My brother's words barely registered as he spoke them. "Seriously," he said, "Can you take me to see mom?"

I sigh, "What for? It's not like she's taking entertaining guests anymore."

"So, what, you never want to see mom again?" he asked. Was that too much to ask? Our childhood hadn't been stellar.

"Every time I've talked to mom, even when she was coherent, never brought me joy," I said. "Why should now be any different? Mitch, you think she'll have nice things to say after I just show up after two years of silence?"

Mitch bit his lip, "She's not doing well."

"No shit."

"No, really," he said. "I got a call from the home, they told me..." his voice wavered. "They told me she might not have much longer." Thank God for small mercies. "I get that you don't want to see her, just...can you drop me off? I'm not going to have my car for another few days, and it's important to me."

I don't like being guilted, but I know that's not what Mitch is trying to do. I sigh and grab my keys, "Fine, but I'm not going in."

We hopped in the car and set off down the road. It was only a half hour drive, but it gave me too much time to think, too much time to dig up unpleasant memories.

"Thank you," Mitch suddenly disrupted the silence. "I know anything involving mom isn't easy for you."

I shrug, "I'm doing this for you. I don't mind." I do mind. I'd rather be anywhere else, putting mom at the back of my mind, where she belongs. Mom, the most critical woman I'd ever met in my life, and that was before the delusions started. I wondered what she'd say to Mitch when he walked in. Probably something about talking to spirits and having a demon lurk over her, clearly the source of her shortness of breath. "What do you think she's going to say?"

Mitch shrugged, "It's just important that I get to see her. If she's in a bad way, I want to know that I made the effort to reach out."

"You talked to her recently?"

"Every other week on the phone lately," he said. Guilt formed like sweat on the back of my neck. I hadn't talked to her since my wedding. If anything had changed, I knew it wouldn't be for the better. Even still, periodically, I felt like I should reach out to her. It’d be nice to let her know I'm alright, that she wasn't the worst mom and that I forgive her. Except the last one would be a lie.

"You know she'd probably like to hear from you at some point. She'd really like that,” Mitch said. I grunt and flip my turn signal on. "Seriously," he continued. "She always asks about you."

"I bet she does," I said, maybe a little too harshly.

"It's not her fault," he said, looking at his lap. "You can't blame the mentally ill for their condition." ‘Mentally ill.’ The words made my skin crawl. It's easy to hate someone you think is just evil. It’s uncomfortably quiet. Mitch takes the hint. We both listen to the sound of tires on pavement as we go down the road.

What would I say to mom? 'Hey mom, I know you don't approve of damn near anything in my life because your delusions tell you my life's a mess and that I'm in dire straits, but it's all good?' Fuck that. There's no reasoning with some people on the best of days. If I got through to her by some miracle, she'd only forget by the next time I saw her. I still can't shake the feeling of wanting to put her fears to rest, to comfort her in some small way.

The nursing home sign appears on the left. We turn into the parking lot and park by the door. Mom's been frail for a long time, if she took a turn for the worst…maybe Mitch is right. Maybe reaching out, just as a nice gesture, would ease years of compounding guilt.

I noticed Mitch still in the passenger seat. "Do you...want to come with me?" he asks sheepishly. Do I want to subject myself to that? …would I have another chance if not now?

I kill the engine. "Sure, lead the way."

We walked up to the receptionist who had us wait to see one of the onsite doctors. The kindly middle-aged woman took us into a private room where she said it. "Your mother's about to pass, she’s on life support," she said. I felt like a ghost among the living as the words sunk in. "I can take you both to the room to say goodbye,” said the doctor. “She's on a respirator and might not be conscious, but we encourage saying goodbye for closure. It helps.”

In the room, Mitch held mom's hand, sitting next to the bed. Her eyes were closed. A monitor showed a weak pulse. I stood in the doorway, crushed by the weight of all the things I never said. Things I wanted to express but never could. I sank to my knees as hot tears rolled down my cheeks. A nurse rushed over and asked me something, but I couldn't hear her. I couldn't hear anything other than the sudden flatline. This husk was my mother, a proud woman brought low by mental illness, and I had abandoned her to her fate.