Shatter My Rock Read Online Free Page A

dementia having long
ago blended my face with the crowd.
    “I’m
here to see Charlotte Ross,” I tell the receptionist, a knot in my stomach.
    She
shoots me an obligatory half-smile and nods at an open book on the counter. “Go
ahead and sign in.”
    I
do.
    She
gestures toward the waiting area. “Have a seat.”
    This
always happens: I work up enough nerve to get through those doors, and then I
panic in the lobby. I have left here more times than I have stayed.
    But
today fate smiles. I no sooner sit than a genial-looking orderly appears.
“Visitor for Charlotte Ross?”
    I
pop out of my seat and become his Siamese twin. If only I can get a look at
her, I know I’ll stay; I’ll have to.
    “She’s
almost finished with lunch,” the orderly tells me as we walk.
    I
relax a bit and let him take the lead, small talk not my strong suit—especially
in a place like this.
    “Macaroni
and cheese today,” he continues. “Her favorite.”
    I
wonder if this is true or if my mother has simply forgotten her taste
preferences, each new meal an opportunity to fall in love all over again.
“That’s good,” I say.
    He
slows his pace as we approach an open door, through which the unmistakable
sounds of a TV game show spill into the hallway. He steps aside. “After you.”
    I
remind myself to breathe. Every time I see her could be the last. Through force
of will, I penetrate her world, the window side of a fifteen-by-fifteen cube she
divides with another lost soul.
    The
orderly follows me in and watches as I hesitate, always uncertain how to begin.
I have tried to force her to remember, but it’s no use. I am no more
significant than the maintenance man who sweeps the floors or the pretty young
anchor who delivers the evening news. Probably less so.
    “Hi,
Charlotte,” I chirp, taking the seat beside her bed. I conjure a youthful smile
I hope she will recognize. “How are you today?”
    The
orderly is more in tune with my feelings than my own mother is. He pats me on
the shoulder. “Do you want me to…?”
    “I’m
fine.”
    He
nods discreetly and heads for the door, leaving me to muddle through. “Mom,” I
murmur, almost hoping she doesn’t hear. “It’s me. Claire.”
    But
she does hear. The sounds, at least. An unwelcome distraction from The Price
is Right. “What?” she snipes, unwilling to pry her eyes from The Showcase
Showdown.
    This
is not how I want to begin. Once when I caught her in a particularly irritated
mood, she bit me. “Nothing.”
    I
settle for nonverbal communication, her physical form telling its own story. A
story I am loath to confront: hollow cheeks; sunken eyes; the teeth of a
junkyard dog.
    I
look closer. It’s hard to see, but there’s a wisp of my mother left in this
scooped-out shell. A wisp that makes me long to claw through her flesh until
all that remains is her amorphous essence.
    The
twelve o’clock news begins, and I move to the windows. If she wants me, she’ll
say so.
    I
stare out at a snow-encrusted bench and think of Ally, glad I have left her
home despite her avid pleas. My mother is the only family member on my side Ally
knows, even if such knowledge is deceptive.
    The
truth is, I have come here to tell my mother about the baby, a trial run with
someone whose mental state is so tenuous I may as well be talking to God.
    And
so I do.
    “It’s
happening,” I whisper to the stray crows that populate the ledge. “We did it.”
    As
soon as the words escape, I wish to snatch them back, fearful they may jinx the
pregnancy.
    But
I push on, speaking to the baby. “I love you,” I say, certain the life-force
within me reciprocates. “Just six more months. Everything will be okay.”
    Based
on the embryo transfer, I know the exact date the baby should be born: August
15th. And I know the child will be as disease-free as modern medicine allows,
having been screened for a plethora of genetic anomalies before ever getting a
shot at the womb. Beyond that, I hope for Ricky’s