The Off Days

I don’t know how to change diapers.

The thought is swiped away as soon as it enters my mind, buried under a doom scroll of 90s childhood nostalgia, hustle influencers, and pub crawls in cities I no longer live in. In the time my thumbs have passed by dozens of lives in their tiny thumbnails, the room has gone from darkness to a murky dusk. A message pings near the top of the screen and my 5:28am brain trips over itself in surprise. Who else could be awake this early? I don’t recognize the profile picture. Tapping it, the image expands and I can now see it’s Brooke. It’s a new photo, her son in her lap and newborn baby in the son’s lap.

‘What are you doing up?? How are you girl?’

When I start replying, my own pic appears underneath hers. Five years younger and raising a celebratory glass of champagne with the other directors celebrating my promotion. Two of them have C-suite jobs now.

‘My mornings start early these days. I assume you’re up with baby?’

My 5:30 alarm interrupts then, and I dutifully move from sofa to kitchen, setting my phone on the counter next to the recipe titled Silky Pureed Goopy Carrots has already been laid out. The screen lights up with Brooke’s reply but I need to get this done first, grabbing the bowl of carrots which I steamed before my sofa scrolling session, and pumping them smooth with my arm and a plastic potato masher. Tonight I’ll be sure to make the puree before bed time so I can use the noisily efficient blender. Once they’re as smooth as the masher can manage, I add a splash of oil, honey, cumin and cinnamon and try a small spoon. The flavor is okay but the mush texture is still… not great. No wonder babies are always spitting this stuff up. Babies! I forgot about Brooke's message.

‘Yes ma’am. Up since 3. She woke, ate, cried, now she’s eating again.’

‘Ooff. Was it this hard with your first?’

Her little typing dots appear immediately and my eyes flick away from the screen to read the note scrawled on the carrot recipe, White and pink = crush. Yellow and grey = do not crush. Brooke’s message pops up and I flick my eyes over again.

‘I think so but honestly can’t remember. Must’ve blocked it out. But at least I know it gets better and eventually Mia will be able to do this on her own.’

It gets better… I try to laugh but it comes out more like a sigh. With a tiny pop sound, the white pill pinched in my fingers suddenly bursts and spills itself over my hand instead of in the carrots. Swearing, I rinse my hands in the sink and when I return, Brooke’s message is already gone and replaced.

‘Brooke has deleted this message.’

‘I think so but honestly can’t remember. Must’ve blocked it out. Sleepless nights and poopy diapers will do that!’

I reply with, ‘You’re telling me!’ and this time turn off the screen to focus on pinching the white and pink pills just right so that they leak into the carrots and not all over my hands.

“George! George!” The cry comes from the bedroom, dropping my heart into my stomach. There are ‘on’ days and there are ‘off’ days, and with that shriek, I know this is going to be an ‘off’.

“George? Anastasia? Anastasia!” The shouts continue but I pause to take a deep breath. This is why you’re here. This is why you’re here. This is what it’s all for, for the ‘off’ days. Shakily I let out the breath and turn towards the bedroom. She’s sitting up, legs tangled in the blankets from thrashing, but her watery eyes are fixed on the window, at the view cast by the sunrise, unfamiliar today. Tomorrow I’ll make sure the blinds are shut, even if it means she’ll sleep until noon.

“Good morning,” I say flatly.

Her wrinkled eyes seem to droop all the more when she doesn’t see George or Anastasia.

“George -”

“Is already outside,” I say, pulling the sheets free of her legs. She turns back to the window again, gaze still lost, confused.

“Of course he is.” She says softly, nodding. “There were three new calves last week, of course he’s out already.”

“Mmhm. Are you ready for breakfast?”

The serenity on her face once again clouds into confusion, then every wrinkle around her eyes creases in panic.

“George’s breakfast! I haven’t-”

“I made his breakfast, and Anastasia’s and yours is ready.”

“Where’s Anastasia?”

“Already at school.” I wonder if this will be a stretch, given the ungodly hour, but she nods meekly. I take her by the waist and shoulder like the nurse showed me, supporting her if she needs but guiding her to use as much of her own strength as she can. She allows this until realizing I’m leading to her walker. Her loose skin folds into a frown.

“Oh I don’t need that! Honestly!”

“I think you should, what with that fall you had.”

“Don't talk baloney!” She insists and tugs us both forward, strengthened by obstinance. But the vigor only lasts several steps before the brunt of her weight leans on me, and my muscles continue to groan even after I’ve dumped her in a kitchen chair. Besides the carrots, I also grab a bottle of vitamin and protein enriched lactose-free ‘mylk’, placing both in front of her before dropping into my own chair.

“What’s this?” She asks under furrowed eyebrows.

“Spiced carrot puree and a milkshake. Your favorite.” I roll my shoulders and stretch my forearms behind my back, trying to work out the kinks. “You had it yesterday, and the day before.” Her eyes furrow so hard they almost disappear under the eyelids.

“I had eggs, bacon and a bagel yesterday. I’m certain. That’s my favorite.”

“Too much cholesterol and too difficult to chew. This is your new favorite.”

“It looks like goop.”

“Yeah well….goop is easy to chew.”

“It’s kind of you to have prepared…something…but why don’t I just fry us up some eggs and bacon.” She grunts and leans on the table trying to get up from her chair, but I rush over and push her back down by the shoulders.

“No, this is what I made, exactly as your doctor instructed, and this is what you’re eating. There’s no bacon in the house anyway.”

“You think a doctor knows my body better than I do?” She says, voice and ire rising.

“Yes.”

She twists her head, trying to look at me while I’m still over her, gripping her shoulders. “Who has carrots for breakfast? And you! Who are you? Telling me what I can and can’t eat!”

“Today I’m your nurse.”

“I don’t need a nurse!” She squirms harder and I squeeze tighter. “I need you to leave me be!”

“And miss out on your sparkling personality every morning?” That was too sarcastic, too impatient. She has no retort and her shoulders still. Taking another slow, deep breath, I release my hands. “If you eat the carrots today, I’ll make bacon and eggs tomorrow.” When she doesn’t react, I sit back down. Her wet eyes are squinting down at the carrots, confused. By what exactly, I’m not sure.

“If you’re not feeling the carrots, you can start with the milkshake.” I unscrew the cap and set the bottle directly in front of her but she keeps her fixed stare for several moments longer before murmuring, “Where’s Anastasia?”

Trying to keep my tone even and patient, I answer, “Already at school.” She blinks, the water in her eyes shifting and pooling as she studies me, trying to comprehend.

“It’s just you and me.” I say to those eyes. “And the carrots.”

“Damn the carrots!” She shouts and pounds the table, her fist catching the bowl and splashing orange mush everywhere. My hand mashed carrots seasoned with cumin, cinnamon, and pink and white pills are splattered on the table, down the front of her nightshirt, and onto her face and neck. The calming breaths stutter as I try to keep control. ‘This is why you’re here. This is why you’re here.’ I repeat in my head. The space between us is heavy and silent except for the spoon scraping along the table as I try and collect the carrot goop back into the bowl while she pouts. When I lift the spoon to scrape carrots from her cheek, she bats my hand away.

“I’m not a child.”

This time I’m the one to smack the table. “Oh you’re not? Could’ve fooled me!” I gesture to her soiled face and clothes. “Look at you! Throwing a tantrum like a toddler. You want me to stop treating you like one? Then stop acting like one!”

“I don’t need this from you!” Her eyes glare at me so fiercely they spark for the first time. “You are the worst nurse I’ve ever met!” She pushes against the table to stand up and I let her. “Coming into people’s homes and shouting at me what I can and cannot do. Get out!”

She dismisses me with another hand wave but doesn’t wait to see if I actually move, and I don’t. From my chair I watch her head towards the bathroom, the first few steps purposeful, but soon regressing to a shuffle, until grunting from stiffness, she reaches the bathroom sink and leans over it heavily. After a few moments to catch her breath, she takes the hand towel off its hook, wets it, and dabs at her night shirt while I watch her reflection in the mirror. With wet splotches spread across her front, she cups her hands to splash water on her face but her hands shake badly, spilling water on the counter, floor, and whatever was still dry of her nightshirt. With dripping, shaking hands hovering near her chest, she glances around, apparently looking for a fresh, dry towel but not remembering where they’re kept. Eventually she sighs and wipes them on the soaked nightshirt. When she begins closing the door behind her, I quickly get up from the chair.

“Do you need help? You’re not supposed-”

“I think I know how to wipe myself thank you!” She snaps, shutting and locking the door with a click.

“You need to at least leave it open!” I call through the door.

“You want to be useful, then bring me a shirt!”

“Shall I get you a towel as well?” I ask dryly.

“Yes!”

Through a clenched jaw I repeat my mantra as I sift through her closet looking for a dress that’s easy to put on, something she can just shrug her arms through and I can button up. After settling for a loose shirt dress, I grab a towel from the closet beside the bathroom, the same place they’ve been for 40 years.

“I got you a dress and a towel.” I shout. She doesn’t answer. “If you want them, you have to open the door!”

“I said go away!” They’re the same words but this time her voice shudders and breaks. “Just leave me alone!”

Another deep breath as I rest my forehead on the door. Is this why I’m here? To antagonize her? To force her mind to accept a reality it can’t understand? Would it be better to let her live out her days in a make-believe peace, even if it means shortening those remaining days? A soft choked snort breaks me out of my thoughts and I press my ear to the door. Choked snorts are mixed with sniffs.

“Are you okay?” I ask softly, not really expecting an answer. “I’m going to open the door, and if you’re okay, I’ll leave the towel and walk away. I’ve also got a dress for you.” Tucked above the bathroom door is a slim skeleton key which I slide into the knob and jimmy until I feel it release.

“I’m coming in now.”

She’s curled on the floor, face in her hands, half dressed with her nightshirt pulled up to her chest, and underwear soaked. I can smell that it isn’t water.

“Did you fall? I ask, kneeling down and gently lifting her arms to check for bruises, but she tugs them back, trying to keep her face covered as she softly weeps. I start running warm water for a bath.

She doesn’t speak for the rest of the morning. Instead, the water fills her eyes and her mind hides behind it. She allows me to bathe and dress her without fight or argument, limply letting me move her arms into the dress sleeves and guide her to an armchair by the bookcase. I set several things within her arm’s reach, a magazine, the tv remote, her latest crochet project, but she remains still in the chair, unresponsive.

Knowing that she won’t need me for the moment, I go to my basement bedroom to change. My hoodies and yoga pants are all sober greys and blacks, hanging in a closet painted lime green and baby pink. Also looking out of place are my files. Doctor’s notes, tax information, legal papers - all the bureaucracy of dying. They’ve outgrown the file organizer and are scattered over my vanity, crowded by my grimy old hair straightener and expensive makeup I haven’t touched in weeks. I scan the room for a new home for them and settle on a decorative pink wall shelf. The shelf is filled with meticulously displayed trophies, medals, and awards, and to my surprise, they’re all spotlessly clean and recently dusted. I dump them in a corner of the closet, replacing them on the shelf with the file organizer stuffed with all the loose papers. It sits heavy and fat on the decorative pink shelf. How much heavier will it get, I wonder. Will the shelf last longer than she will?

When I return to the living room, she’s still in the chair and I sit across from her, speaking before I lose the nerve.

“I’m sorry. For what happened in the bathroom.” I should be looking at her when apologizing, she deserves that dignity, but I don’t want to see her clouded eyes so I stare at my own fidgeting hands. “That was my fault. I didn’t think you’d need the toilet since you went at 4:00 and I should’ve just asked first, I shouldn’t have steamrolled over you or dragged you to breakfast without asking. That was stupid and not considerate of your -” My words are stumbling out quickly and disjointed and I force myself to stop. Take a breath. “I’ll do better.” She doesn’t reply. I finally look up and her eyes are fogged, but wide.

“Have you met my Anastasia? I think you’d like her.” She smiles, the wrinkles of her face drawing up like curtain. “So smart! Top of her class every year! I’ve no idea where she gets it from. Not me or George, that’s for sure!” She chuckles and gazes down into her lap, and I notice that she’s pulled a photo album from the bookcase. “Here she is at her debate club. That’s what she gets from George, her ability to argue. If that man didn’t have all the livestock to argue with instead of me, our marriage wouldn’t have lasted a year!” She chuckles again but my lips feel stretched when I try to match it.

“Maybe that’s why he’s also got such a soft spot for her, ‘cuse they’re so alike. You’re not supposed to live out the life you wish you had through your children.” She shakes her finger at me in playful mock scolding. “But if you spend your life trying to give them opportunities you never had, and they go out and do great things out in the world and make something real special with what you gave them - then you ought to enjoy that!” Her face is beaming now, the curtains fully pulled back to reveal a stage set in joy. “You raise them so they can go higher and farther than you ever could, and if they go high and far enough,” she lowers her voice to a conspiratory whisper, “they’ll take you with them!” Her wet eyes sparkle and I can only smile tightly and nod to keep composure, and not break this beautiful moment for her. Her brows furrow then, and she looks back down at the photos.

“She’s coming home again soon, but I’m not sure when. You should stay until she comes. So you can meet her, my Anastasia. Do you think you could stay until then?”

“I can stay until then.” I say through a tightened throat.

“Good.” She smiles, satisfied. “Do you think it’ll be tomorrow? When she comes?”

“I’m sure you’ll see her tomorrow.”