she always laughs when that happens, and mumbles and coos at something only she can see. I try not to disturb him, although my arms and thighs are still blue and black with bruises after visiting them.