her uneasy. Mother wants to tell them she doesn’t understand why she needs to get up anymore. She’s tired, but they won’t leave her alone.
“And the worst is she somehow gets in there with her left hand. She grabs and tears at the diaper and then smears shit all over the place. She’s out of her mind. I’ve got to change the bedding twice a day—all of it.”
Mother closes the one eye and pretends this talk isn’t about her. For several years now her good eye has been covered by a film, a rapidly swirling fog with tiny black spots.
“You have to figure something out. You can probably do something like tie a shirt over her chest,” says a second voice that’s lower, infused with darkness.
Mother likes that voice better.
“She doesn’t get in from the top, but from the bottom along her thigh. The entire bed is flooded by morning. She pees so, so much. And if there’s shit I can’t even come in here without gagging. You wouldn’t believe the smell,” the first voice complains, white and clear as a ray of light.
You can’t hide from that voice, so Mother just shuts her eye tighter.
“Maybe like something for a baby. A onesie that buttons up the sides.”
“Won’t work. Since the last treatment she’s completely lost it. Look at how small she is—but she’s heavy, as heavy as a rock. She’s dead weight, ten times heavier than me. I make her stand up so her legs won’t totally atrophy. A few minutes a day. When I come home from work I have her sit up. You can’t believe how hard it is. I’ve sprained my back—it hurts. No, no, no. No onesies, no pants. She can’t even lift her legs. It would just mean extra clothes for me to wash. No, no, no. I had an idea yesterday—I’ll secure the diaper with electrical tape. Or a wide strip of duct tape. What do you think?”
“You can’t do that, Mom. Her skin’ll get infected.”
“You think so? Well, then I don’t know.”
Mother pretends she is dead. Pretends this stupid conversation isn’t about her. People only talk like that about children who misbehave. She’s not a bad child, never has been. No, no, no.
The light voice disappears and the door closes.
Something warm slips under her neck, she feels warmth. Mother feels a soft, youthful breath on her cheek and opens her good eye.
“Drink some coffee, Gran,” says the dark voice, “while you can. I’m visiting. So you can have your coffee before washing up.”
A white cup enters into view. It moves closer. The hand firmly grips the back of her neck and lifts her head. Mother’s toothless mouth and pale, slug-like lips suction to the rim of the cup. Something white, warm, and sweet fills her mouth. It flows over her tongue, which has dried out overnight and rattles inside her head. The drink is heavenly. Mother wants more and watches the cup eagerly as it’s moved away from her lips.
“See, it’s good. More?”
Mother gives a sharp nod with her pointy chin—almost like she fears the cup will stay out of reach. But it comes back. This time the slug-like lips don’t let go of the white cup. Mother gulps down two mouthfuls and sinks back into the pillow. She tries to smile and make out the face. But she can’t. The effort clouds her vision even more.
Mother speaks:
“Sweetheart.”
“Yes, Gran? What do you want?”
Mother wants to tell her, but there are no words.
A yard divided up by the bright sun and a shadow cast by the roof. Gravel and tufts of grass. In this yard, she is a cat crouching close to the ground on the edge of the shadow.
The cat jumps into a flock of birds sunning themselves in the hot sand.
The birds scatter and the scene crumbles away.
She doesn’t call up these scenes; they just come and go. There’s the damp smell of moss, a cool spring wind on her face, the breaking of the last layer of ice underfoot and boots splashing into mud.
She sees a clearing and catches the scent of resin.
She sees railroad ties, up close—pitchy wood ties, iron tracks covered in red rust and tiny yellow flowers—so lifelike.
She sees a newborn child, slick with fluids, and they place it in her arms.
She can see everything except the chance to experience it all over again.
She thinks a lot about this.
But right now Mother doesn’t want scenes; Mother wants what is right next to her. That warm, innocent, dark voice.
Mother speaks:
“Sweetheart.”
“What is it, Gran? More coffee?”
Mother slowly sticks out her chin.
“What then?”
Oh, if she only could say.
Mother wants heat.
The kind that can’t be bought with money.
Mother wants someone to lie down next to her. Right next to her, pressing side to side.
Like her own mother used to sleep next to her.
Like her grandmother used to on winter nights.
Like her husband used to once she had overcome her cold, distant teenage years—once she had been grown up enough to sleep with a man. The return of the nights when their separate warmths would join to become one.
Like when her own children used to climb into bed next to her.
And wasn’t this one here—the one with the dark voice—wasn’t she her granddaughter?
A country home in the July swelter. The window is open and not a single blade of grass moves in the stifling heat. She is exhausted from this heat and reclines on the large sofa in the kitchen. They call it the “lyre”; it’s covered with a faded, striped cotton blanket that smells faintly of dust. She calls to her granddaughter:
“Sweetheart! Come lie down!”
Like a tiny flame, her granddaughter nestles against her broad back; the flame turns this way and that until it is overcome by sleep. Flies buzz around the brown wood of the curtain rod. Life is so incredibly vast.
Mother wants to say to her granddaughter—sweetheart, come lie down!
Mother wants to say—to hell with bathing, to hell with all the pissing and shitting, the eating—what does it all mean? Coldness, coldness is seeping into her from all sides. Lie down next to me, sweetheart, so I can feel your warmth. Take my frozen body into your arms. Let’s look out that far, faraway window for an hour. Two.
Live a moment of my life and you’ll
