Squished Bugs

Jemma Heitlinger

Content warning:

Themes Of Death And Illness

Her mum lay in bed, a mound beneath the quilts. Jenna entered the eerily quiet room, watching her footsteps as though awareness would soften them.

The whole house was silent today. Whilst her siblings were working, she dedicated her day off to caring for her sickly mother. Jenna hadn’t planned for it, but at least she could catch up on some reading.

Despite it being the middle of the day, her mum’s room was enclosed in a thick dark warmth, the satin curtains drawn closed.

In her hands Jenna held a bowl of soup recently warmed up. She set it down on the bedside table, leaning over her mum’s small body.

‘Mum?’ she whispered, planting a hand on her shoulder and pushing gently. Jenna repeated it once more before her mum blinked herself awake. The surface of her face smoothed out as she awoke; the tension built up during slumber dissipating into consciousness.

‘Jenna?’ she asked. ‘Are the dogs okay?’

Jenna smiled at her mum, helping her to sit up against the headboard. ‘They’re fine. They’re resting outside, I walked them earlier.’

Her mother nodded, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. ‘That’s good.’

‘How are you feeling?’

In response, she threaded a bony hand through her hair, deliberating the question as she took stock of her frail body. ‘I’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.’

‘Seriously, mum. You’re sick, I need to know if you’re getting better.’

Her mum rolled her eyes and an unconvincing grin spread painfully across her face. ‘Don’t be silly. You’ll know if I’m dying.’

Jenna frowned as a headache sprang to life. She soothed her temples in small circles and sighed deeply. ‘Please don’t say that.’

The bed shifted as her mum adjusted her position, staring at her daughter knowingly. Jenna nearly flinched, scared she had somehow jumped back in time to when she was a little girl. ‘Everyone dies, Jenna,’ she lectured. Her tone remained neutral and measured, the teasing from earlier gone.

Jenna couldn’t dispute this fact, but her mother’s ease in accepting this fate frightened her. Being young hadn’t spared her from understanding the certainty of death, but kids don’t think of their own death. They think of it in terms of squished bugs underfoot, the rotting vegetables in the fridge, a family pet being placed in a shoe box beneath dirt.

They’re in a better place now, children are told.

But kids do not, cannot, even think to understand their own parent’s death.

Jenna scoffed. She stood back with her hands resting on her hips, her foot tapping against the carpet. ‘I brought you soup. Do you want a bath afterwards?’

A small rocking chair had been placed by the bed. The padding was hard, and comfort evaded Jenna as she sat to observe her mother eating. They did not talk, but it was reassuring to see that her mum was able to keep the meal down.

As promised, Jenna aided her mum to the adjoining bathroom. The ten steps it took to reach it were slow, deliberate, and an arm was required for support. She undressed her mum efficiently, helping her step into the porcelain bathtub.

The water was kept lukewarm, and once half-filled, a generous amount of bath salts entered the steaming water. An ocean scent filtered into the air, both calming and nostalgic as Jenna perched on a stool at her mother’s back. She emptied a cup of water over her mum’s head to rinse her tangled hair.

The fine threads of grey and silver melted under Jenna’s fingers. The water smoothed out any imperfections, cascading down her mum’s back.

‘Is the temperature okay?’ she asked.

Her mother leaned back into the soothing, repetitive touch. The idle stroking Jenna had started, stopped while she awaited an answer. ‘It’s fine,’ her mother said.

She began running her fingers through the thin hair again. ‘Are you comfortable?’

At this line of questioning, her mum twisted her body around, knocking the deft fingers from her hair. She gave Jenna a repulsive look. ‘Don’t treat me like a child. I’m sick, not incompetent.’

Jenna folded her hands in her lap, resisting the childish urge to pick at her cuticles. She settled for cracking her knuckles discreetly. ‘I’m just making sure you’re okay.’

‘And I appreciate it. But having you fret won’t better me.’

Jenna stared at her mum in tense annoyance. The crack crack crack of her knuckles the only deterrent to an oncoming spillage. Stretching out her fingers, her calmness acted as prelude to her inevitable fury. ‘I don’t have to take care of you.’ Jenna’s voice was cold.

Her mum gave an incredulous look, as though Jenna had told a joke. My very own comedian, she would say when Jenna was a child. ‘I didn’t ask you to care for me.’

Jenna dropped the cup, watching it bounce up against the wall as it clattered on the tiled floor. The stool lurched to the ground as she stood, filling the bathroom with a grating noise. In its wake, a long, deliberating silence followed.

‘Call for me if you actually need some help. I’m going outside.’

As she left the bathroom, her mother called out after her, ‘Don’t be so immature, Jenna.’

‘Don’t be so immature, Jenna,’ Lea said, laughing as she watched her toddler throw the sweetsmelling bubbles into the air. Some landed on herself, and some on the walls and floor, but the highpitched squeals of enjoyment from her daughter made the mess irrelevant.

Through the window, heat gathered visibly on the black asphalt outside. The family’s pair of puppies rested close to the bathroom, in the coolness of the air-conditioning. Today had been scorching. Tan skin blistered and faces freckled in familiar resemblance.

Lea smiled at her daughter, whom herself wore the same wonky, all-teeth grin. She washed the curly strands of fine hair, tangled with salt and sand, as her daughter babbled about their day together at the beach. Lea’s older children, much older than Jenna, were in their rooms hiding from the sun.

‘Can we go again? Soon?’ her daughter pleaded.

Lea massaged shampoo into her scalp, catching the droplets that threatened to drip into her daughter’s eyes. ‘Of course we can. It would be a waste if we didn’t.’

Helping her from the bath and towelling her dry, Lea carried her daughter to the child’s bedroom. The puppies wagged their tails and nipped her ankles as she went.

After the long day, Jenna was finally in bed. Lea watched the delicate features on her daughter’s face grow tired, eyes fluttering closed as she stroked her hair soothingly. When she kneeled by the bed to tuck the blankets around her daughter’s small body, her knees ached, joints swelling up with sharp pain.

Jenna must have noticed, asking, ‘What’s wrong, mummy?’

Lea used her free hand to squeeze feeling back into her legs. ‘Getting older, darling girl. I don’t have as much energy as you anymore,’ she said with a weak smile, and Jenna tugged at her hands determinedly.

‘I can carry you. I can take care of you,’ she said with confidence. Lea laughed and shook her head. ‘Mummy can take care of herself.’

Jenna closed her novel at the sound of the fly screen door snapping shut. Her mum waddled across the porch deck, huddled deep into her dressing gown, and sat beside Jenna on the threadbare patio couch. The sun had been slowly falling from its peak, and now spilled onto the porch.

The warm glow illuminated her mother’s features as she sat down awkwardly, in obvious pain. Her tan face, splattered with freckles, reminded Jenna of her own childhood appearance. She abruptly remembered the portraits in the hallway of them side by side. Two different beings, and yet so similar.

‘I’m sorry you have to take care of me,’ Lea said.

Jenna sighed, placing a hand over her mother’s. ‘I don’t mind. Really.’

Her mum squeezed back, wrinkly skin meshing with smooth flesh. Jenna watched her close her eyes and nod in acceptance. ‘I know. I know you don’t, but… you need to accept that I’m getting older—’

Jenna interrupted her. ‘It’s frustrating. To see you in pain. You not letting me help. And—I know you’re getting older.’ She fiddled with a dog-eared page, eyes averted from her mum. ‘But I want to help you, for as long as I can.’ She met her mother’s heavy gaze, a fearful lump growing in her throat. An unpleasant silence followed, weighing between the women. Her mum leaned back into the tattered cushions, face awash with sunlight, warmth pulling her into the past.

‘Fine,’ Lea said finally, ‘carry me all you want.’

SQUISHED BUGS — JEMMA HEITLINGER