The Price of Regret

“Rachelle…”

“I’m on stage in ten minutes. What is it?”

“Your mother’s on the phone- “

“No.”

“She’s in the hospital- “

“I said no.”

“It’d look better if- “

“I will not speak to her!”

The brown stucco of what proclaimed itself to be Sunny Skies Retirement Home gleamed in the morning sun too brightly for the walls of a place where people went to die. Rachelle scowled at it and averted her gaze, but despite her silent wishes to turn and never come back the driver pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine.

“I worked here, once.” Her driver, Darla, said. “I wouldn’t call it a bad place, but it’s a good thing you’re getting your mom out.”

Rachelle cast Darla a sideways glance and repressed her snort. She’d asked the hospice office for the best in-home aide they could provide, and apparently that came in the form of a short, muscular, middle-aged woman with tattoos covering her arms and neck and more piercings than there were natural holes in her face. She supposed this is what she got for waiting until the last minute to find someone.

She didn’t speak a word of her misgivings or inner rage. Instead, she put on her false smile and said cheerfully, “Thank you so much for your help. I’m sorry for such short notice.”

Darla jumped out of the van and whipped together a wheelchair with enough speed Rachelle wasn’t sure where all the parts came from. “No problem. These things happen sometimes.”

At least this time it happened to someone who deserved it.

The interior wasn’t falling apart, but that didn’t keep it from looking old. Why did places always choose beige to paint their walls? It made everything look drab.

Rachelle approached the front desk and wondered how long it would take her face to crack in two from forcing a smile so much. “I’m here to pick up my mother. Gloria Peterson. She’s in room 112.”

The young man behind the desk was also having a hard time faking a smile. She could tell because it shattered to a look of horror upon seeing Darla.

“Uuuh… Yes. Right. Let me call someone to open - Never mind.”

Darla pushed the door open and grinned over at them. “You should really think about changing the code one of these years.” With that she was gone, giving Rachelle little time to mutter a hurried apology and chase after her.

The halls were busy with aides rushing about with a severity that could knock the wind out of an angry bull. Some took the time to smile and nod at them as they walked past, but most were too busy glancing around at the ornamental lights outside of each room. Over half of them were lit.

Darla looked around and a slow smirk took over her features. “You know what the best thing about being back here is? Looking at this bedlam and knowing it’s not my problem anymore.” They stopped outside a room with a placard outside that read, “Gloria Peterson” with a little picture of a stethoscope with an X through it.

Rachelle glanced into the room and her smile cracked. She could just make out the foot of a hospital bed behind a ragged white curtain, and though she couldn’t see the occupant, she felt her nerves start to congeal in her stomach.

Darla noticed her hesitation and misread it. “Yeah, the rooms can be a little scary, with the equipment and all. Want me to go in and bring her out for you?”

Rachelle nodded and leaned against the wall while Darla pushed past her. She knew it was pointless. She’d have to look at her mother again anyway, and it wasn’t like Gloria was in a position to do anything to her other than wheeze threateningly. Still, it had been twenty years since she’d seen the woman, and the last time…

“That’s it? No, ‘happy birthday’ just a ‘get out of my house?”

“You’re eighteen. I can barely afford to take care of myself much less an adult who won’t pay rent.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t pay rent. I said I wouldn’t pay a thousand dollars a month for a room I share with two siblings when I already pay for my own food and schooling.”

“It’s a better deal than you deserve, considering everything I’ve ever given- “

“Given me what? A lifetime of trauma? Can we talk about what I’ve given you? Like the time I saved your life by calling an ambulance because you were too drunk to breathe?”

“You little-“

“You know what? Fine. I’m leaving. I don’t want to be here anyway, but the next time you see me, it’ll be when I come to spit on your deathbed.”

Rachelle did her best not to look back at the woman drooling all over the back seat or listen to the oxygen concentrator rumbling and eating away probably half of the poor van’s battery power. Instead, she looked down that street at the house they were approaching. Her house. She’d spent the first eight years of her life in it, before her dad died and her mother had sold it to keep her spiraling life afloat. Rachelle had been surprised to find it for sale ten years ago, chagrined to realize that after two successful record deals she could actually afford it, and delighted to discover no one had chopped down the pear tree in the back.

Darla parked the van and nodded at the house approvingly. “You know, with how much I hear your songs on the radio, I thought you’d live in a mansion or something, but this is actually quite reasonable.”

Rachelle shrugged and kicked her door open, just relieved to be home. “Large houses are a pain to keep clean. Besides, I prefer spending time outdoors.”

They made it into the house without incident, but to her horror, she realized that she hadn’t had time to unpack after her last tour, and her bags still littered the entryway. It wasn’t like they’d been thrown down haphazardly, they were stacked out of the way, but that didn’t matter.

Darla wheeled Gloria in, who looked around and her smile twisted into a grimace.

“Rachelle.” She wailed. “How could you let this house get so filthy? What would your father think?”

“I don’t know.” Rachelle deadpanned. “Probably that his wife should get off her haunches and do something with her life.”

Gloria looked like she was going to retaliate, but a wheezing attack overtook her, and she doubled over, gasping for air. Darla shot Rachelle a disapproving look and quickly wheeled her to the spare room, no doubt to get the oxygen concentrator set up. Rachelle rubbed her forehead with a groan and looked around at the bags. She was considering leaving them there, just despite her mother, when Darla came back and rested a hand on her shoulder.

“You know, there really is no point fighting someone with dementia. You’d have an easier time convincing yourself the sky is green. Besides, even if you do manage to win, they’ll just forget that you did the next day and the whole thing starts over.”

Rachelle didn’t want to get lectured, but she had to admit Darla had a point so she nodded and knelt down to pick up the bags. It’s not like she’d ever won an argument with her mother anyway. Oh, she’d certainly tried to, but then it had gotten… Bad.

“Rachelle, where have you been? The front room is a mess and we’re all starving.”

“I was at school. I had some work I needed to catch up on. I told you last night.”

“You never told me any such thing.”

“I did. It’s not my fault you were too drunk to remember. Hey! Don’t touch my backpack!”

“What is this? Is this a music book? Have you been going to choir even though I told you not to?”

“I… I…”

“You can’t waste your time on these things! You’ll never make anything of yourself if you focus on something you can do for a living! You’ll die penniless!”

“I may die poor, but at least I won’t die poor, miserable, and worthless like you!”

That argument had ended rather painfully.

Rachelle managed to avoid Darla and her mother over the next two weeks. She’d check on them every morning, because it was her civic duty, and then ignored them while she answered fan mail and worked on some new songs. She was content to keep things that way, until Darla tracked her down outside, where she’d been sitting beneath the shade of the ancient pear tree and jotting inspiration into a dog-eared notebook.

Rachelle tried ignoring her, but she just stood there, arms crossed, stance wide, looking down at her with an impassive expression until Rachelle sighed and set the book aside.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

“Your mother’s dying.” Darla said flatly.

“That is what hospice means, right?” Rachelle grumbled.

“No, I mean, her oxygen saturation is in the eighties with her oxygen on, and she’s been insisting on taking it off. At this rate, she won’t last the night.

Rachelle wanted to think, good riddance.

So why did the announcement hurt?

“Look, I get the feeling your not on the best of terms, but at least do something for her. She’s been miserable, cooped up inside all day.”

Rachelle looked up at the pears, swinging from the branches high above. They were just about ripe.

“Bring her outside. This was her favorite tree, and we can have a picnic under it.”

Darla nodded slowly. “Also, I was thinking, she keeps asking for some whiskey. It’s considered a medication, so I can’t give her any, but you can.”

“Fine. Fine. Let’s just get it over with.”

“Are the pears ripe yet, Mommy?”

“Not yet. They need a little more love before they’ll be ready.”

“But I want them now.”

“Rachelle?” Gloria mumbled weakly, her bleary eyes staring up at the leaves swaying above her. Rachelle finished pouring a glass of whiskey and propped a straw into it.

“Yes, Mother?” She held the straw to Gloria’s lips, but she didn’t immediately take the drink.

“The pears… They almost look ready.”

“How do we make the pears ready faster?”

“You sing to them, sweetie. It makes them sweeter.”

“Nuh-uh. Plants can’t hear you.”

“They can too. It’s a scientifically proven fact.”

“No way.”

“Why don’t you try it? You have a lovely voice, I’m sure they’d enjoy it.”

“Will you… sing to the tree for me?” Her mother whispered. “I can’t seem… My voice…”

Rachelle nodded and began to sing the same song she’d always sung to the tree. The same one her mother had taught her. She felt the glass of whiskey grow lighter in her hands as her mother drank it, but she continued her song, and as she did the memories washed over her.

“I think these are the best pears I’ve ever tasted. Your singing seems to have done the trick.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. Let’s take them in to your father. I bet he’ll love them.”

“So… I did a good job?”

“Of course!”

“Yay! I love you, Mommy!”

“I love you too, sweetie.”

Rachelle didn’t realize she’d been singing long after the whiskey glass has been emptied and her mother had stopped responding until she felt Darla’s hand on her shoulder.

“The funeral home is on their way to pick her up.” She said gently.

Rachelle threw herself back into the grass and didn’t respond, tears streaking down her face.

“I love you too, sweetie.”

Why had she have to say that? It would have been easier if she never had. Then she could have left her to die without any regret.

And why did she wish so much she could’ve heard her say it one more time?