for me?
Just one night—in the heat of your embrace.
Sweetheart—Mother tries to say it, but only a sigh comes out. So many words in one sentence just to convey one thought. Mother just can’t string them together anymore.
Please don’t deny me warmth, she wants to say. It’s the worst thing one person can deny another.
Sweetheart, Mother wants to say, your face is a beautiful canopy of leaves. Full, soft, alive. That’s a good thing, Mother wants to say. It’s important for a woman to be attractive.
“Gran,” her granddaughter speaks suddenly, close, close by. “Gran, do you remember back when you said that a person is beautiful only once they understand themselves? Gran, right now you’re very beautiful. Yes you are, don’t shake your head, you are! You are.”
The light voice returns above them:
“I went to the Red Cross earlier and got one of those cheap toilet chairs. See, that white thing. They rent them out, but I paid for only a month, since it’s not worth paying for a half a year. The man said so—if they’re dying, it’s not worth it. They’re dying.”
As these words are spoken a wet towel is scrubbed back and forth over Mother’s face. Mother pulls away, squeezes her eyes shut—both the good one and the one that’s crusted over—but it’s impossible to escape the towel. It’s wet and rough.
“Mom, don’t say that around her.”
“Her hearing is bad. And what does it matter anyway? That’s life. The day we brought her home from the hospital, another patient in her ward died. She was this tiny old woman, swore at everyone, complained, was never satisfied. That day they’d supposedly pumped a ton of fluids into her—you know, eight of those huge bags. Well, and she died anyway. She didn’t suffer long, maybe ten minutes. Her daughter had just arrived and was standing by the bed. The doctors rushed in and wanted to resuscitate her, they even brought the gurney, but there wasn’t anything to resuscitate anymore. They opened the window—for the soul to leave—and then cleared her away, bed and all. And that was it. That morning I’d even told the women working the ward—look how she’s holding her hands, crossed over her chest, she’s going to go soon! And she did.”
Two strong hands wedge under Mother’s shoulder blades and sit her up.
“Oh,” Mother cries, “it hurts!”
“Nothing hurts, you lump. I rented the toilet chair for nothing. She doesn’t understand anything anymore. I sat her on that chair and kept her there for an hour. Nothing. No pissing, no shitting. She doesn’t get it. Just sits and dozes. For nothing! She’s lazy, just takes care of everything in the diaper. And at night she scratches at the walls, fidgets. One night around three I heard this loud thump. I wondered what it could be, so I come look and find she’s fallen out of bed. Flat on her face. Once I’d finally gotten her back up I couldn’t fall asleep until morning. I went to work completely out of it. Now I put the toilet chair against the bed so she won’t fall out. At least it’s good for something. It’s heavy, see, made of metal. It’s like having iron bars.”
Toothless Mother smiles from behind the bars. She smiles at nothing in particular, something melted, sweet, and white beyond that faraway window. But the here and now just won’t let her be. Her palms press down onto the bars and force her to push herself up. Her body is crumpled, it doesn’t want to move. Her muscles are knotted at the thighs, her legs don’t want to stand. It’s hard for her, she doesn’t understand why she has to stand if her body doesn’t want to. But she’s propped up with her hands on the bars and is stretched like a piece of leather across a frame as the bottom of her nightdress is rolled up in the morning light. They wash her back. She puts up with it. There’s a throbbing and pulsing in her temples. She feels her blood slosh through her bony body and pool at her feet, she is a glass of corked wine balanced precariously high over the emptiness and the white of daylight.
“Good thing Pāvils gave me these yellow rubber gloves. They’re really good, see? Before my hands would smell so badly I couldn’t go to work—piss and shit get under your nails and the smell sticks to your skin no matter how hard you scrub your hands. It’s more hygienic with the gloves. They work! I put a hat on before coming in here, too. Your hair soaks up smells in a second. I can’t talk to anyone at work about any of it. I never dreamed it would be like this. She’s been strong as a horse her whole life—she worked as hard as a horse and was as proud as a horse. Wouldn’t let anyone or anything get to her. And look at her now! How long will it be like this? Could be years. The doctors said her heart was like a horse’s. Strong. Her mind’s gone, she doesn’t think or feel anything, but she’s still got an appetite.”
Mother hears these doubts about her mental capacity and smirks, then smacks her gums, which are again as dried out as the desert. But right away she winces as a rough towel digs into the skin behind her knees.
“Mom, what you’re doing is admirable—you’re great. You amaze me. You’ll feel good about it afterwards, right?”
“Will I feel good about it? I don’t even know how to respond to your little cheer.”
“Cheer? Mom!”
“I don’t know. I don’t know about anything anymore. I try not to think at all.”
They put a new diaper on Mother and sit her back onto the bed with a pile of pillows behind her back. A napkin is tucked in under her chin. A spoon of something red is brought to her mouth. She opens it like a mechanical beak and swallows.
“Have some fruit, Mother!”
“You should cut it up—she doesn’t have any teeth.”
Mother nods and swallows the piece of fruit whole.
“She can mash it up with her gums.”
“Maybe it would be better to put her in a home. You yell at her. And one time when I called you were in tears. Sometimes you drink and cry.”
“I don’t just yell at her, m’dear, I hit her too—with a towel. She’s totally shameless. And yes, I yell. She shits all over the bed and pisses all the time. But she still has an appetite. I stand next to her and watch my life fall apart—or what’s left of it. An hour with her sometimes feels like a year. I’ll drink her medicine, it happens a lot. It’s human nature! Don’t shake your head, that’s life. You don’t believe me and that’s fine, because you don’t know anything about life yet. Think what you want, but I’m not putting her in a home. She’s my mother.”
“Nurse supervision, good food. She’s been proud her entire life, remember, Mom? It might be better for both of you if you didn’t yell and hit her with towels. If you didn’t cry and drink her medicine.”
“Why bother having kids if they just end up putting you in a home?”
“But let’s at least think about it.”
“You’re all trying to push this nursing home thing—stop piling on your advice!”
Mother nods and opens her mouth to have her say, but gets a mouthful of chocolate spread instead. That was unnecessary. Mother hates the chocolate. She shudders and shakes her head. But her gums mash up the spread, and it melts and drips heavily into her stomach.
Mother speaks:
“The
