We walked only a few minutes more before he began stumbling, struggling to swing his leg forward, after which he put it down tenderly. I knew he was in pain.
“Why don’t we leave?” I suggested. “I’m getting tired, and I’ll bet you are, too.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. “I wanted to get you a little gift to remind you of tonight. Of me.”
I smiled up at him. “Another time. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”
“Maybe we can spend tomorrow together,” he said hesitantly.
“Tomorrow after work, I have to see my mother,” I replied. “She’s in a nursing home and I missed her this week because of my ankle.”
“Soon then,” he said. “Time is short.”
I glanced sideways at him. His face was bleak and there was something ominous in his words. I linked my arm through his very lightly, so that I didn’t throw off his walk; and then, acting like any other ordinary couple, which we were and which we weren’t, we made our way to the pink Cadillac.
* * *
My house was waiting up for me, like a good parent, a soft reassuring glow coming from the kitchen. He walked me to my back steps. I knew he was in too much pain to climb them, so I thanked him while we stood at the bottom. He took my hand in his and attempted to say something, then stopped, searching for the right words.
“You made this a really nice evening,” he finally said. He was facing me directly, his eyes searching mine, dark and serious, always serious. “I haven’t dated since”—he paused, then looked down—“since, you know, my leg. I hope you didn’t mind that I took up your time.”
“Sam,” I said. “I really enjoyed myself.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, not sure what to do next. “I hope I see you again.” He tightened his grip on my hands. “Good night.”
“Good night,” I said. “You will. I promise.”
He leaned over and gave me a light kiss on my cheek, then stood awkwardly for a moment before pulling me hard against him and kissing me urgently. I almost pulled away—it wasn’t right; it wasn’t with the right man—but then I kissed him back. His lips took everything from me that I offered and our blood stirred like the waves, our hearts floating up together against the tiny stars that welcomed us.
He said good night a second time and turned to walk slowly away. I climbed the steps and watched him from the deck, struggling through the sand, wincing now with each step. I listened to the cane clicking, until he reached his car and turned to salute me. I saluted back and waited until he got in and started the engine.
Hundreds of stars and one slim crescent moon sparkled like a chest full of medals. How precocious, I thought, glancing up. A moon is born, grows to fullness, and dies in one month’s time, its whole lifetime spent in one month. And friendships? Only time would tell.
* * *
I unlocked the door and entered the kitchen. The small night-light gave off a dim glow and I stood for a moment, enjoying the intimacy and quiet to reflect on the evening. I know something isn’t right with Sam. It was obvious that he was burdened with guilt and pain, but I didn’t know what I could do to help him. No wonder he checked out every room before he walked into it. Precautionary measures, he said. I understood that. I had been employing some of my own. They protect you from harm; they keep you safe.
But sometimes they just get in the way.
* * *
The dog was nowhere to be seen. I thought he might run and greet me as soon as I came in, but the house remained quiet. I wanted him to greet me; it was such a customary, normal thing for a dog to do and I suddenly craved it. I was tired of an empty house, tired of being haunted by memories, tired of my heart craving things that it couldn’t have. I was finding it harder and harder to be alone. Dan and his touch and our conversations were becoming distant. Maybe some of it could be completed by a dog who missed me when I was away.
“Here, boy!” I called out. He still didn’t come. I thought it strange until I turned the kitchen light on.
The house had been turned into a debris field. The kitchen floor had disappeared under a snowfall of chewed paper towels; the living room had festoons of toilet paper draped over the furniture; the laundry basket had been raided and dirty towels and socks and undies were strewn decoratively across the floor. He had apparently spent the evening in reconnaissance mode before mounting a successful attack on the trash pail. Two days’ worth of coffee grounds were blended into the rug, topped with food wrappers, vegetable peelings, and moldy bread, all of it liberally sprinkled with eggshells.
“Oh my god! What happened?” I gasped out loud. Then I stopped, wondering if I should scold him. This behavior was one I would not tolerate, yet I was acutely mindful of his brutal past. He had been starved and here was a pail filled with remnants of food just like the garbage he had lived on for months before I found him. How could he not eat it? He was worrying where his next meal would come from. How could he know that I would always make sure he had food? He was a dog haunted by hunger and rejection and fear. Eating garbage was a precautionary measure.
“Where are you?” I called.
I was answered by a very soft woof. I could make out a set of eyes following me from under my bed.
“You can come out,” I said to him. “Come on.”
He slid out very slowly on his stomach, his face filled with guilt and remorse, and sat down in front of me with his head hanging.
“This wasn’t your best idea,” I said gently. He reached over to lick my hand but sat glued to the spot, his eyes cast down.
“It’s okay,” I reassured him. “It’s all okay.”
And then, because I understood so well how important it is to have precautionary measures, I said nothing more, just grabbed a fresh trash bag and a broom, sighed loudly, and started cleaning it all up.
Chapter 16
I am very faithful. I never miss a visit to my mother. I see her every week at the Royale Pavilion, her nursing home, an old three-story white—what else?—Cape Cod that sits on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It’s practical and plain, the wraparound porch surrounded by sturdy white balustrades and big bay windows. The landscape is typical, Irish moss and yellow coreopsis entangled with straggly pink beach roses struggling to fill two sandy acres.
It’s only a ten-minute distance from me, but I drive there dreading what new deficit my mother will reveal this week. In a bag next to me is a small container of her favorite chocolate ice cream from the Galley. I always bring her chocolate ice cream.
* * *
The residents sit out on the porches in almost any kind of weather, wrapped in heavy jackets and yellow wool caps and plaid blankets, all of them facing out to sea like old wooden figureheads guarding their ship against the relentless waves and thrashing tides of the ocean. These are fierce old Cape Codders, with weather-beaten skin and snow-white hair. They are strong and opinionated; even now, they still understand the red skies at night and pale blue milk skies, and black-smoke clouds, and ice rings around the moon. They know all about the sea-driven weather as intimately as they once knew their families.
Aides bring them hot tea and apple slices. Sometimes they are pushed in their wheelchairs down the weathered wooden ramps, to sun in the craggy Memory Garden lined with wood benches and little gnome statues and bird feeders and a running fountain for the cardinals that attend. But mostly the residents stay on the porches.
A dozen pairs of pale eyes turned to me as I made my way up the brick walk and climbed the porch steps. I greeted each one. I saw past the wrinkled skin, the cloud white hair, the blank faces. I see them young, dancing at their wedding, making dinner for their family, scolding a naughty child, dressing for work, worrying about a repair bill for the car, opening gifts on Christmas. I know their minds were busy now with the work of grasping at old memories, longing for a brief replay, and they looked at me with hope that I belonged to them, that I can find them in the spaces they are lost in and bring them back for a
moment. I smiled and greeted them and then I looked away, because I am terrified. A full moon, for all its brilliance, has only a month of life; it goes so fast.
* * *
The front hall was cool, even though the sun was streaming in through the bay windows and making bright patterns across the yellow upholstered chairs and the black-and-white checkerboard floors. This was an old mansion that, like its residents, had been restructured to accommodate old age.
I ran for the elevator and almost didn’t even have to wait. Totally modern and silvery sleek, it glided open almost right away accompanied by a soft ping. My mother was on the second floor, to the left, administrative offices on the third.
* * *
She looked like an angel wrapped in clouds, a big white pillow under her head and white puffy blankets tucked up to her armpits revealing Hello Kitty pajamas, which, since I had never bought them for her, had obviously come through the byzantine laundry service intent on exchanging clothing between the residents on a regular basis. Someone had put a pink bow in her wild, white hair—how, I can’t imagine, as she gets combative if anyone tries to comb it. And she’d had a manicure; her nails were the color of poppies. She had always been vain about her nails, even when she worked at the Galley, and I was glad to see she was being well cared for. I worry about her being well cared for, and I was glad that there was someone there to do the things I could no longer do for her. I kissed her forehead and sat in the floral chair next to her bed.
“Hi, Mom,” I said gently. “How are you feeling today?”
She mumbled something I couldn’t understand, then made an effort to rise.
“You need to rest, Mom, until your hip heals,” I told her, leaning over to find the button to raise her head a little. “I have your favorite ice cream.” I took the spoon and the container out of the bag.
She picked up her hand to push it away. “Have to get out of here,” she said clearly, and pulled at the side rails. “Out of here. I have to get out. I have to get back.” She was getting agitated, pushing away her covers and upsetting her pillows, and before I could get to the door to summon a nurse one suddenly appeared. I recognized her as the nurse who usually took care of my mother.
She walked over to the bed. “Miss Winnie! Is that you making all that noise?” She put her hand on my mother’s head, a laying on of hands, and my mother fell back against her pillows.
“You want some juice, sweetie?” She kept up the conversation and my mother, distracted, calmed down. “We have apple juice and orange juice. I know you like apple. Shall I get some for you?”
My mother nodded. The nurse turned to me as she cranked the bed up a little more. “You want some juice, too?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
She gave me a smile and left, returning with a juice box and straw.
“Here you go, sweetie.” She held the box while my mother sipped, childlike. “Miss Winnie had two hours of rehab today,” she said to me while keeping her eyes on my mother. “Didn’t you, Miss Winnie? She fights doing her rehab, you know, but we got her to do some of it, and then we brought her into the cafeteria for lunch—a tuna fish sandwich—but she didn’t want it, so we brought her to the sun-room for a bit, just to give her a change of scenery. She didn’t want to stay there. So we brought her back to bed to rest until her dinner. She liked dinner—tonight she had the broiled chicken and mashed potatoes and peas, ate almost all of it.” The day’s history and the juice box were finished simultaneously and she wiped my mother’s lips. “If you need anything else, just call me,” she said, fluffing everything back together before leaving.
* * *
My mother had been either in her bed or in a wheelchair for three weeks now. She had broken her hip falling after trying to wheel her walker through a solid wall and she had to have surgery to replace it. She is sixty-two and has early onset Alzheimer’s. I visit her every week and stand on the pier of sanity watching her mind recede like a boat drifting off into the horizon. Every week another memory fades, another member of her family is erased, another cluster of words disappears, never to return.
I took her hand. “You have to do your rehab, Mom,” I told her. “You want to walk again, right? And then you can go outside. You always like going outside.”
“I went there,” she said urgently, her words tumbling out and barely comprehensible. “I had to find them.”
“Where did you go, Mom?” I asked.
She suddenly spoke. “To the house,” she said. “I went back to the house. You know—the house.”
I am used to these conversations that are half fantasy and half remembered events mixed together, a thousand-piece puzzle with no solution. Sometimes I am almost able to make sense of them, and sometimes I am just baffled.
She grabbed her blankets. “You’ve got to put the heat on,” she said. “It was very cold.”
“The heat is on at the house, Mom,” I reassured her. “It’s toasty warm.”
Tears started from her eyes and left rivulets down her pale cheeks. “It was empty,” she insisted, oblivious to them. “I went there to look for my mother and my father, and Uncle Jake, but the house was empty. They were all gone. I couldn’t find anyone.”
“I know,” I agreed with her. “They aren’t there anymore.”
She looked up at me. “You have to find them,” she said sharply. “You have to find them and tell them to come home.”
“I will,” I said, stroking her hand.
“Tell them,” she said again. “Tell them to come back, because the house is empty.”
“The house has me,” I replied. “It’s not empty. I’m there.” She peered up at my face. “Who are you? What do you want?” “Aila. I’m Aila. Your daughter.”
She scanned my face, puzzled, then looked away, blank, disinterested, and suddenly I understood that my time had come; she had lost me, too.
She started another conversation, this one totally incomprehensible. Half muttered, half uttered aloud, a compendium of vowels and consonants, sounds without meaning. She gestured to the window, I guessed a thousand guesses, all wrong, until she stopped, depleted, drowsy. Whatever part of the brain that turns sensibility into conversation was spent.
I thought about this, sitting in the floral chair. I thought about it as I watched her fall asleep, her snores coming in soft purrs. The last member of my family lay before me. My presence didn’t matter. My love didn’t matter. Though she was right there, she was unreachable and not there at all.
A slow hour hung in the air, then finally passed away. I thought I might as well leave. Another visit was over.
I pulled the covers up over her shoulders and tucked them around her so she’d feel warm and safe and then I threw the melted chocolate ice cream into the trash container next to her heavenly white, fluffy bed.
“Don’t leave me,” I pleaded softly.
She mumbled something that I couldn’t understand. I patted her head and she turned her face away.
“Good-bye, Mom,” I whispered now, not sure, entirely, what I meant by this.
Chapter 17
Even though I knew the dog would be waiting for me at home with a bag of garbage hanging from his mouth, I took the winding coastal road that ran along the ocean, following miles of brownish green compass grass punctuated by snowy egrets. It’s a little longer, more scenic, driving along the dunes before the road veers five miles inward, across Truro, toward the bay. It would give me the opportunity to watch the sky fill with the rose colors of early evening while the clouds backlit with gold. I think about how my mother loved roses. She would bring home bags of topsoil and peat moss to cover the naturally sandy soil in the garden, and plant dozens of roses. They never lasted more than a year or two—the winds from the bay were too harsh for them, the soil too barren—but she never gave up. Sometimes they were all pink, sometimes scarlet, sometimes every shade of yellow, sometimes mixed together as she replaced the dying plants with new ones halfway through the summer.
I h
ad always felt guilty that I couldn’t duplicate her efforts. My garden this summer would have some hardy geraniums and a few other things that are rated for salt air. And this year they will have to contend with a dog who will dig holes and carry rocks into the house and pull the leaves from bushes and curl up for a nap on my best flowers.
The dog.
He was probably beside himself with anxiety, but I needed this drive to reflect on the visit to my mother. If I ever had children, she would never know them. The knowledge of love and sense of family that winds through generation after generation, like a climbing rose, ends with me. I decided to plant a rosebush for her and work very hard to keep it alive.
* * *
There is a Burger King on the way home and I planned a quick stop. I was hungry and fast-food burgers were my guilty pleasure. Sometimes I eat them in the car and pretend the other people in the parking lot are having dinner with me. This time, I would bring one home for me and one for the dog. He was my dinner companion now.
There was no line, not surprising for a small town just past dinnertime. Families were home, sitting around the table, finishing dessert and setting off to read the evening paper or watching the news or putting the kitchen back to order. Now was the time that singles grab quick bites before they spend their evenings alone. I put in my order. As I watched the girl behind the counter wrap the burgers, then skillfully scoop up the fries into a cup, I was acutely aware of how alone I was.
I wasn’t an orphan, exactly. I know there are technicalities about things like that. You had to have lost both parents, and though I had, sort of, it still didn’t make me an orphan. I had lost my father. Was my mother considered lost? My crazy grandmother went to bed one day and never got up again. Terrified, I had run into the bay and screamed for her for hours. We had been a family of singletons; neither of my parents had siblings, and I didn’t, either. And once I lost my husband, Dan’s family had gotten back to the business of living their own lives.
I hadn’t set out to be single; it just came upon me.
And All the Phases of the Moon Page 10
