Bonnie

Bonnie lay atop the covers on her bed, staring at the cracks in her ceiling.

A creak echoed. She focused on it. Nothing else. Just the house settling.

Another creak. Then another. She stood, put on her slippers, and crept down the hall.

The kitchen was lit. An old woman, curled over with osteoporosis, stood at the stove with a pot but no flame. “Bonnie!”

“What’s wrong, Momma?” Bonnie put her hands Momma’s shoulders.

“Jus’ wantin’ some lunch.” She kept fiddling with the knobs. “I’m hungry.”

In the pot sat three eggs, no water. “Okay, Momma. I’ll make some for you. Go sit.”

Bonnie pushed a button on the stove’s dashboard, releasing the lock. After a couple of clicks, a flame popped up.

She tiptoed through to the parlor’s doorway. Her mother sat by the radio, playing a CD of Waylon, Crystal, Kenny, Dolly, and Loretta. Momma was sound asleep in her lounger.

“Momma, Jennifer’s having Thanksgiving next week.” The next morning, Bonnie was changing the locks on the front door, so that a key would be required to unlock it from the inside. Last week, Momma had tried to “go to Little Gussie’s” (a sister who’d died a decade before).

“Don’t wanna go.” Momma listened to the same CD for the umpteenth time. There were five different ones; each had two hours of music. They would play over and over again. Bonnie swapped them out whenever the repetition drove her mad.

Bonnie sighed. “You haven’t gone in years. They miss you.”

The phone rang. Bonnie went to the kitchen to answer it.

“Bonnie? How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, Jennifer. What can I do for you?”

“Brian and I thought that maybe we’d invite Nanny to stay with us next week.”

“She doesn’t like being called—” Bonnie swallowed. “You what?”

“We just thought it would be easier if we had her. So you wouldn’t have to bring her all the way out here.”

It was a thirty-minute drive. Bonny thought if they were concerned, they should come more often. “I need to work on the bathroom anyway. That’s perfect. When?”

When Jennifer picked Momma up, Bonnie handed her a inch-thick folder.

“What’s this?”

“Momma’s doctors. Her meds. Her routine. What to do if—”

“You think I can’t take care of my own mother? Your grandmother?”

Bonnie bit the inside of her cheek. “They adopted me. I’m your sister, not your niece.”

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

After they left, Bonnie took the folder Jennifer left behind and set it on the buffet.

A little after midnight, Bonnie was install a new bar and seat for Momma in the tub. Without a loan on the house, she had to do it piecemeal by herself.

The phone rang. Bonnie answered in the hall. There were sobs coming from the other end.

“Jennifer, that you?”

“How? How do you do it?”

Bonnie looked at the clock.

Eight hours.

She had to give Jennifer credit; she lasted longer than expected.