Things Worth Remembering

by Jackina Stark

  But all that has changed, hasn’t it?

  Dread fills my heart. Tim Russert comes to my mind, sitting at his desk, preparing for Sunday’s Meet the Press, gone in a moment.

  “Is my mother alive, sir?”

  Give me the bottom line—Mother would be proud of me.

  “Oh yes, dear. I’m sorry; I should have made that clear right away. In fact, tests indicate that damage to her heart was minimal. An angiogram did show a substantial blockage in one of her arteries, and her doctors recommended a balloon catheter. She’s just been taken to surgery. Try not to worry; her surgeon assured us it is a routine procedure.”

  “Routine?”

  “That’s what he said, and I think it probably is. If all goes as well as everyone anticipates, she’ll be resting in her room before noon. So you see, there’s good news too.”

  He pauses, probably anticipating a response at that point, but I am still trying to process everything I have heard in such a few minutes.

  Finally I manage one socialized word. “Yes.”

  Too brief. I try again. “Yes, that’s good news.”

  “I could have waited to call you until the surgery is over— your mother suggested that—but I thought you’d want to know now.”

  I finally gain a measure of composure. “I’m so glad you called, Mr. Jamison. Of course I’m thankful to know as soon as possible.”

  He tells me the name of the hospital where Mother is, and I tell him I’ll be there as soon as possible. “By three, I hope.”

  Luke walks in while I stand here with the receiver disconnected but still in my hand. I’m looking out the window—one second, praying; the next, trying to collect my thoughts.

  “Who was on the phone?” he asks.

  “Mother’s boss.”

  He looks as bewildered as I must have looked when Mr.

  Jamison was trying to tell me the bad and good news.

  “Mother’s had a heart attack.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, at the office, shortly after she arrived this morning, I guess. I really don’t have many details, except it was a mild attack, she has a blocked artery, and she’s having balloon surgery as we speak. I need to go, Luke. I need to see her, and I need to get Maisey’s wedding dress. You knew Mother was bringing the dress tomorrow, didn’t you? There’s no way she’ll be able to come to the wedding now. She probably won’t be released from the hospital until Sunday. And even if she is released Saturday, she won’t be coming to the wedding. I’d like not to bother Maisey about it yet.”

  “Maisey just left.”

  “Left?”

  “She and Marcus are returning some things in Indy. I suppose we should call her and let her know what’s going on.”

  “No, no. Give the girl some peace. I’ll have the dress home and hopefully a good report on Mother before she has a chance to worry about it.”

  “I have a meeting at the main office this afternoon,” Luke says, “but I’ll make some calls and have someone else cover it or have it rescheduled. You shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Don’t do that. Someone needs to be here when the kids get home. And actually, I think I’d like to be alone today—if you don’t mind. The drive will probably do me good. Then I’ll see Mother, make sure she’s okay, get the dress, and drive back. I should be home by ten or eleven.”

  He doesn’t seem to like that idea much. “Don’t you think you should stay there overnight? That’s a lot of driving.”

  Suddenly I really see Luke, and I’m amazed at the conversation we’re having, so businesslike. It’s true I was glad he was gone when I awoke this morning—what could we say to make this day something more than bearable? But in this moment I want very much for him to stretch out on the chaise so that I can lie beside him before I go. I want to feel his strength and warmth, hear his heartbeat, and whisper what my heart repeats when it has nothing else to say: You are my beloved.

  But there is no time for that, and I’m not sure I would follow through with that lovely impulse if there were time, not this day.

  Instead I say, “Do you know what tomorrow’s going to be like? Oh my goodness, things will be crazy up to and through the rehearsal dinner. I just want to get this done and get home.”

  I go into my closet and exchange flip-flops for espadrilles and grab a blazer to wear with my T-shirt and jeans. When I return to the bedroom, Luke hands me my purse and my cell phone.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Be careful. I hope everything will be okay.”

  “I do too.”

  Luke heads for the shower, and I head for the garage. It goes without saying that I will be careful—our daughter’s wedding is two days away. But how, I wonder, can everything possibly be okay?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Maisey

  Marcus seems content enough, watching the road and listening to ESPN. I have been listening to my iPod since we left the house. The first fifteen minutes we were on the road, I gave rapt attention to the countryside flying by the passenger window, remembering for some reason that this scenery has charmed my mother for decades. And I must admit, I love it too. Gram cannot grasp the concept. She honestly feels like she’s back to nature when she sits on her tenth-story patio balcony among the lights of the city and catches a glimpse of her hanging fern and the pot of red geraniums on the glass table next to her.

  I took out my earphones a minute ago, just in time to hear yet another argument heating up on the radio—more on the steroid issue. How can that be? I gave Marcus a quick smile and returned to my tunes.

  I’ve reclined the seat a little, and I’m hiding behind my eyelids. Marcus will say I slept most of the way to Indy, but he will be wrong. I am not asleep. Far from it.

  I’m thinking, and how I wish I weren’t, about shopping in Indy with my mother. We used to shop till we dropped in a couple of really cool shopping malls. She and I made the trek to Indy several times a year from the time I started first grade through the seventh. We went when I was in high school too, but then Jackie or someone always shopped with us—the more the merrier.

  I’m thinking specifically about a beautiful winter day that seems as long ago and far away as any in a fairy tale. I was in the seventh grade, and Mother and I were looking for a dress for the Valentine’s dance. I had confessed to Mother the thrilling fact that one of her favorite former students wanted to meet me in the gym and dance the night away—make that dance away the two hours between six and eight. I thought that was pretty nice of the guy, considering that only two months earlier my dad had refused to let me “date” him simply because that pretty much required holding hands in the halls between classes.

  I told Mom I needed to look fantastic, and she understood. That shopping trip was unusually successful. We found a darling dress, grown-up but not too grown-up, and half off half price. Mom said we saved so much money on the dress I could get some shoes to go with it, my first pair with a little heel (which made me a little heel taller than my love interest), and a few accessories—a clip for my hair and a necklace I still have. Mother said I would look more than fantastic and maybe we could get out of the house before Dad noticed the heels.

  Before we left the mall, we ate hamburgers and fries and shared a malt at Johnny Rockets, but the most memorable part of a memorable day was the trip home: Mom had to pull into a Wal-Mart so she could run in and throw up.

  “Whoa, Mom,” I said outside her stall. “Did you eat too much? Was your hamburger bad?”

  She came out looking pretty terrible and went to the sink to rinse out her mouth. She said this was the third time she had thrown up this week.

  “I haven’t felt like this,” she said, wiping her mouth with a damp paper towel, “well, since I was pregnant with you, sweetie.”

  We just looked at each other in the mirror over the sinks.

  “Mom!” I said. “What if you’re pregnant?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s virtually impossible. My doc
tor said you were a miracle.”

  I smiled. I had always liked thinking of myself as a miracle.

  “Maybe you’ll have two miracles. It’s been thirteen years since the last one.”

  “True,” she said, looking doubtful and hopeful all at the same time.

  “Have you missed a period?” I asked.

  “I don’t really have regular periods.”

  Better than nothing, I thought while she cleaned the counter with her paper towel. I hadn’t had a period yet, and I was awaiting the event with great anticipation. Mother said I shouldn’t be so eager, that it really wasn’t all that much fun, but all my friends were good to go, and I didn’t like being left behind. Though I didn’t brag about it, I was more knowledgeable about what Caitlin called “the curse” than any of my friends who had made this rite of passage into womanhood back in, oh, the first or second grade.

  So, standing with Mom in the Wal-Mart bathroom, I knew exactly what we should do. Actually, I suppose anyone who watches television would know. “Mom,” I said slowly, “we need to get a pregnancy test. We’re right here. Let’s do it.”

  “That’s silly, Maisey. And a waste of money.”

  “I’ll float you a loan,” I said, and she laughed.

  Then, with no transition whatsoever, she grabbed my hand, walked out of the ladies’ bathroom, and headed straight for the Health and Beauty aisle. We stood there, staring at the vast array of testing options for a few minutes, until she finally grabbed a box. Rolling her eyes, she walked toward a cashier, saying, “The things I let you talk me into!”

  Back in the bathroom after paying for our crystal ball, we stood staring at the little window in the plastic wand we had placed on the counter between the last sink and the wall. Mom said a watched pot wouldn’t boil, so she leaned against the wall, staring across the room, and I began pacing, circling the small bathroom. Mom said I would have made a good Israelite marching around the walls of Jericho.

  A lady came in to wash her toddler’s hands and looked at Mom leaning and me pacing and the wand sitting on the counter. “Good luck,” she said as she was leaving.

  Mom smiled, checked her watch, took a deep breath, and looked at me with wide eyes. “Okay,” she said, and we walked over to the counter to discover the verdict.

  “Mom!” I yelled, giving her a huge hug. “That’s the biggest, brightest plus sign in the history of the world!”

  Kendy

  They say more women die from heart attacks than men. But still I’m shocked to think my mother could have had one. At sixty-five, she still seems young to me. And she has always seemed invincible. Her company sends her to Mayo to get a thorough physical every other year, and when she turned fifty she began taking advantage of the gym in her building, exercising most days on her lunch hour or before leaving for the day.

  I once told her she could get exercise by simply walking to work, but though she won’t admit such a thing, I believe she likes her Lexus and the space reserved for her in the parking garage way too much to walk. Plus, I doubt she’d want to be seen on the street in walking shoes. But I imagine the main reason she doesn’t walk to the office is her belief, possibly an unconscious one, that the ten minutes it would take would be better spent making herself indispensable to the company.

  Over the years that philosophy has paid off. The fall Margaret took me off to college, Mother kissed me good-bye and said she knew I would do well in my studies and that I had the good sense to make wise choices and take good care of myself. She also said she’d miss me, but I doubted that very much. If she missed me at all, the transition was helped immensely when she was named CFO that October, the first woman in the history of the company to hold that position.

  Mother is in surgery right now, and I feel panic welling up within me. I want to be there more than I could have imagined, and I want to be there now—goodness, someone besides her boss should be there—but nearly five hours of interstate lie between me and the hospital.

  Mr. Phillips said the procedure was routine, but sometimes routine goes awry. Dear God, please don’t let Mother die.

  It seems to me she has not begun to live.

  That sounds so judgmental, and I, above all people, cannot stand in judgment of anyone else’s choices. But I can’t help but be sorry Mother gave everything for her job, for however good that job has been, it does not love her. And I wonder, can one pass on a meaningful legacy to a utility company? I don’t doubt that my mother has been appreciated or that she will be hard to replace; nevertheless, the company will get along just fine when she packs her things into a cardboard box and turns out the lights in her office.

  I wish Mother had diversified her time as she has done her portfolio.

  I do find it interesting that she has apparently made so much time for Maisey this past year, helping her find a wedding dress, helping her and Marcus find a good apartment with reasonable rent, and hosting a wedding shower, for goodness’ sake.

  Of course, Maisey has not minded asking for her help. I wasn’t very good at that. When Mother said she didn’t see how she’d have time to help me find a wedding dress—“Such short notice, Kennedy”—I told her not to worry about it, Margaret would help me. I was twenty-three and didn’t need all that much help anyway. But the thing is, Margaret and I had so much fun the day we found my dress, and it makes me sad Mother missed out on it, as she missed out on so many things. At the time, I felt sorry for myself. Today I feel terribly sorry for her.

  Luke was spared Mother’s fate; unfortunately, my breaking his heart provided his reprieve. After I lost the baby and finally told him about Clay and me, his job ceased to be his number-one priority. Out of all the misery, there is this one good thing: He and Maisey have enjoyed each other so much.

  I see now that the special bond between them began the minute he picked her up at camp the Friday we lost the baby. She felt the need to protect him, and she compensated, as best she could, for the son he would not have. The months I was lost to them and to myself were not the sole cause of her exclusive devotion to her father, her switch of allegiance—as I have always thought.

  I began to come out of that dreadful depression the spring of her eighth-grade year, but the girl I knew so well and loved so deeply was nowhere to be found. I’ve blamed those debilitating months of seclusion for our breach, but now it seems so obvious they weren’t the cause. My Maisey would have tiptoed into the dark room of my depression and curled up beside me without saying a word or requiring one. She would have come day after day, week after week, until I could speak again.

  I told myself that in the months of my illness several things happened to change everything: She went through the throes of puberty; she began to count on Luke for everything—lunch money, rides, basketball tips, good-night kisses; and she developed a preference for constant company, especially Jackie’s. There was little room for me when I returned from the far-off country of my despair, and I have reluctantly tried to accept that as the price of desertion.

  Last night at the dinner table, I understood the full extent of what Maisey and I have lost—and why. I wonder if, for me, there could be a worse moment.

  I would rather have died when Maisey was a child than to have hurt her so badly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEN

  Maisey

  We are almost to the door of Victoria’s Secret when Marcus says he wants to look for a hat while I exchange my gift. He says he has no desire whatsoever to weave in and out of a store full of merchandise that, as far as he’s concerned, should not be publicly displayed. It seems he was traumatized twelve years ago when his mother dragged him through another Victoria’s, looking for a pretty something or other for one of her daughters-in-law.

  “But don’t you want to help me pick out something else?” I ask as we stand near the display windows.

  “I trust your taste completely,” he says, heading for Lids, a store that doesn’t offend his sensibilities. “Call me when you’re through,” he adds, holding up his cell
phone.

  Well, it’s thirty minutes later, and I’m through. But when I finished my exchange and reached in my purse for my cell phone, I discovered I had left it at home, as I tend to do if I’m not careful. Do pay phones still exist? Will a pleasant stranger lend me her cell? I’m trusting Marcus will figure out what I’ve done and meet me where he left me.

  I’m sitting on one of the couches in the wide hallways near Victoria’s Secret, waiting. What else can I do? I scan the crowd, looking for him. I turn and look behind me. Lots of people but no Marcus. I wish he would come. Surely he can find a hat faster than I found something we’ll both like. I’ve put the sack containing my rather skimpy but very tasteful new “sleepwear” on the cushion beside me, warding off any other weary shopper until Marcus arrives.

  Soon, I hope.

  Circle Centre is remarkably busy for a Thursday morning. That and my lack of attention is why I almost decked my middle school orchestra director when Marcus and I first arrived and rounded the corner by Banana Republic.

  “Maisey,” she said when we stopped short of body slamming each other, “I’m thrilled to see you, dear.”

  She looked at Marcus and asked if he was the lucky young man I was going to marry on Saturday, and though I had experienced a moment of doubt this morning, I assured her that he was. She said she’d be there with bells on and that my English teacher for both the seventh and eighth grades was coming with her. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she said as she walked away, hunting for a cinnamon roll.

  I started taking violin in the sixth grade, as soon as I started middle school. Mother thought playing an instrument was a great idea, even though she herself had given up the piano after six years of lessons. She had learned to hold her hands in a way that didn’t enrage her fanatical teacher, and she had mastered such classics as Beethoven’s “Für Elise,” but she knew deep inside that she was never going to be a great pianist.