The Well

8

Ribbons of sweat wrapped around my brow. I wiped them off, but more replaced them. Where was he? He couldn't have gone inside; I would certainly have heard him. Now I wished I'd kept one eye open, had peeked after him.

Where was he?

In a fit of desperation, I went inside.

I expected to find Mother in the living room, her wheelchair pointed toward the door, her shoulders impossibly straight as her fixed gaze found mine. But she, too, was not where I expected. I knew he wouldn't be in here, but I still checked the living room, the kitchen, his bedroom, my bedroom. Only Mother's room next.

She'd left her door open, but I knocked anyway, only entering the room once I heard her utter, "Come in."

Her voice was much weaker now. She lay in bed. One leg dangled off the edge of the bed, while the other leaned against her wheelchair, as if she'd started to drag herself up into the bed but had lost strength partway through. Her body was slumped like a lumpy bag. Her head faced sideways; her arms were splayed around it. At some point or another she had tossed the sheets off of her. I spotted them bunched up in a ball next to her chair. 

If I hadn't heard her invite me in, I might have worried that she were dead.

My heart expanded with worry, beating in thunderous bursts. 

She didn't turn her head. Perhaps even this was too much effort. 

"Auz?"

I cringed at her voice.

"No, it's Cam. I'm looking for him, actually. Have you seen him?"

She turned her head to look at me, and it was like watching a heavy, rusty-hinged door creaking with the effort of motion.

"You lost Auz?"

I felt my voice shrink to match hers. "I didn't lose him. We're playing hide and seek. Just haven't found him yet."

"Ah." She attempted a nod, then swallowed deeply. 

In the room's curtain-dimmed light, her face appeared sickly, discoloured. "Are you alright?" I asked, keeping my voice at a whisper. 

She shook her head. "You have to do it, Cam."

"No." I wanted to shout, wanted to be firm, but it only came out as a short whisper. She had been fine, earlier. She had been alright. She had been—

"You have to do it for me." Her chest bounced with a short cough. I thought of the skull. Austin's innocent curiosity as he palmed it, offering it to me.

I shook my head. I wouldn't take him.

"You have to," she whispered. "Promise me."

My eyes started to burn. I reached an arm up to wipe at them, but put it down by my side quickly, expecting her admonition.

I knew she had caught the motion, but no admonition came. Her eyes held mine, burrowing themselves there, sucking silent tears out. They streamed over my cheeks. I sipped their salt at my lips.

"I promised Dad I would take care of Auz," I said. 

Her gaze remained level with mine, unblinking yet unfocused, as if she were looking through me. 

"So did I. Promise me, Cam."

I had never seen her so tired--so weak. All her stiffness had been siphoned away and a shallow-voiced plea was all that remained. She looked small. She looked broken, curved at an impossible angle. It seemed wrong to see her in this state. I felt like I was seeing her undressed.

So I promised. 

She nodded, twice, and with each nod her head sank back deeper into her pillow.

"I have to go find him," I said, turning away.

I stopped by the kitchen for a sip of water. I could barely stomach it; the liquid felt thick like oil, and just as bitter. I carried it in my mouth for a long minute before I swallowed, shuddering after it went down. Though the constant panic of Austin being lost hadn't abated--now mingled with a new ember of panic regarding Mother's condition--the water brought some clarity.

I looked down at the bucket. Mother needed the water most now; this sip would be my last for the day. 

She had been fine, earlier. 

My hands shook as I filled a cup to the brim. I entered her room without knocking. Her condition was deteriorating quickly. She might not even accept my offer. But I would make sure she finished the whole cup before I set out after Austin again. 

Somehow she had maneuvered herself from the bed to her wheelchair. She was in the process of straightening out the bedsheets now, was holding a pillow lifted in the air when her eyes met mine—eyes that showed nothing at all, only allowed a brief flicker toward the water I held before finding mine again, as if daring me to blink.

She set the pillow down in the empty space intended for it, crossed her arms and dug them into her chest. She moved easily, like her creaking limbs had just been oiled.

I waited for her to admit it. Of course, nothing came. Nothing at all passed over her eyes.

I had to look away as I said, "I brought you some water. Seems you're feeling better, though."

"Thank you," and with her words a hard, sudden cough escaped, and perhaps this one was real, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

A wild thought, a tantalizing image: watching her face dissolving, her mouth sputtering, her eyes sparking. The cup I held tumbling, empty, to the ground. Her clothes soaked and sloppy. Water running in trails of tears from her forehead to her chin.

Never waste water. It was the cardinal rule.

Never waste water.

Her eyes held mine, silently sucking me in. Waiting for me to come to a decision, I supposed.

"You promised," she said, and her voice was hard. "Just like I promised him I would take care of you both."

"This isn't--"

"Cameron." There was finality in her tone. Something in her shut down. She leaned back, resting her head against the wall. She looked tired again, but I saw her fatigue for what it was now. I had misjudged things, after all. She wasn't broken, had never been broken--just pushed,  through circumstance, to the final, most resilient layer of her foundation. Her eyes reflected mine without blinking. "You have to. I'm sorry."

I left the glass on the dresser and turned away.