BURN (Wattys2015?)

alzheimer's

"Alzheimer's," she says. Her weary brown eyes tear up a little. "I just can't take care of both of him."
I sit straight up in my set, my muscles tense, my hands clenched to my knees.
"What about a nursing home for him?"
I know it's the wrong thing to say. And the glare she gives me reaffirms it.
"No," she says sharply. "And the child's parents are out of the picture as well. For now."
"Why are you keeping it?"
"Not 'it'," she rolls her eyes. "And I told you, the parents were close family friends."
"Oh?" I drum my fingers on my knees. I need cigarette. Something about this whole conversation is off. It gives me a prickling sensation in the back of my neck, where spine meets skull.
I glance at the no-smoking sign, barely lit. Then at the little kid. Better not.
"Mother's dead. Father deadbeat."
"Foster care?"
"Never."
"Why did you come to me with this? You can't expect me to take the thing. I'm too young."
"I know, I'm sorry." The old woman deflates in front of me. It's like a blowup toy and you've popped the cap that holds in the air, and then you sat on it.
The old man grins and colors with the kid.
It seems harmless, like he's just spending time with the kid. But his disease label makes it seem sad. Like eventually he'll be like that without his control.
But his eyes are still that piercing and fiercely intelligent blue. They aren't clouded or foggy.
"You're in college, yes?"
"Yeah."
"Major?"
"Undeclared."
This doesn't suit well with her. She looks frustrated. I inwardly shrug.
A part of me wonders why they called me here. Why they wanted to visit me. It's not like they liked me. At first, they did. But then they grew to hate me as passionately as everyone eventually does.
"Job?"
"Had one. Bad one. Quit."
She sniffs the air, her eyes narrowing.
"You smoke?"
"Yes."
"Are you on drugs?"
"Yes." I don't hesitate to answer. She knows the truth anyway.
"Which ones are you on?"
"A better question would be which one am I not on."
"You drink?" Her face grows more disappointed with each answer.
The old man finally chimes in, waving a hand. "Leave the boy alone," He says, his voice gruff. "Every man drinks."
I silently thank him.
"We live in Canada, you know." The old woman says, eyeing her husband. She's trying to change the subject. "But we stay in France, Jean-Claude and I's homeland. At least for the summer we do."
"Okay."
"The little one is learning both French and English."
I nod, turning to the child.
"Are you smart?" I say, my voice low. The kid nods once, curt.
I turn back to the old woman. "Not much of a talker."
"No, not much of a talker. But such an artist."
I glance up at the clock, blinking rapidly. My hand is shaking out of control. I need a cigarette. Something does.not.feel.right.
I stand abruptly, knocking the table. I swallow hard, staring down at the restaurant's cracked linoleum floor.
"I'm sorry, Évelyne. I'm sorry, Jean-Claude. I have to go."
The old man looks at me sadly. The woman starts to say something, but he silences her with a hand.
His hand shakes, and he pulls a card out of his shirt pocket, handing it to me. I take it, glancing at the scribbled number.
"Take care of yourself, son. Please."
And with that, I'm gone, out of that godforsaken place. Away from those people. I can finally breathe again. My heart slips out of the grip guilt had. I am the reason their granddaughter is dead, anyway.
But at least I can smoke now.