The Doctor looked at us as if that explained everything.
Twenty-Five
Mary
As I stepped down to the dock, gloved hands offered to help, to steady me. The fog was so thick I could barely see. I stepped cautiously. The dock rocked. It seemed inauspicious to stumble. Not today. Not in front of all these people. I had to queen this thing. Royal and all that.
What was happening in France at the palace? Better weather, definitely. Had anyone ever in the history of the world seen such a deep thick air as this? Grey and awful, in your lungs fog. Was that the way Scotland was, grey and awful, all the time? I took a deep breath and remembered the palace gardens and the sunshine.
Beside me well-wishers pressed, out of focus, their hands jutting, their faces leering. Maybe they were attempting to welcome me, but through the fog their smiles emerged cold and frightening. Strange. Strangers.
A hand gesture beckoned me toward land. Voices cheered, celebrating my arrival. I was led to the end of the dock. It shifted under me, water flowing, the sounds of the marina echoing, and me, all I could see was nothing. Alone in gray fog, floating free. Queen of all I could see.
Twenty-Six
Teddy
I sat in the backseat of the car holding a casserole dish in my lap. When was the last time I rode anywhere with my parents? Not since I learned to drive. Not all three of us.
Mom was talking nervously, over-planning, over-explaining. “We’ll go in, drop off the food. Maybe straighten up if it looks like they need it. Unless that’s too obtrusive.” Her voice broke and Dad reached across to hold her hand.
She looked out the side window and began again, “She definitely needs us to clean up, she would want us to. I’ll straighten up and you can talk to Mike. Teddy will make sure Sid is . . .”
I looked down at the foil-covered cheesy, tomato, pasta bake. one of the few dishes my mom excelled at, and I was sure it wasn’t good enough. A casserole? Because your mom got moved into Hospice?
Two days ago Sid told me her mom was okay.
Then yesterday Mike called Mom and said that was it, the end.
The two different things in two different days was enough to make your head spin. To make you dizzy. Was Sid okay?
I felt shocked. Ashamed. Like listening to my mom talk was a betrayal. Like delivering food that my mom cooked was rubbing Sid’s face in it. Sorry your mom is dying, my alive mom made you a casserole.
All the Moms were making casseroles. One every night. For days and days Sid would go to Hospice and then eat casseroles made by other mothers.
I hoped Sid was too distracted to notice.
We pulled up in front of their house.
I climbed out of the car and straightened my shoulders. My dad stopped and stared at the house as if he didn’t want to go in. “Is Mike always playing Guns and Roses this loud?”
I said, “It’s how he deals, apparently.”
Mom said, “You can hear it all over the neighborhood.”
Mike opened the door. He seemed bowed over from the last time I saw him, earlier in the week, smaller. He led us to the kitchen and sent me up to see Sid.
I knocked on her door.
“Come in.”
I pushed the door open and she lay spread-eagled on the bed. Staring at the ceiling.
“Hi Sid.”
Without moving she said, “Hi.”
I stood awkwardly for a second, then pulled her desk chair up to the side of the bed and sat. “Are you okay?”
“Not really. Not at all.”
“I was thinking—the waves will be epic tomorrow—I could pick you up, early, we could go to El Porto, easy, and then I’ll drive you to see your mom. I’ll get you there first thing.”
Sid looked at the ceiling, her eyes darting between the light fixture and a cobweb that stretched to the corner. “Nah. I can’t.”
I pressed on, “It will be good for you. You haven’t done anything but hospitals for over a week.”
Sid lifted her head. “Good for me? I haven’t done anything but sit at the bedside of my dying mother for over a week. That’s literally all one person can do. I’m not going surfing—while my mother is dying.”
“God, Sid, that didn’t come out the way I meant it at all. I’m sorry, I just thought you might want to—I don’t know, get in the water, relax for just a minute, I’m offering to help. Just tell me what I can do to help.”
“Every second I’m not there she could die. Imagine it Teddy, she dies when I’m not there.”
I stared at my hands.
She said, “I’m beyond help. Tell your mother thank you for the casserole.” She curled into a ball, facing away.
Yep, she noticed.
“Sid, my family is coming to Hospice tomorrow. Okay? Do you need anything, want me to bring anything?”
“No. I don’t need anything.”
“If you think of something . . .”
Her shoulders shook like she was crying.
I walked to the bed and perched on the side and placed my hand on her shoulder.
She said with a sniffle, “I think I need to be alone.”
“I don’t know Sid, you might need some—”
“What do you know? You don’t know. You don’t.”
I sat for a minute more, wishing I could argue, but she was right. I didn’t know.
I got up and returned downstairs.
Twenty-Seven
Sid
Come to find out, wrapped up inside a mother’s body (All bodies?) was some magical essence that fluffed them up. That made them seem full and thick and substantial.
And as a mother’s essence disappeared, as she lingered, before dying, she became smaller, diminishing in size. It was all one big fade away.
And that just seemed so unfair. That this giant presence, the person that created me—was always the big to my little, would have to get small first. In front of me. How is that fair?
Twenty-Eight
Teddy
Mom and I went to the Hospice; I couldn’t believe how Sid’s mother looked—shrunken and pale and dry. Then I couldn’t believe I thought that. I hoped that my face didn’t betray my thoughts.
We brought Chipotle, but as soon as I carried it in the front door I knew it was all wrong: too spicy, too smelly. Food that demanded to be noticed. That’s the thing about Hospice—everyone is concentrating on the dying, and trying to be quiet, unobtrusive, unnoticed.
Poor Sid was hunched over, tear-stained and rumpled, and doing this thing—distracted, but also intensely focused. Like her mind wandered from our conversation, to stare at her mom, brow furrowed, thinking things through.
Like she would on the beach.
On the beach though, she would tell me.
Here, the problem was, I couldn’t even ask.
I could only say, “Hi,” and ask how she was and accept her answer, “Fine.”
My mom fussed about the room, straightening the flowers and the sheets, talking to Sid’s father, asking questions, and being, as Dad put it later, to comfort her, “A welcome distraction.”
Then we took our leave.
Promised to come back.
Mom cried all the way home.
Twenty-Nine
Texts
Sid, are you there?
You weren’t in your mom’s room today
When we visited.
Missed you.
Do you need anything?
Can I bring you anything?
Coming tomorrow,
let me know when would be a good time.
Anytime
Hi Sid. We’re coming just before lunch.
In-n-Out Burger
want your usual?
Sid?
I’ll see you tomorrow.
Thirty
Teddy
Sid’s Dad was listening to Guns and Roses, loud. He answered the front door, yelled that Sid was in her room, and returned to the couch staring at the wall.
“Mike, should I put this in the k
itchen?”
“Yeah, sure. We’re only home for a couple of hours, we’ll eat it later, before we go back.”
I put the casserole on the counter, with Mom’s handwritten explanation for how to cook it propped in front and climbed the stairs.
Her door was cracked, “Sid?”
Her desk had been cleared to the floor and the downstairs television now sat there, wired up to a Xbox system. Sid was on the floor with a controller, leaned on the bed staring up at the tv.
I asked, “Downstairs too Axl-full-blast for Xboxing?”
Without looking up, her thumbs working, she said, “Definitely. I wish Mom dying had thrown him into an Oasis mood, but then I’d hate him spoiling Oasis. I guess there’s worse music, wait, here’s the guitar riff, and now his voice with an, ‘Ooooooooowieooo, patience.’ I hear it in my sleep.”
“You only have two hours before you go back?”
Sid checked the phone on the floor right beside her. “We go back at seven. Nurse said they’d call if something . . .”
Her fingers clicked and flicked on the controller. She concentrated on the screen.
Without asking I grabbed a second controller. “Let’s play Nuketown.”
She nodded and we started a new game.
I dropped beside her on the floor, shoulder to shoulder. She barely said a word. We sat in silence playing side by side. Finally, I checked the time. “It’s 6:40, you’ll need to get going.”
She dropped her head back to the mattress, “Yeah.”
“You hungry? I could throw some of the casserole in the microwave on my way out?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I can’t come tomorrow, but day after I’ll come by, and we can do this again. Okay?”
She answered, “Maybe.”
Thirty-One
Instagram
Photo of Teddy, his mom, Zoe, Zoe’s mom, Phineas, and Jude on a picnic blanket in Griffith Park, Old Zoo area.
Maybe the best performance so far! Thanks ISC!
#griffithparkshakespearefest @indyshakes #macbethdinnerparty #outdamnedspot
Thirty-Two
Sid
It was the eleventh day of hospice. I tried to concentrate on my mom. On our life together. On the things she said, did, was. But when I was at her bedside everything was just blankness and grief. And to be honest a lot of a big giant Pity Party for myself.
I stared at random things until my concentration would break, intermittent crying, staring. Sleeping. Occasionally I checked Instagram and Facebook and Snapchat, but as soon as I did, I had to turn it off. Something would freak me out.
You know the phrase, Life Goes On? It does. And it sucks that it does. That everyone else I knew, woke up and ate breakfast and planned their day. Anticipated fun. Did things with friends. Like Teddy, going to Macbeth without me.
I mean, I understood. I got why. Because Griffith Park Shakespeare Festival was the best. Because we never missed it. Because it was a great play and his only chance to see it. He had to take the chance. Because Life Goes On.
Me, on the other hand, I was dead stopped in Life Ending. And I didn’t get to go see Macbeth. I never had the chance. And I understood. I got it.
But still.
Teddy went without me.
I stared some more, with intermittent crying.
Thirty-Three
Sid
Three months earlier, at El Porto, I paddled up beside Teddy and sat up, ‘accidentally’ splashing him like always. The waves were big and rough. I had caught three waves and was wiped from paddling back out. “The next one is my last one.”
Teddy spun his board around with a grin, a big wave standing up behind him. He called over his shoulder as he paddled away, “Make sure it’s a good one!” He dropped into the wave, his head visible for a moment, and then he tucked and rode away.
I would be out here for a while, alone. I paddled for the next wave, but it sucked, both truly and physically. It hollowed out, sending me over the falls and crashing on top of me, shoving me under, salt water rushing up my nose. I scratched for the surface, coming up just before the next big wave. I grabbed a big breath and ducked under the surface again. Tumbling and rolling and losing where top and bottom were supposed to be.
Okay, fine, I was done anyway.
I tugged on my leash, pulled my board under me, and paddled for shore, where Teddy stood knee-deep watching for me, checking I was okay.
I waved with a grimace.
When I made it near shore, I let the last tiny wave beach me and laid there on my board, groaning, half in and out of the water.
Teddy said, “Well, that was epic.”
I smiled, cheek pressed against my board. “For a while I wasn’t sure if I was riding the wave or the wave was riding me.”
“Generally speaking, if you’re under the water, you’re not surfing right.” He grinned and offered me a hand to stand up.
We carried our boards to our towels. And stood watching the waves for a minute.
He said, “Well that was a short session. The Moms are having coffee; we have about two hours to kill.”
I unzipped my wetsuit and dropped to the sand and tugged the bottom off over my ankles and feet.
Teddy watched the water for a few more minutes, his back to me, towel draped around his shoulders. Then he turned, stepped closer, and flicked his wet hair at me. “Jeez Teddy, every time?”
He grinned. “I got news.”
“Really?” I stopped rustling through my bag. “The school?”
“Yep. I’m accepted.”
“Teddy, that’s awesome.” I paused staring at him. Thinking. This news was awesome. It was what he had wanted for two years or more. For me this news sucked. This meant Teddy, my Teddy, was leaving for school. Santa Barbara, only two-ish hours away, but I didn’t drive yet, because I hadn’t worried about learning. I was too comfortable riding with other people, mostly Teddy. Crap. Santa Barbara might as well be the moon.
He was looking at me in a way that made me uncomfortable, like he could read my selfish thoughts, so I went back to searching my bag for a protein bar.
He said, “Yeah.” He looked back out over the water. “I was thinking you might want to go to school there too.”
“Oh? Um . . . you know me, I haven’t decided what I want to do . . .”
“Bullshit Sid, you’ve known what you wanted to do since you were eleven.”
“Enlighten me.” I knew what he would say though.
“You’ll write screenplays, specifically the one about Queen Mary. You’ve been on about it for years. Come to Santa Barbara, you could go to the city college. Transfer in.”
“Do they even have a writing department? I thought you were going for surfing?”
Teddy unzipped the back of his wetsuit. “I’ll have you know I’m going for surfing and Marine Biology, and yes, they have a Film and Media department. Screenplays and whatnots.”
“You researched this?” I squinted my eyes at him. What was Teddy up to? We had always discussed our plans, together, but they were our separate plans, this was the first time Teddy’s plans spilled over onto mine and we weren’t there, were we? Him and me. We were friends, right?
“I planned to go local. Take a class or two. And frankly, this is way, way, way, too far in the future, right?”
He dropped to his towel and his jaw clenched for a second. He seemed irritated. “Five months.”
“Whoa, I prefer thinking of it as a long way off.”
He unwrapped his own protein bar, “All I’m saying is think about it. You could take a couple of classes there as well as here.”
“Oh. Okay, I’ll think about it. I suppose you need a surf buddy, right? Afraid you’ll be stuck surfing with some kook that drops in on every wave, blows-it, and beaches himself?” I nudged him on the shoulder.
“Yeah, that would be the worst.”
We ate in silence, watching the big waves pound on the shore, small surfers scaling t
heir fronts and dropping into them, sometimes successfully.
“I guess I do need to figure out what I want to do now. If you’re in Santa Barbara who will drive me to the beach?”
“My point exactly. You need to consider your future Sid, the time is now.”
“And I need to get started on that screenplay. Someone else will make a movie about her life and then where will I be? Career over before it even starts.”
“It doesn’t matter, yours will be the best. Because you know all the reasons why she’s awesome.”
“Oh I do, do I, and what would those be?”
Teddy laid all the way back, arms behind his head. “Let’s see, the reasons Mary is so awesome, how many reasons are there?”
I threw my napkin at him. He laughed. “I’m kidding, there are two reasons . . .” He looked at me questioningly. I raised my thumb, up, up, up. He said, “Three, four, I mean, everyone knows there’s at least ten reasons Mary is so compelling. Starting with . . .” He looked stumped.
“Teddy, I have been telling you all the reasons for almost six years now.”
“I know, I know, but I’m bored and you’re entertaining when you’re outraged. The ten reasons are: widow, murder, murder again, a super gory execution, conspiracy, explosions, lots of dark stuff.”
“I see I need to write it down for you so you remember.”
Teddy took a bite of bar and chewing said, “I learn a lot better with visuals, I need someone to make a movie about it. You know where’s a good place to learn how to write movies? Santa Barbara.” He grinned ear to ear.
Sid and Teddy Page 4
