Story first published in Cirque Journal, #29, Volume 15, No. 1, in the Summer of 2025.
“I’m going to be leaving on Monday.”
You stop brushing your mother’s long silver hair. It takes a moment for you to understand what she’s getting at. She’s always been this way with you. She calls you the sensitive one. When you and your sister were children, you were always the one who squealed when your mother caught a knot with the hair brush, back when the present roles were reversed. Your mother never squeals when you catch a knot while brushing her hair. She’s never been the sensitive type, at least out loud. In many ways you were always an enigma to her, but she always tried to cater to your needs, even the ones that were only in her own mind.
The first thought that pops in your head is to ask if she’s moving back down to Florida, but of course this makes no sense whatsoever. After all, she moved back up to live with you after that dog got a hold of her out by the dumpster in her retirement community. Your mother has never liked dogs, and that was over a year ago, back before the pain in her gut started growing, signaling the return of an old friend. You feel kind of stupid when the gears click over in your head and her more probable meaning snaps into focus, which makes you a bit sick to your stomach. However, despite this, you can’t help yourself from asking anyways.
“Where are you going?”
She looks up at you with a look she’s given you since childhood. Her don’t be stupid honey look, which she does her best to hide because she thinks you’re sensitive and she doesn’t want to upset you. But of course such attempts fail, your trained eye well learned in the nuances of your mother’s features. You can tell she’s mulling over whether or not she should answer, so you start brushing again to at the very least fill the silence, stopping when she smacks her lips, her signal that she’s made up her mind to speak.
“Monday is going to be the day I’m going to die.”
You pause, long enough to give a sense that you’re mulling it over, though it’s entirely for your mother’s benefit. It seems like a declaration that should be mulled over, though there’s not much to really think about with it. Your mother has always been a strong willed person, and undeniably she’s going to die at some point in the near future, the growing pain in her gut proof of such a prognosis. Arguing about the precision of the prediction seems like a bit of a waste of time, like arguing about curfew or what boys you should be allowed to date when you were a teenager. Debate has never really been much of an option with your mother, or least never a productive option, so you go with the old standby answer, carved deep in the ruts of repeated reuse.
“Okay.”
You start brushing your mother’s hair again. She nods once, putting a period on the conversation, and then sits still, not moving a muscle even when you catch a knot with the brush. As your hand and arm move rhythmically, you wonder if perhaps you should call your sister, but you quickly dismiss the idea, after all she isn’t the sensitive one. You wonder too if perhaps you shouldn’t have said more in reply to your mother’s proclamation, or at least felt something more, but you didn’t and you don’t, and there is never much point to worrying about such things. Besides, today is Tuesday, so there’s still plenty of time.
You didn’t need the doctor’s prognosis to know what was wrong when your mother increasingly began to complain about a pain in her gut. After all, years ago a different doctor had said it would only be a matter of time. She first described it as the feeling of a rather annoying person digging their thumb into her belly. You suspected even then, but she seemed uninterested in going to the doctor and you weren’t really all that enthusiastic to confirm anything beyond the unknown and the possibility that it might just be one of the normal aches and pains of being old. Unfortunately, it didn’t stay that way for long, and what started as an annoying poke blossomed into a hard jab, then a punch, and then a permanent fist squeezing and twisting. Even then your mother wasn’t willing to go in, not wishing to confirm what both of you already knew, not acquiescing until the steady intake of ibuprofen proved no longer up to the task.
“I want you to pick out any of my clothes you want. Your sister is too thin to fit into any of them.”
You wait for a moment to see if there’s anything more to be added, but when there isn’t, you go back to spooning apple sauce into your mother’s mouth. It’s one of the few things she can eat, her throat too sore to swallow anything more solid. Your mother isn’t much of one for mushy foods, but she likes applesauce, so she eats a lot of applesauce. It’s Wednesday, only five days more to the declared departure date, but neither you or your mother have discussed it any until this moment. You still don’t really know how to deal with the situation. You told your sister about it over the phone when she called yesterday, but she overall seemed rather unconcerned, declaring that as usual you’re being too sensitive. You aren’t sure if she meant too sensitive to the fact that your mother is going to die on Monday, or too sensitive in that you’re willing to pretend the declaration has any merit in the real world. Either way, as usual, your sister remained rather unconcerned, willing to take the world as it comes along, thus absolving herself of any responsibility related to worrying about the future. Now your mother is silent again, and you feel you should say something, but of course what you say completely avoids the main topic of conversation.
“I don’t know if there’s any of it I can wear. Most of it is pretty out of date.”
Your mother scoffs at this. “Nonsense, it’s vintage. I read the other day that vintage is all the rage right now.”
You keep spooning applesauce, biting your tongue because you don’t want to tell your mother that vintage usually involves people having wanted to wear the clothes when they were new. Your mother has always leaned more towards affordable and sufficient rather than fashionable. However, you don’t see much to gain by arguing with an old woman about how her clothes were never in vogue, and never will be, especially an old woman who plans on dying in five days. It just seems better to keep one’s mouth shut and keep spooning applesauce. Unfortunately, your mother has never been one to let others decide when a conversation is over.
“Go through my closet this afternoon, pick out the things you like. But just the clothes, wait for your sister for everything else. I won’t have you two fighting.”
You really doubt your sister has any interest in anything left of your mother’s. After all, she’s not the sensitive one. You don’t really want to go through the clothes. You have better things to do this afternoon than go through your mother’s wardrobe, pretending to pick things out that you will never wear. All the clothes are in the closet in your mother’s room, so there can be no faking it. Even with the growing pain in her belly and stupefying cocktail of pain medications, she’s still somehow a light sleeper.
“Okay.”
The word has a slight bitterness to it when it leaves your lips. Your mother nods once, then goes back to letting you feed her applesauce. That afternoon, you do as requested, though your mother shows little interest in the proceedings. It’s not until the evening that you begin to wonder if perhaps the entire thing was just your mother’s version of a backhanded compliment regarding your weight.
When your mother had felt the growing pain in her gut the first time, she had been much more gung-ho about doing something about it. After all, that was five years earlier, and there was still a lot of unknown left in the situation, even when the prognosis had been just as feared. Your mother went to three different doctors before she was satisfied that what they each were telling her was true, but once convinced she pursued the treatment with a stern faced gusto that had been the hallmark of every task your mother had ever set herself to doing. She was not the most pleasant patient to be around, though this had more to do with overall personality rather than the situation, but she was meticulous and no nonsense when it came to following directions. One does not successfully raise two children on their own by fretting about things out of one’s control and dilly dallying around. The rounds of treatment most definitely were not pleasant, but of course your mother refused to give even a hint of her discomfort, at least to you. After all, you’re the sensitive one, and therefore had enough on your plate just dealing with your own emotions.
“There’s her tits again.”
It’s Friday. You’re watching TV, sitting in a chair next to your mother’s bed. You don’t usually watch TV with her, but given she’s theoretically going to be dead in three days, it seems appropriate to try and spend more time with her. If it bothers her, she has made no sign, likely chalking it up to the strange unfathomable habits of sensitive children. She has made no further mention of her coming demise since the day before, though you know she has discussed it some with your sister, mostly with regards to post passing planning. You’ve overheard them talking on the phone. Your mother wants to be cremated and spread out in some meadow somewhere, where exactly doesn’t matter, nothing fancy. You’re not sure why you couldn’t be trusted to find a place that burns up bodies, given you don’t live on the other side of the country, but such tasks have always gone to your sister, the more sensible one as your mother is fond of claiming.
Your mother groans a bit and shifts in her bed. You look over in concern.
“You okay? Need a new pain patch?”
Your mother completely ignores the question, choosing instead to gesture at the topless woman on the TV.
“My tits looked better than hers, back before I had two kids.”
You eye your mother for a moment, focusing in on the straight line of her mouth and the tightness around her eyes, then go back to watching the program. You doubt your tits ever looked as good as the woman’s on the TV, and you’ve never even had kids.
Your mother never really went to any lengths to hide the fact that she was having your sister handle the post-event arrangements. Such things were just a matter of well established practice, so therefore something to which even the most sensitive of people should be accustomed. When you raised the subject with your mother, she had simply stated that your sister had it all taken care of, and therefore there was nothing to worry about. Your sister had the same nonchalance as your mother when you called her that evening. When pressed about details, she simply stated that she wasn’t calling anybody until there was actually something to call about. After all, even if by some coincidence their mother did die on Monday, how hard could it be to find someone willing to burn her body? Though unable to see her, you could still imagine your sister nodding once before hanging up the phone.
Your mother groans and shifts again, but you don’t say anything. Once the show ends she falls asleep, she sleeps a lot anymore, and you very carefully replace the pain patch on her arm with a new one. She rolls and mutters a bit when you do it, but she doesn’t wake up. You’ve gotten good at such things over the past two months.
Your mother had taken to treatment quite well the first time around. All three of the doctors she routinely went to had all been impressed with her recovery, at least at first. Unfortunately, all three had to temper any celebrations with a grim proclamation that the only way to definitely be sure that the pain wouldn’t come back was to cut some things out. The idea of this did not dissuade your mother, she had spent a lifetime cutting out things and even people, at least until she learned exactly how much cutting out the doctors were talking about. You can’t really blame your mother for the choice she made. After all, you’re pretty sure you wouldn’t want to spend your last years shitting in a bag either.
“Your sister should be here by this evening.”
You stop in the hallway, the basket of laundry in your arms, your mother in her bed framed by the doorway. It’s early Sunday afternoon. This is the first you’ve heard about it. Your mother goes back to watching TV. You bite your lower lip, doing your best to control your features. You just talked to your sister on the phone the night before. You had told her you had went ahead and made a few calls to some crematoriums, and you could have sworn you heard her eyes rolling on the other end of the line. Not one word had been mentioned about flying across the country the next day. You shift the laundry basket a bit to redistribute the weight better.
“What time is she supposed to be here?”
You try to sound nonchalant. However, the nearly imperceptible flicker of annoyance in your mother’s eyes proves your failure.
“Some time this evening.”
Your mother doesn’t even look away from the TV.
“Okay.”
You continue down the hall, your fingers hurting with the tightening of your grip on the laundry basket the moment you know you’re out of sight. This evening turns out to be nearly after midnight. Not wanting to leave the door unlocked at night, you wait up for her to arrive, watching TV with the volume turned down to a whisper. A loud knock jolts you from a slight doze, and for a moment you panic before the world comes crashing back in. When you open the front door, she’s standing there, a younger and thinner version of your mother, smiling with an overnight bag over her shoulder and a half rack of Rolling Rock bottles in her arms. She says hello, hands you the half rack, walks in, and throws her bag onto the coach. You stand dumbly by the open door, still trying to blink the sleep out of your eyes.
“What’s the beer for?” you finally manage.
Your sister gives you your mother’s don’t be stupid honey look and then answers matter of factly.
“If Mom is going to die tomorrow, we might as well let her celebrate a bit.”
“Mom isn’t supposed to have beer.”
You’re still in a bit of a daze. Your sister walks over and takes the half rack back from you.
“Not going to really matter if she dies tomorrow, will it?”
You don’t have a chance to answer. She takes the beer into the kitchen where you can hear scraping sounds and the clink of glassware as she clears space in the fridge. There are so many things you want to say, but your sister doesn’t give you a chance. The moment she comes back into the living room she’s yawning and declaring how tired she is, brushing off your attempts to open discussion with an ease perfected since your shared childhood. Instead, you find yourself pulling blankets out of the hall closet and bringing her a pillow from your bed, setting up everything for her so she will be nice and comfortable while she changes into shorts and an old t-shirt right in the middle of the living room. You have to admit, your sister has nicer tits. Everything prepared, you make one last attempt to at least get some kind of recognition of the unexpectedness of the visit.
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” your sister assures you.
“Okay,” you answer, knowing that the conversation isn’t going to go any further.
You wake up late the next morning and find your sister sitting with your mother, the two of them talking in low voices punctuated by the occasional laugh. The way they look at you when you come into sight in the doorway leaves no doubt that you were likely the butt of at least a couple of their jokes.
“What are you two gabbing about?” you ask, trying to sound curious, but unconcerned.
Your sister flashes a smile. “Just making plans. After all, today is the big day.”
Your mother is beaming with delight. The moment you walk out of the doorway you can hear them laugh and start talking again.
You bring applesauce for your mother and your sister volunteers to feed her. It’s a strange dynamic. When you all still lived together, your mother and sister had fought like cats and dogs, but now that they only see each other occasionally they’re as thick as thieves. You shower and do the rest of your morning routine, then make you and your sister breakfast. Normally you just have a bowl of Special K, but since your sister is there you make bacon and eggs. She eats them without comment, then leans back in her chair, folding her thin arms behind her head and looks over at you.
“You should get out a bit while I’m here.”
Your eggs and bacon are only half done, but you put down your fork anyways. You bite your lower lip.
“If she’s going to die today, I’d like to be here.”
You sound a bit ridiculous, even in your own ears.
Your sister is smiling. “Don’t worry, she assured me she doesn’t plan on dying until this evening.”
You look down at your half eaten breakfast, then pick up the plate, scrape it into the garbage, and put it into the sink. Your sister is still smiling at you in that way older sisters do when they know best. You rinse the plate and put it into the dishwasher.
“Okay.”
You get dressed and go out to run a few errands, then since you’re already out you go and see a movie too. You get back to the house by mid-afternoon. Loud polka music is playing when you open the door. Your mother is sitting upright in her bed, a Rolling Rock in her hand, and a feathered Bavarian cap on her head. Your sister has a Rolling Rock in her hand too, not her first judging by the small collection of green bottles on the dresser. She’s laughing and dancing around the room, and your mother is swaying back and forth in time with the music, a happy grin plastered across her face. They pause for a moment when you come in, but then your sister grabs you with her free hand and drags you protesting around the room, your shoes sending loose bottle caps skittering across the floor. Between songs she opens you a beer, and then goes back to dancing again. You sit down in the chair next to your mother’s bed. She takes a drink of her Rolling Rock and grimaces in pain, but the smile doesn’t leave her face.
“This is a pretty good beer,” she says. You take a drink from your bottle and nod, unsure what to say. Your mother doesn’t take her eyes off of your sister. “I’d forgotten how good a beer tastes.” She takes another drink, her eyes visibly wincing the moment she swallows. Her speech is a bit slurred. “I think I’m going to postpone my departure for a bit more.”
You take another drink of your beer.
“Okay.”
Your mother looks over at you. “I think if it’s cut up small enough, I could probably eat a brat with sauerkraut. I’d love to taste a brat with sauerkraut again.”
You look at your mother, and do the best you can to keep your features still.
“Okay.”
Both of you go back to watching your sister dance, her face red and covered with sweat. You let yourself sway with the music, and take another drink of your beer.