“Eldercare” by Triss Stein is presented here in its entirety, an exclusive excerpt from Family Matters, edited by Anita Page, the third Murder New York Style mystery anthology (available September 9, 2014).
Come meet the relatives! These twenty short stories by members of the New York/Tri-State chapter will take you from the explosive excitement of the New York City Marathon to a secret cellar in Queens; from the warmth of an immigrant culture to the moneyed New York art world; from brutality and poverty to Wall Street’s privileged thugs. These urban short stories offer action-packed murder and suspense-filled mystery ranging in tone from fun to dark and from cozy to noir. No Metrocard or E-ZPass required to tour these neighborhoods.
She’s yelling at me. Not for the first time today and not even for the twentieth. And certainly not for the last.
She could yell at my big sister for once, the one who walks on water. The one who has the glamorous house on a beach in California. The one who hasn’t been home in two years and hasn’t called in two months. If she wants to yell, why not at her?
Or my older brother, the one who lives on the Jersey shore, but can’t seem to find a good day to hit the Garden State Parkway and give the old lady the thrill of his handsome face. But no. The surfing shop needs him night and day, even in the winter. She could yell at him; he has it coming.
So here I am, still on the same old beach in Brooklyn, still in the same old house where we grew up, still available for yelling.
The honest truth is, she was never sweetness and light. You think it’s just chance, both my siblings live on beaches, like where they grew up? But not THE beach where they DID grow up? They couldn’t wait to be somewhere else. Far enough so the old lady’s tongue couldn’t reach them. Even when all her brain cells were intact—or as intact as they ever were—she could skin you alive with her voice.
Right about the time I was plotting my own escape, she ended up in the hospital a couple of times, and then they said she had the big A and she was losing her brain cells, one cell at a time. They even showed me pictures.
And she wasn’t ever going to get better.
I was kind of hoping that the cells that were getting erased would be the ones that gave her the mean mouth and the vicious temper, but no such luck. They were the ones that told her how to dress herself and cook and eat. She still knew how to set a trap and spring it, with me playing the mouse. Trapped. So here I am, pushing thirty, living in my boyhood room with the Star Wars sheets on the cold twin bed. Making my own meals, cause she was never much of a cook, and now can’t be trusted near a stove. If she blew herself up, I wouldn’t mourn much. Not much, ha. Not at all, but I worry about the house. It’s a good house, brick, front and back yards, garage, three stories cause they built some bedrooms up in the attic. It’s one block from the beach. One freakin’ block. It’s worth real money. And I’ve earned it.
[Continue reading “Eldercare” by Triss Stein]