Seven

4

Mom woke me up around four in the morning because she got really sick. She was throwing up and crying. I could tell she was scared, so I refused to leave her side. For about two hours, I held her hair and made sure she was alright.

"Eve, you don't have to do all of this," she says for what feels like the hundredth time.

"I want to, Mom," I reply, the words coming out automatically. "I love you."

"I love you too," her face softened, but I could see the pain in her eyes. She hated being a burden, and I hated that she felt that way. Once she was settled in bed with a plastic bag, I hustled to the kitchen to make breakfast. I wanted to make sure I didn't leave her on an empty stomach.

As I finished buttering everyone's toast, I went to her room to give her the plate and a cup of orange juice.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay while we're gone?" I ask her while she turns on the TV.
"Yes," she responds, not making eye contact with me.
"Call me if you need anything. I'm gonna check in on you throughout the day." I say, giving her a kiss on her forehead.

"Let's go, Alex!" I say, closing my mother's bedroom door.
"Coming!" Alex calls from his room. A moment later, he opens his door, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Is Mom okay?"
"She'll be alright," I said, flashing him a small smile. "She just needs some rest. You ready?"

He nodded, though his eyes lingered on our mother's closed door. I could tell he was worried about Mom. I rubbed his shoulder as we stepped outside.

The drive to school was quiet, with only the same radio host's chatter filling the car. The early morning air cool ran through my hair as we drove. I glanced at Alex, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. I knew he carried the weight of our mother's illness too, even if he didn't say it out loud. It has never been easy on him. He was too young to understand.

As we approached the doors to the school, I gave him a quick hug. "Have a good one, okay?"

"You too," he replied, pushing me off of him a little. I must've embarrassed him in front of his buddies.  He runs off to join his friends.

I watch him go and I feel proud. He was so strong, but I hated that he had to be. I know I'm not his mother, but I've practically raised him. With a sigh, I turn and make my way to my first class, English.

The teacher shows obvious signs of Alzheimer's—but no one says anything. Sometimes we will read the same chapter every day for the same week, and no one says anything.

The morning passed in a blur, my mind drifting back to the scene in the bathroom. I kept seeing my mother's pained expression as she slouched over the toilet. Hearing her weak voice telling me I didn't have to do this, that I didn't have to help her. But I did. I had to. I always have to.

By the time art class rolled around, I was exhausted. I settled into my usual seat, pulling out my sketchbook and pencils. I'm not in the mood to paint today.

As I begin to lose myself in my work and the music in my earbuds, I hear the door open and looked up to see Aiden entering the room. He catches my eye and smiles, making his way over to sit near me. Why is he coming to sit with me?

"Hey, Eve," he says, setting his sketchbook down on the table, not sitting with his friends. "How's it going?"

"Hey," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. I never told him my name, right? "It's going."

He nods, sensing my mood. "Tough morning?"

"Something like that," I say, not wanting to get into details. "But drawing helps. It always helps."

"Yeah, it does," he agrees, opening his sketchbook. "Mind if I sit here?"

"Of course," I say, shooting him a small smile.

For a few minutes, we worked in silence, the only sounds the soft scratching of pencils and the loud table consisting of his friends behind us. I had turned off my music. It was comforting to have Aiden nearby, even if we weren't talking.

"What are you working on?" he asks eventually, glancing at my sketch.

"It's my take of a tarot card design," I say, showing him the partially completed Seven of Cups. "It represents opportunities and choices."

"That's really cool," he said, genuinely interested. He leans a little closer to me. "I've always thought tarot cards were interesting. I even got a reading once."

"Really?" I lean in a little more, surprised. "I didn't think you'd be into that kind of stuff."

He shrugged. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

I shrug at him while smiling and closing my eyes. "Fair enough. So, what about you? What are you drawing?"

"Nothing nearly as cool as yours," he said, turning his sketchbook around to show me. It was a detailed drawing of a basketball court, complete with players mid-game. "Just a little doodle."

"This is awesome," I said, genuinely impressed. "You've got some real talent."

"Thanks, I could say the same about you," he replies, his cheeks tinted with pink. "I don't usually show my drawings to anyone."

"That must make me special," I giggle.

We fell into an easy conversation, talking about art and the different things we liked to draw. It was a nice distraction from my mother's vomiting session. Of course, that was until that same squeaky voice from yesterday calls out.

"Aiden!" Abby or whatever her name is calls out from the table beside us.

"I've gotta go, but we should really hang out sometime. You seem cool."

"Still think I'm mysterious?" I smile as he gets up to go.

"Not for long," he replies.