My Blossoming Redemption

TWENTY

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"Mum."

I stare at her as she barges through the door. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, her makeup is as usual on point, her eyeliner straight as a ruler, and her sharp face inquisitive as she notices one person missing from the flat.

"God bless you, Aspen," she greets, kissing my cheek. Her floral perfume stinks of lavender – clearly, she hasn't learnt the art of 'less is more' since I last saw her six months ago. I wish it was longer.

I sneeze a couple of times before even regarding her. That perfume lingers as she makes her way into the flat.

"So... uh, what brings you here?" I question, hauling the bag, which she purposefully left on the doorstep and putting it on the sofa. She sits at the table, pulling her gloves off and hugging the tea I've already left for her.

"I wanted to see my daughter and son-in-law. Speaking of, where is Joel?" she asks.

My phone vibrates. I glance at it: 'Remember, you're your own woman now. Don't let her spout that religious shit at you anymore. I'll be straight there after visiting is over. Unless you need me before, then call me. Monica.' I'd messaged her ten minutes ago to say Mum was on her way.

"Ah, that," I reply to Mum. I perch on the other chair. "So... Joel is currently in the hospital—"

"God bless his soul, let's pray—"

"Mum, please let me finish," I cut her off.

She shuts up and nods. I notice the gold cross around her neck moving with her hard breathing. The longer, silver one Dad gave her years ago hangs underneath her buttoned-up cardigan. For a woman of forty-nine, she dresses like I would expect a grandmother of eighty-something to dress. Her frown lines, though, say something else entirely. The only thing that gives her a youthful look is her hair and makeup.

"A month ago now, I woke up and Joel was having a seizure. I phoned an ambulance and well, long story short – Joel has Juvenile Huntington's Disease. He inherited the gene from his father; basically, anyone with the gene gives their child a fifty-fifty chance of having the disease. Joel has it, and because he's twenty, he's young to have it, hence the juvenile part. He has around ten to fifteen years until it kills him," I explain.

She sips her tea. I expect her to tell me how God has a plan, or God bless his soul, but to be fair to the woman, she keeps silent.

"He's not stopped having fits. They've tried different drugs to stop it, but the last one he had lasted longer than usual, and he went into some medical emergency. I can't remember what it was called, but the risk of damage to his brain was too high, so they've put him in an induced coma," I explain.

Like magic, this sets her off: "Our Lord in Heaven will have a plan for him, Aspen. This won't be for nothing. This is a test—"

"Mum, look, please don't. I'm far too tired—"