Page 3 of Storm

It was welcome news, yet a niggling part of me always wanted more.

Pushing aside old thoughts, I make quick work of cleaning any dirt with the lingering solution I made earlier and finally put on the scrap of off-white material that composes my nightgown. Before getting into bed, I sparingly cover a slice of hard cracker in protein spread and scoff it down to stop the hunger pangs while my body drifts to sleep.

The last thing I do before my eyes fully close each night is check Mam’s forehead. Sharing the same bed, I roll to my side, her snoring faint. The knot in my stomach tightens. Has she been in bed all day? Did she eat? Did she drink? She had enough wherewithal to put in her ear protectors. Or maybe that was Nix when he disappeared earlier today.

This whole situation is getting out of hand. Placing a palm on her forehead, I feel the slickness of sweat and heat.

“Shit.” I pull the covers off ‌her, noticing the sweat stains covering her light sleepwear—the same simple clothing as mine.

Rushing towards the sink, I pour a quick quarter-pump into a copper cup and bring it back to bed. “Mam,” I say, and gently push her onto her side. “Mam, wake up. You need to drink something.”

“Mmmm.” Her voice is strained, her eyelids beginning to flutter. I let out a breath. “Mam, sit up, please.” The harshness of my voice is loud even to my own ears.

“Storm, what is it?” Dry lips smack together.

“Mam, you need to drink this.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, rubbing her eyes and slowly sitting up.

“Have you been in bed all day?” I set the cup at her lips and help her take small sips.

She stops and looks ahead in thought. “Mmm. I-I don’t know, sweetheart.”

I want to scream out loud and beat my anger into the walls of the factory. Instead, I lock my jaw and rub her back. “It’s okay, Mam. Finish this cup and sleep.”

She yawns and sips the last of the contents. Turning, she gives me a small smile, saying quietly, “I love you, Storm.”

“I love you, Mam,” I choke out. Seeing my once-strong mother in this state is too hard to swallow.

Together, we slide under the covers, and I wrap my arms around her from behind. The position reminds me of when she used to hold me when I was younger. Now, our roles are reversed, and I’m the one looking after her.

I should’ve come back to feed her. My mind whirls. It’s hard to keep the voices quiet.

Last year, Mam got sick. We were all in denial for several months until her symptoms began to progressively worsen, and Nix started to notice her restricted movement and short-term memory loss—key signs of the wasting. Then came the night sweats and the fatigue, and soon, Mam was limited to the confines of our tent, barely able to get out of bed.

We had seen these symptoms thousands of times before in other lightning workers. To see them in our mother was utter devastation and complete rejection.

I wanted the sprightly woman who could turn any grey day into sunshine and rainbows. The woman who had enough energy to draw stories on my back before I fell asleep. The woman who loved idle chitchat with the neighbours because I did not. She was my compass in this ever-increasing darkness, and I want her back. All I can hope for now is that her passing be swift and painless. Mam keeps telling me this isn’t the end. That we get more life. However, when death is staring at you through the eyes of a loved one, it’s hard to think beyond never experiencing a day with them again.

A rustling of the tent flaps catches my attention, the water pump giving a half-spray, letting me know Nix is back. I listen intently to every movement my brother makes as he cleans himself up and makes some dinner.

Mam’s scent of sweat and soil fills me, becoming an odd comfort as I cling to her and wait for the sheets to crinkle beside me.

Right on cue, Nix lies down carefully, trying not to disturb Mam. “How is she?” His tone is low, surrendered.

I twist my head to face the ceiling. “I don’t think she woke up while we were out.”

“I came to check on her, but she was asleep, and I hate to wake her.” His voice is muffled.

“Maybe we should—” I begin. A hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me.

“Don’t say it. That’s not even a possibility. I don’t even want to hear the words leave your mouth.” He is fierce in his delivery. Lucky for Nix, he was gifted a sister with grit. I untangle myself from Mam and turn to face my brother, who has his eyes closed and is flat on his back, taking up at least half of our bed.

I lean towards his ear and spit the word I would get starved for mentioning. “Fairy.”

His eyes pop open, and he groans. “Fuck. Why do you have to be such a pain in my ass?”

“That’s what little sisters are for, you big doofus.” I push his arm. He doesn’t push back. Instead, his eyes meet mine, long and hard. Through the dim light streaming around the curtains covering the barely-there windows of our tent, I can make out the crook in his nose from a fist fight with a market seller who tried to overcharge me for some jerky when I was seven. I also spot the slight pinpricked freckles, matching my own, that fan his nose and cheeks.