Keys and a Folded Sweater

Home at last. Work today was busier than usual, which means more complaints from ignorant customers. They most likely haven’t worked retail a day in their privileged lives. I also had to go with my dad to pick out some flowers for my mom and sister. I'm home now, but I have places to be, and can't stay too long, I only have a few minutes at best. 

I place my keys and wallet onto the table right next to the front door, then slide off my shoes. I rub the soles of my feet, and wince in pain. God, I hate heels. Hanging my jacket up onto the coat rack, I sigh, and hear a door close.

"Sweetie, you're finally home, you've been working so late these days." My mom says, frowning at me. She's wearing the same yellow cardigan and white shirt that she's worn every day recently. Her hair is gray now, since she stopped dying it a little while back, but somehow it looks grayer. "I'm worried about you, you're working yourself to the bone." 

I sigh, and make my way to the kitchen, "Mom, I told you I'm fine. I need the money; the faucet broke last week, remember? How did you get in?" The pot of coffee is still full from this morning, so I pour myself a cup with some sugar.

She holds her hand just above an extra set of keys lying on the counter. "The extra pair of key's you gave to me when you first moved in to this apartment. I remember it like it was yesterday." She says, her eyes still, and somber.

"Listen, Carmen, I love you, and it hurts me seeing you do this same routine every single day. Don't you have any friends from work that you can hang out with on weekends?" She says, walking to the other side of the counter and putting her hands on her hips. 

"Mom you do this every single day. I can't take time to hang out with anyone. I need to keep working, or else I'll get evicted, and then I'll be on the street. Again, the faucet." I sip the cold coffee, and grimace at the bitter taste. I forgot to add creamer. 

My mom is right though, every day feels the same now. I come home, put my things on the table, take off my shoes, and mom complains about my social life. It's not that I want to be working all the time, but I need to.

"You kept the sweater I made for you while I was in the hospital, have you worn it since?" Mom asks, pointing at a folded sweater sitting next to the extra keys. It’s bright yellow, super soft, and made with love. "I'm shocked you kept it."

I glance at the sweater an inch away from my mom's pale hand, and look back at her face, which seems to age every time I see her. "I haven’t worn it, no. But you know I couldn't get rid of it, even if it does bring back some painful memories." I mumble, resting my head on my hand. I'm leaning against the counter, and it feels cold to the touch, almost chilling.

"I'm sorry for those memories. It's not your fault, you know that, right? The car accident." She almost whispers it, as if she's afraid that she might stir up suppressed feelings. Her eyes are full of many emotions; pity, sadness, and one I can't quite put my finger on. It feels like a lifelessness I’ve seen before.

"I know mom, I know. But how am I not supposed to blame myself? I was the one driving, not you." I almost snap back, and tears well into my eyes. I remember I need to be somewhere, and walk to my bedroom to change. 

She follows me and stands in the door frame to my bedroom, not entering my room completely. "You can't stop another person from hitting the car. You had no idea someone was going to run a red light, did you?" She says, remembrance flashes in her eyes, then disperses into nothingness once more. 

I strip my work clothing in a quick motion, and slip into a long, black dress and black heels. "No, I didn't know. But I could've done something, I could've braked, or sped up, avoided it somehow. I didn't, though, and you guys ended up in the hospital." 

"I don't blame you, and neither does your sister, so you shouldn't blame yourself." She looks out the window, where a car is pulling into the parking lot.

“Have you talked with your father recently? I know he’s been having a really hard time.” Mom asks. Her face is etched with only a mother’s concern for her daughter.

“Actually, I was with him before I came home, we were picking out some flowers for you and Kat. Yellow petunia’s for you, and pink daisies for Kat, your favorites.” 

“You know I would’ve been fine with dandelions” She laughs, the wrinkles by her eyes deeper than usual.

“I know” I smile to myself, but it soon fades. I feel my face growing red, and my eyes sting with tears.

"Mom, can you please stay here? Stay with me?" I say, hot tears now streaming down my cheeks. She shakes her head, and puts a hand over her heart. I knew her answer before I even asked.

"You know I want to, but you also know I can't. I need to be there for your little sister. You know she needs me, and your father needs you. You're strong, Carmen." Her voice sounds like little more than a whisper now, and dread seems to set in. 

I sigh, and make my way back to the front door. My mother follows me, and reaches out to hold my face, just like she did when I would be crying next to her hospital bed, wishing it was me instead. Before she can touch me, a bell rings, and there's a knock on the door.

I turn and open the door to find my father standing there with the flowers we picked out before I came home. His red eyes are still wet with tears, and his all black suit needs ironing. He clearly hasn’t been sleeping well either, but I don’t blame him. I haven’t slept well since mom and Kat left the hospital.

"Are you ready, honey?" He asks, choking on a sob. I link my arm through his and give him my best attempt at a smile. I turn to look at my apartment one last time, my mother gone, as if she was never there. The only reminder of her the extra keys and bright yellow sweater folded on the counter. 

"I suppose I'm as ready as I'll ever be." I say, wiping the final tear from my cheek. 

"Let's go say goodbye."