Leland Quarterly | Fall 2019
Sunday
Zach Lo
I unlocked the door to my mother’s house with my own key. She hadn’t wanted me to have one for a long time after my dad died, mostly because she didn’t want me to worry about her. We argued about it for months before she gave in. I tried to convince her to move out, too, at first. It was such a big house, but all the rooms were always empty. It reminded me of a museum, like one of those houses where they arrange the furniture so it looks like someone just got up and left a hundred years ago and never came back. I knew my mother must have been lonely. We first argued about it after my dad’s funeral, four— no, five— years ago. We were standing in a corner of the kitchen while all these people I didn’t know crept around us and whispered. My mother was wearing a long black dress fastened up at her throat. “You always stress,” she said. “If you come here, you stress me out, too.” She looked like she was made up of all sharp edges, like the stained glass figures in the church. I was afraid to get too close to her. “It’s about your safety,” I told her. “If you’re going to live alone, someone needs to be able to check on you.” “I do fine alone,” she said. “I know,” I said. “But what if something happens? You could have an accident or something.” “And you come save me?” she said. “What are you going to do?” “You could just let me have one,” I said. “There’s no reason not to. It would make me feel better, just to have it.” “We talk about it later,” she said. She walked away. I think she knew I didn’t want to argue with her in front of all those people. We finally did get the key made, but because she was so stubborn I promised that I wouldn’t visit without telling her first. Sometimes that made things hard; she liked to give excuses. It would be too hot or she would have a doctor’s appointment. I still felt like someone had to try to see her, at least. Like that day, Sunday, we were going to get lunch.
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