Beg For Me: Chapter 27

Carter sends a vicious glare in the direction of the door. “If that’s your ex, I’m gonna remove his fucking spleen.”

“Sure, because what today needs is a blood bath in my living room. You’re going to stay right here and behave yourself.”

He doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring murder at the door like a guard dog about to attack the mailman.

I walk over to the door. Before I open it, I turn around and point at the bed. Carter releases a breath, then grudgingly sits on the edge of the mattress.

“Good boy.”

I walk out and close the door behind me before I can determine if that’s enough to get him to stay put.

Hurrying downstairs, I flick on the lights in the living room and foyer. Then I peer out the peephole in the front door.

A disheveled man in a red Adidas tracksuit stands on my porch. He’s scowling. Looking confused, an elderly woman with a halo of short white hair around her head and a blanket over her lap sits in the wheelchair the man stands behind.

I pull open the door and stare at them in shock.

My brother salutes me. “Your turn,” he says, and pushes past me, wheeling my mother into the foyer.

“What do you think you’re doing? It’s the middle of the night!”

He parks my mother next to the console and turns to me, his expression grim. His eyes are bloodshot. His salt-and-pepper hair is shaggy and unkempt. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and he smells like stale beer and cigarettes.

“You didn’t get back to me about nursing home options. So she’s your problem now.”

Horrified, I look back and forth between him and our mother. She’s looking around with a frown, as if she’s never been inside my home before and disapproves of the décor.

“What the hell are you talking about, Will? What are you doing? This is crazy!”

“I told you I was leaving for Paris at the end of the month.”

“That’s weeks away!”

“Yeah, well, I gotta get ready. And Princess Di over here,” he jerks his thumb in our mother’s direction, “threw a can of soup at me today.” He lifts his chin, displaying a bruise on his jawline. “For a batty old broad, she’s got damn good aim.”

“No, I don’t,” our mother says. “I was aiming for your nose. Whose house is this?”

In cold shock, I look back and forth between them, not believing my ears or eyes.

This can’t be happening.

Except it is, because Will is already walking past me toward the open door and the night beyond. “Take care, Soph. See you around.”

“Will, stop! Wait! You can’t just leave her here with me! What about her clothes? Medications? All the things she needs?”

Over his shoulder, he says, “Her meds are in the pocket on the back of the chair. I’ll pack up her clothes and send them over. That’s all she needs. Except for adult diapers.”

I think I hear him chuckle darkly before he crosses the lawn and hops into a van parked at the curb. He guns the engine and takes off, tires squealing, before I’ve even had time to figure out if this is all a terrible nightmare.

“Mom?” Harlow stands in her pajamas at the top of the stairs, looking down in confusion.

“Hi, honey. Go back to bed, please.”

“Is that grandma?”

My mother squints up at Harlow. “Hello, dear. My, you’ve grown tall. Whose house is this?”

I take a moment to enjoy a silent internal scream, then close the front door. “Mom, it’s my house.” I walk over and gaze down at her, forcing I smile I hope doesn’t look too insane.

My mother peers up at me. “Who are you?”

Fuck.

I say gently, “It’s me, Mom. Sophia.”

She brightens. “I have a daughter named Sophia!” Then she cackles as if she’s enjoying a private joke.

I can’t decide if I should laugh or cry.

Kneeling down next to her chair, I take her frail hand in mine. Her skin is dry and papery, cool to the touch and mapped with blue veins. “Mom, I’m Sophia. I’m your daughter.”

She stares at me, her nose crinkled in doubt, then shakes her head. “No, you’re much older than my daughter.”

I find that funny in an ironic, soul crushing sort of way.

Standing, I push my hair off my face and try to think through my panic. But I have no choice. There’s nothing to be done except deal with the situation. I press my fingers against my closed eyelids and exhale.

“Okay.” Opening my eyes, I look at my mother. “Let’s get you to bed, and we’ll figure things out in the morning. I’ll put you in the guest room.”

I glance upstairs, then close my eyes again.

Along with all the other bedrooms, the guest room is upstairs.

“Mom, I’m going to get you settled in the living room just for tonight, okay? The sofa should be comfortable. I’ll get some blankets and a pillow for you, how’s that?”

“I can’t sleep on a sofa! I need a bed. I’ll fall off a sofa, it’s too close to the floor.”

That makes no sense, but she’s agitated, and it’s obvious she’s not going to submit to sleeping downstairs. The woman is as stubborn as a mule.

“Harlow, honey, come down here, please.”

She comes quickly, running down the stairs, lightly trailing a hand along the railing. When she reaches us, she bends down and kisses my mother on the cheek.

“Hi, Grandma. It’s nice to see you again.”

“It’s very nice to see you too, dear. I can’t believe how tall you’ve gotten. And all that long hair! How old are you now?”

“Fourteen.”

“Are you having sex yet? Make sure to use condoms. Boys won’t want to, but you tell them no glove, no love.”

I’m about to go ransack the medicine cabinet for a Valium, but Harlow takes it in stride.

“That’s good advice, Grandma, but I’m not having sex with anybody.”

She seems disappointed. “Oh. Well.” After a moment, she brightens. “Your mother was having sex when she was your age, did she ever tell you that? She asked me to get her on the birth control pill.”

Harlow lifts her eyebrows and looks over at me. “How interesting. She told me she was a virgin until she was eighteen.”

Sweet Jesus, will this day never end?

I wave a hand imperiously as if to dispel all that nonsense. Grabbing the wheelchair’s handles, I push my mother toward the kitchen, walking there with purpose and pretending I’ve got it all under control.

“Harlow, your grandma is probably thirsty. Please get her a glass of water or whatever she wants. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

I park her near the kitchen table, give Harlow a kiss on top of her head, then sprint upstairs to my bedroom, where Carter is pacing the floor. He pulls up short when I burst in.

“I need your help.”

Bristling, he steps forward. “Is it your ex?”

“No, it’s my mother.”

He blinks. “Your mother?”

“I’ll explain after we get her into bed, but the most pressing problem is that I need to get her upstairs.”

“Why is that a problem?”

“She’s in a wheelchair.”

He folds his arms over his chest and smirks at me. “Ah. And you need the strong stable boy to carry her.”

“Please don’t be smug right now. I’m panicking.”

“Why, is she hurt?”

“No, she’s here. In my home. Where I am.”

“Hmm. I’m getting the feeling you and your mother don’t get along so well.”

“That’s one way of putting it. Will you please help me?”

His eyes soften. “Of course I’ll help you, baby.” He grins. “Let’s go get introduced to your mother. I can’t wait to meet the woman who gave birth to my favorite person.”

He strides past me before I can offer a prayer for help to all the gods in existence. Running after him, I follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Harlow is carefully pouring alcohol into the glass my mother is holding.

“Why are you giving her gin?” I cry, staring in dismay at the bottle in Harlow’s hands.

“You said to give her whatever she wanted. Gin is what she wanted.”

“Thank you, dear,” says my mother, raising her glass to Harlow. She takes a sip, then spots Carter standing next to me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Carter, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Carter…like the president.”

He glances over at me. “Yes, ma’am, like the president.”

She takes another dainty sip from her glass. “He’s a peanut farmer, you know. Sweet man. Not at all presidential material, but very sweet.”

“Harlow, put the bottle away, please.”

“No, she can leave it with me. I might want more.”

“Mother, it’s after midnight. You shouldn’t be drinking alcohol.”

She cackles. “I shouldn’t be doing a lot of things!” She peers at me more closely. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

Sensing I’m about to experience a break from reality, Carter intervenes. “Hi again, Harlow.”

“Hi.”

She doesn’t seem too surprised to see him. She glances over at me with a sly smile that I know means she’s going to try to renegotiate her punishment because I snuck a boy into the house, something that I told her once if she ever did, I’d send her to a convent for.

And I said it only half-jokingly.

My mother says to Harlow, “Dear, is this your boyfriend? I think he might be a little too sophisticated for you.” She turns to Carter. “No glove, no love, understood?”

I can tell he’s trying not to laugh by the way he’s pressing his lips together.

“That’s not my boyfriend, Grandma. He’s dating Mom.”

My mother cackles and takes another sip of gin. “Now you’re just being silly, dear. She’s much too old for him.”

I give up.

I walk over to the cabinet, open it, and remove a glass. Then I take the bottle Harlow’s still holding and pour a nice, healthy measure of gin into it.

As I’m guzzling the gin, Carter says, “Ma’am, we need to get you upstairs and into bed. Would you mind if I carried you?”

She looks him up and down and smacks her lips. Then she shrugs. “Suit yourself, Mr. President. But you should really do something about those oil embargoes. The price of gas is much too high.”

“That was Nixon, ma’am, not Carter.”

He bends down and gently picks her up, bracing one arm around her back and sliding the other under her legs. He straightens, lifting her from the chair, easily holding her weight.

Cradled in his arms, she rests her glass of gin on the blanket on her lap and looks at him.

“You refer to yourself in the third person? Son, that’s a bit pretentious. But I’ll let it go since you’re so cute.”

Carter closes his eyes and sighs.