Why Do I Not Care For Ida?

besides, if i did not care for ida, who would? this mantra parroted itself endlessly in my mind, practically shrieking into my ear during ida’s most crooked moments. such as the frequent occasions i would find her, soaking in the tub, eyes closed, an ophelia in her own rite. she’d awake early in the morning, before my eyelids had even begun to ponder the possibility of parting, and run the bath water to the very brim. she would undress, sliding her cotton robe to the floor, and her shorts off the planes of her proud hipbones, before submerging herself. hours later, i would discover her, blue-blushed and aquiver, slumbering in the now chilling water. fog clinging to the mirrors, resembling the way ida’s sorrel-colored hair clung to her white
her lashes, matted together with water, would brush my cheek as she embraced me, before i began to dress her. once fully clothed, ida would act as if nothing had happened, prancing off to prepare breakfast - toast and yogurt, every day, sometimes with the yogurt spread across the toast like butter - without a word of gratitude or relief. i drove her to her therapists appointments, or as she liked to refer to them, ‘her 5 o’clock parties.’ i brushed her hair, painted her nails - though she did return the favor, my mother was awfully shocked for her daughter to return from her extended stay at the novak’s (or just one of them) with a easter-egg yellow manicure. for it was rare for me to ever wear polish, much less in a color that would cause a peep to be green with envy. subsequently, my mother demanded to meet the mysterious ida, of who i spent more than an acceptable amount of my summer vacation with, of whom colored my nails and left me with dandelion petals woven in my hair. ida’s genteel nature charmed my doting mother, as well as her ‘it was a pleasure meeting you ms. tran’ of a goodbye, complete with a chaste kiss on a ready cheek. no one - not even myself, who began to wonder if i had dreamed