Cold Hands

There’s something going on with my mother.

She hasn't been herself for a while now. She's been strange and distant. No matter what I do, I can't seem to fix her. I can't even get a response from her. Even if I scream at the top of my lungs, it's like I'm not even there. She doesn't respond when I tell her I love her, or when I hug her. She just stares blankly.

She's taken up strange rituals. One of which is the pacing— all hours of the day and night if she's not sitting and staring at nothing she's probably pacing. Usually she paces the main hall between the bedrooms upstairs. During the day I watch her and wonder what she's thinking. It doesn't feel like she has a goal in mind, it's just an automatic pattern her body must fulfill. I don't think she even sleeps much, as I get woken up by her pacing the halls at night. I hear her heavy foot falls march back and forth past my bedroom door. The floor creaks and groans as she does her rounds. Nothing I can do can break her trance. She doesn't even look my way when I peek out, and ask if she's okay. She just trudges on, her nightgown flowing behind her.

I remember burying my face in that night gown when I was scared at night, it was so smooth and soft. She would rest her hand on the back of my head and coo until the nightmares left my mind and it was all replaced with thoughts of the warm linen caressing me. The nightgown looks thin and almost tattered now, she too looks so frail. Even with how heavy she walks she seems like just ragged fabric on sharp bone now; far from the soft bosom that used to hold me on these cold winter nights.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I feel her labored breaths on the back of my neck, I don't move so as not to disturb her. I just lay there frozen. I have to just hope that laying in my bed is helping her somehow. It's better than when she's alone at night. If I don't hear her footfalls, I hear horrible screams echo through the halls. At least when she's here, I can pretend she's back to normal. And I like to feel her heart beat against my back, even if she's not the same, at least I can feel she's alive.

I miss seeing my mother's smile. It was crooked and silly. She used to have so much to say. Now, I come downstairs and sit across from her for breakfast and I am met with only a blank stare and a cold silence. I try to remind her of happy memories, or silly stories she used to tell me when I was feeling down— But nothing. She didn't even react to her favorite memories.

There's one I don't tell though. We used to go ice fishing as a family. She'd bundle me up until I could barely move, at the time it was kind of annoying, but now I appreciate that she always made sure I would be warm. Father then would drive us up to our little cabin and we'd set off to the nearest lake as fast as possible; Even the drive was magical, the roads would be flanked by towering pines, and walls of snow and slush. We would eventually step foot onto the ice; mother and I would go first and scout out where to place the icehouse.

The vast expanse of ice and snow felt infinite. I used to love to hear the fresh crunch of the snow beneath my feet, or feel the smoothness of the ice uncovered by the wind. Being the first out on the ice was beautiful. We were pioneers on an alien planet, searching for where to create our city. My child imagination would run wild; it was a blank canvas for me to create a world all our own. All you could hear was the coo of distant nature, and the occasional settle and crack of the ice below. I remember how scared that used to make me. But I loved it all the same. So did she. But now I think those memories aren't as good. It's still my favorite but I don't tell her that one anymore.

It was a little better when Father was still around, they would fight a lot but he would at least get her to say something. I didn't like when they yelled. I'd plug my ears and try not to listen but the last fight before he left there was a lot of door slamming and banging so I got worried and peaked downstairs. I heard him yell "You need to move on!", before he slammed the door and that's the last we've seen of him. It's been a year now already. But he was so mad the last few months he was here, it was kind of a relief not to have him here being angry anymore. I didn't like Mother like this either, but I won't leave her; She needs someone around. I'm not sure what event Father was so mad about, but I wish I could convince her it wasn't her fault. I just want to see her smile again.

I've begun trying to do her rituals with her. Maybe they are important in some way I don't understand. I'll pace the halls with her, I'll sit with her as she stares into space, I've even tried to sit with her when she makes the horrid screams at night. I like to think it's been helping. I can't really tell because she still seems to look right through me.

She barely even looks like my mother anymore. Her face gaunt and grey; where it once was round and pink. It's been so long since I've seen her smile, heard her laugh or since she was the mother I knew. And it's been a long time since she held me so tight in her arms I could barely breathe. The last time I saw her how she used to be was before we heard the ice crack. I tried to hold on to her hands, but my hands were so cold. I wonder if that upset her. I don't know exactly how long it's been but—

Cold Hands

Sky Reed