A perfect husband

10

Elias

Dahlias in buds adorned the stems in assorted shades of pink, red, and white.

Christian must have gotten them for Mom the day after. Every month he would brighten the drab grey from the surrounding tombstones with a bouquet underneath the engraves, Mr. and Mrs. Sloan. Christian would then come to the nursing home with an arrangement depending on the season.

Mom was sitting near the window with a sullen expression so bleak it dullened the beauty of the petals that embellished her room. From the pane's reflection, the woods seemed to engulf her, wallowing in the nothingness that provided her stillness.

Calm, like she hadn't had a meltdown last week.

And I was glad for her lack of memory.

"Mom,"

The stool used by Gina felt heavy as I dragged it to one side of the window. Mom's face remained the same as I followed her gaze into the thicket of trees.

"Where did you go?" Mom said so rigorously—so worried—as if Mom got cured. That I was finally seeing her for whom I've heard she was: A devoted, strict mother who empathizes with the needy, and her honesty is the equivalence of care.

"My name isn't Elias, isn't it?"

I dug my nails and didn't blink, taking in the quietness in this room.

There was breathing space for fear. Fear that I might trigger her past episode or worse. I can't risk losing my mother. Paying for a nursing home is expensive enough. I couldn't fathom the idea of her in a nuthouse, confined between padded walls, a straightjacket, and shock therapy—even though that is illegal.

Here, people like Gina had an immense amount of respect for my mother. They treated her like a soldier after the war, which was understandable since mom used to be in their lightweight shoes, back to when she used to take care of herself and others. "She is a human being," I'd overheard the nurses say one time. That despite her occasional fits and lack of critical thinking, she deserved the same love as would someone with the memory of an elephant.

When she stared back, I released my breath, realizing I was holding it in. "You're not Elias." And then my chest softened after hearing the same rigidness of her voice. Her facial features stayed expressive without being borderline insane.

I took a sharp inhale.

"What is my name?" I reached out to her hand—her shriveled and shrunken grip. "Is it Antonio?"

Mom nodded. "Yes. Your name is Antonio Solis, just like your father. Oh, what a wonderful man he is. I miss him so much. Tell him to come home from work, will you?"

"Sure, Mom." I lied. "Why is my name Elias then?"

"What?"

"Elias. Why is that my name?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I dug my elbows onto my thighs, leaning towards a visibly confused mom. The opposite of what she was a few minutes ago.

"If Antonio is my actual name, why do you call me Elias?"

Mom reacted to my question in seconds. First, her eyes moved to the floor, the edge of the bed, then out the window. Her body then relaxed, and a thin smile spread across her worn face.

It seemed forever before Mom said a word.

"That is how you'd come from college."

I stayed quiet, waiting—hoping she'd fill out the extra blanks, bewildered at her silence.