Your mother refuses to leave her room. She sits there like a statue in storage that hasn’t been moved in years. She won’t eat, won’t shower or use the toilet and when you bring her towels and clean underwear, she won’t touch them. She asks what day it is and you say Tuesday. You open the window to coax a breeze inside and she flinches. You say good morning how are you it’s beautiful outside do you want to take a walk later do you want to go to the beach this weekend like everything’s fine. She asks what day it is and you say Tuesday again. You’re thinking about that movie where Betty Davis plays a madwoman named Baby Jane, who dies at the seashore. Joan Crawford was in it. If your mother was in a movie, no one would want to watch. You close the door – can a locksmith bolt it from inside so she can’t escape again? – and the second the thought forms, guilt wriggles through you like a pack of rattlesnakes. You imagine their flat heads, the way their tongues flick the air like a whip, the lovely diamonds on their backs. If you were a snake you could slither through clean, cool blades of grass instead of trying to do your job in the next room, a boring job recruiting people to work in the aerospace industry, at the computer all day, calling prospective employees, sending emails, introducing yourself, explaining, acting normal, because there are bills to pay and you do it mindlessly now, one ear cocked for trouble. You could hide in the shade of a rock instead of dabbing at your mother’s behind with a dishtowel saying please come to the bathroom this isn’t good for your skin this isn’t good. And now it’s lunchtime and she asks what day it is and you say Tuesday, even though it’s not and she nods like you’ve just given her an important piece of information and the room reeks of urine and shit and you try to get her to take her pants off, but she won’t let you help her, and all you manage to do is wedge a towel between her legs as if that makes a difference. And when you call the memory care center, the woman who answers sounds so kind and efficient in a way you’re not that you can’t find your voice to explain the situation. It’s in you somewhere, trapped in your throat, under blood and bone, a snake that’s been severed.
Beth Sherman has had more than 200 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.