The next time I went to see my Ma I made sure to stop at a hairdresser's first and get my head in order. I didn't chop my shoulder-length curls off as she would have liked. I always found adding layers to my curls gave them both volume and style. Besides, I liked wearing my hair long.
I decided I definitely liked the way my face looked with a goatee so I didn't shave it off either, not entirely at least. I did, however, get rid of most of the fuzz on my neck. My jawline was one of my best features after all.
I also decided to go home after what had seemed like forever. I couldn't go see Ma in a suit, she'd think I had good news to tell her when I really didn't. I'd quit my job, quite theatrically I might add. And I had nothing lined up for me. Not unless I was ready to leave Seris for a different country far away from Ma.
I strode down the ever-familiar cobblestone pavement just on the edge of the park, my hands in the pocket of my faded blue jeans. A skip to my step as the wind whipped my hair over my face. This bright in the day the park looked like it belonged to a different time. The white oaks and hornbeams looked calmer without the rain, no outstretched arms, no begging the heavens.
I felt free. Happy.
Even though nothing had changed. Not really.
I ran a hand through my mousy curls as I reached the hospice with its red-bricked walls. The door was open for once, although it might have been because I wasn't visiting at an ungodly hour. I looked at both ends of the hall but no one seemed interested in receiving me.
Another knot weighed in my stomach. Their lack of security was appalling. I considered taking my mother to a different hospice altogether as I slipped out of my sneakers and into a pair of soft, white slippers. I would give the staff a piece of my mind if I ever saw any of them.
I stomped the entire way down the hall until I reached my mother's room. I would have slammed the door open too if it wasn't already ajar. And if I hadn't spotted Ma sitting ... sitting!
"Ma?" I didn't even bother knocking, my frail mother looked years younger than my last visit. Her face was rounder, fuller, and her greying, brown curls were tucked away behind a neat bun. She even wore a little green cardigan over the spotted, white gown.
I beamed, covering the distance between us in two long strides before I clasped her hand as firmly as I could. "You look good, Ma," I confessed, taking a seat on the bed so I would be at eye level with her.
My mother attempted a smile, but was only able to show me half of her crooked teeth, "So do you." Her voice was a raspy whisper, but I didn't care. She was speaking clearly and in full sentences. I would've pinched myself but I knew this wasn't a dream. I watched her free hand find its way to my head, "Get a haircut, Theo!" she fussed, the faintest of creases appearing on the space between the brows.
I laughed, I was sure I did, but I was still wiping away tears a minute later. Ma's hand moved to the side of my cheek, she wasn't frowning anymore either.
"You need to let me go, kiddo."
I shook my head, the twinge of irritation returning, "You need to stop giving up," I said instead, my voice rising a notch. I gave her small, bony hand a gentle squeeze, "I'm not letting go," I declared, "I can find a cure, I know I can! I'm almost there!"
"Of course, you can." I was given a crooked smile again as she stroked my hair gently, "No one's smarter than my boy." Another half-smile, "But ... I'm still dying Theo."
I shook my head again. She wasn't dying, she was giving up, and I wasn't going to let her. It was infuriating. No one seemed to believe me when I told them how close I was.
YOU ARE READING
The Seventh Day
Fiksi IlmiahUnder the crippling pressure of time, Dr Theo Gilbert creates what he hopes is a cure for most neurodegenerative diseases. Nothing is more important to him than saving his Ma. Only, there's something very wrong with his workplace. It's not quite the...