by Wiess, Laura
“Hey,” Beale said, running up along beside me and catching hold of my arm. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” He slowed, and I slowed, and stopped. “Aw, honey, are you crying?”
I couldn’t answer, just stood there staring at the ground as tears, more than I knew I had in me, ran down my cheeks and splashed onto my T-shirt.
“Don’t tell me my singing’s that bad,” he joked gently. “Come on now. What is it?”
“I don’t want to go,” I sobbed, holding myself. “I want to stay here forever. This is the best home I ever had and it’s not fair that I have to go and you guys get to stay. I want to stay, too. Please?” I was blubbering now, caught up in the fierce pain of longing. “Please, Beale? I’ll be good, I promise. I could help with the chores and I won’t be any trouble—”
“Aw, Sayre.” He sighed, and crouched in front of me. Took one of my damp hands and cradled it between both of his big, strong, steady ones. “I wish you could stay, too, but you have to go back to your mother and—”
“No,” I cried angrily, pulling my hand free and swiping my hair from my eyes. “I don’t want to! I hate her!” The words rang out huge and harsh and ragged, shocking us both into silence.
“Hate’s a strong word,” he said quietly.
And that was it. The end. I gave up because it was all there in his tone, including the regretful good-bye.
“Come on now, it’s not like you’re moving out of state or anything,” he said, rising. “We’ll see you around town, you know that.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, sniffling because I knew otherwise. Sullivan was small, but my mother and Beale did not inhabit the same universe, not even close, and I knew that when I was back with her, I wouldn’t, either. “I have to go now.”
“Hey,” he said, tugging a lock of my damp, lank hair. “We’ll always be friends.”
I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, and walked away, knowing that he was still standing there watching me go, knowing that I would probably never see him again in my whole, entire life.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and by the time I reached Miss Mo’s house I couldn’t take it anymore, so I turned, praying he was still there watching and he was. I stood up on tiptoe and waved and waved, and he and Aunt Loretta, who had joined him on the lawn, waved and waved back.
And finally, exhausted, I stopped, and trudged inside.
I didn’t sleep at all that night, or the next.
Hardly ate.
I didn’t talk much, either.
What was there to say?
The day before my mother was released from rehab, Mareene’s boyfriend got pulled over for another DUI and called Mareene to come down and bail him out. What the police said when she got there was that he’d had a woman in the car with him, also drunk, who claimed she was a stripper down at a club in Scranton and that he still owed her twenty dollars for a lap dance.
Instead of bailing him out, Mareene had coolly thanked the officers and come straight home again, not only leaving him there but leaving a message on his voice mail telling him it was over for good, and not to call or come around again, ever.
Miss Mo sat on the couch and commiserated with her, patting her back when she cried and being sympathetic when she ranted about all the times he’d hurt her, but she couldn’t quite hide the hallelujah sparkle in her eyes, and I was glad for them.
It was good that at least some of the prayers around here had been answered.
And the next afternoon when the social services lady pulled into the driveway to get me, my knapsack was packed and I was calm, quiet, and unemotional again.
I was ready to go.
Chapter 15
“RUN IN AND TELL THEM WE have a car accident victim out here with injuries and we need a stretcher pronto,” Red says, pulling the plow truck up in front of the emergency room entrance.
“Okay,” I say, piling out as soon as the truck stops moving and bursting into the hospital waiting room. It’s stiflingly hot and my eyes go blurry for a moment.
“Can I help you?” a woman says from the desk in front of me.
“Yes,” I say and blurt out what Red told me to, adding that it was a head injury and a knee injury and it happened at least three hours ago and—
The nurse makes the call and within minutes they’re rushing a stretcher out the door to the plow truck. I turn to follow but the desk nurse stops me.
“What about you? Were you in the vehicle?”
“Yes,” I say and then, “no, I mean I wasn’t in the truck, I just saw it happen.” I tell her Evan’s name, and that his parents are on their way, and my name, and then, “And . . . my mother’s in here, too, but I don’t know what room.”
“What’s her name?” she says, hitting a key on the computer’s keyboard.
I hesitate because if I tell her, this will be it. I will know where my mother is and I’ll have to go up there and see her dying and once I see that I can never un-see it, and it will become real even though I already know it is, I do, but—
“Sayre . . .”
I turn and see them wheeling Evan through. His head wound looks terrible in the light, jagged and swollen and crusted with dried blood. I can see the pain contorting his face, the way he lifts his head and half-reaches in my direction as he passes and says through clenched teeth, “Hey, look, we made it . . . ,” and I try to smile and reach back and just manage to brush his outstretched fingers and say, “Yeah, we did,” as he’s whooshing by and he’s still talking, and all I catch before the doors close behind him is “. . . see me after you see your mom.”
“I’m sorry, your mother’s name?” the desk nurse says, giving me an expectant look.
It’s so quiet now. The waiting room is empty, and the clock up on the wall says 5:13. It isn’t dawn yet, but it isn’t nighttime anymore, either.
I meet the nurse’s gaze and say, “Dianne Huff.”
She taps the keyboard, staring at the screen, and when she looks back up at me, her gaze is soft with compassion.
And that’s when I know that my mother really is dying.
My Mother After Rehab
WHEN THE SOCIAL SERVICES WOMAN AND I walked into the office waiting room, a slim, brown-haired woman sitting in a turquoise plastic chair glanced up, set down her magazine, rose, and clearing her throat, said, “Hey, Sayre.”
I fell back a step and stared.
My mother was still too skinny and I could see the white scars on her bare arms where the sores used to be but her eyes were wide open and focused, her hair was clean and cut shorter and sleeker, and she was wearing a magenta-flowered sundress and white sandals.
I had never seen my mother in a regular dress.
Never.
“Well, aren’t you even going to say hello?” she said with a nervous laugh. “I mean, c’mon, I can’t be that different.”
And it was the underlying rasp in her voice, that hint of sandpaper impatience that grated whenever she had to talk to me that I recognized, and gave me the courage I needed. I took a deep breath and said, “Hi. You look a lot different.”
“Yeah, well, the good ladies down at the Methodist church got together with the Mission of Mercy people and voilà, one new outfit,” she said, looking down at the dress and shrugging. “It’s not really me, but—”
“It looks pretty,” I said, and after a discreet nudge from the social services woman, plodded across the waiting room. I knew I was supposed to give my mother a hug but I didn’t want to and besides, I didn’t know how. She wasn’t soft and squeezable and brimming with welcome like Miss Mo. She was stiff and hard and—
“You got bigger while I was gone,” she said, reaching out and stopping me before I could touch her, ruffling my bangs, keeping her gaze focused on my hair and not my face. “Got a new haircut, too. Hmmph. I guess the foster family thought it was a goo
d idea.”
“I like it,” I said, and saw something flash in her eyes.
“Well, that’s good,” she said with a thin smile, “because you’re the one who has to live with it. So,” she hoisted a big tote bag and turned to the social services woman, “are we done here or what?”
All of my wondering had been answered and I knew the way things were going to be now, so I tuned the two of them out and wandered around the waiting room dragging my knapsack and killing time, humming the little bit of “Stormy” that I knew and wishing I’d learned the rest of it, feeling really tired and hollow, flopping a limp wave at the social services lady when my mother finally said it was time to go, and following her out.
“Hungry?” she said, pausing out on the sidewalk and looking around as if she’d never seen this town before.
I shook my head and traced the crack in the sidewalk with the toe of my sneaker.
“Well, I’m supposed to eat three healthy meals a day, so come on,” she said and started down the street toward the diner.
I automatically followed, trudging along behind her until she stopped and glanced back. “Why are you always so slow?”
I shrugged and she waited until I caught up, then paced herself to walk beside me.
“So, they found us a room over at the motor court near the mission, and I have what’s left of my checks from before rehab, and if we don’t go crazy spending, it should last until I start work down at the factory,” she said and smiled slightly at my startled look. “Yeah, you heard right. They’re putting me to work. Funny, huh?”
“No, that’s good,” I said, and then added tentatively, “Mom.”
The waitress gave us a booth and I discovered I really was hungry, so I had a California cheeseburger with fries and a Coke, and she had fettuccine alfredo with a salad and coffee. I had no idea what to say so I stayed quiet for most of the meal, sneaking peeks at her until she finally set down her fork and said, “This is weird, huh?”
I nodded.
“Yeah.” She stared past me out the big plate-glass window. “Was that gas station always over there?”
I followed her gaze. “Yeah.”
“No kidding,” she said musingly, and twirled up another forkful of fettuccine. “I never noticed it before.”
We finished the meal in silence, and neither one of us wanted dessert. She got a coffee to go and I waited outside while she paid, struck by the fact that this was the first time my mother had ever taken me out to dinner.
“Well, I guess we’ll go back to the room now,” she said, gazing down the street at the Colonial Pub for a long moment, and then shaking her head and starting off in the opposite direction. “I haven’t been there yet, so I hope it has cable and a kitchen, you know? We can save money by making some of our own food.”
“I know how to make squash pancakes,” I offered, trotting along beside her.
“Oh yeah?” she said, glancing at me. “Where’d you learn that?”
“At Miss Mo’s,” I said. “Her and Mareene and Beale and Aunt Loretta taught me all kinds of things, like . . .” I thought hard for a moment. “Um, how to play horseshoes and Aunt Loretta showed me how to get eggs out from under chickens without getting pecked. Beale is really good at spitting watermelon pits and he sang me a song called ‘Stormy’ and gave me a kitten, too. Miss Mo told me all about her ancestors, and . . .” I paused because we had just rounded the corner to the mission and Miss Mo’s car was there in the lot, so she must have been volunteering. I turned to my mother, excited, and said, “Look, that’s her car, the little white one! Come on, we could go and say hi and—”
“Slow down.” My mother held up a hand. “You’re running on high and I’m running on fumes, and all I want to do is get into that room and try to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do with the rest of my life, okay?” She wiped her sweaty forehead and hoisted the tote-bag strap higher onto her shoulder. “I mean, do you think this whole stupid sobriety thing is easy? Because let me tell you, it isn’t. Not even a little, but I’m trying, so do you think you could not give me a hard time for like, the next year or so?”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, for . . .” She stared at me a moment, her face a study of anger, exasperation, and frustration. “Don’t do this to me now. I’m serious. I’m barely hanging on as it is. Just stop, Sayre. Isn’t it time you outgrew that shit, already?”
I didn’t mean to cry. I forgot how much it annoyed her.
“All right, just . . . let’s just get to the motor court so I can drink my coffee and wish I was dead,” my mother said, and we walked fast past the mission and across the grimy, pothole-studded street to the motor court where the sign hung crooked and the garish pink paint was chipped. Crushed cigarette butts littered the ground and tall weeds grew through the cracks in the pavement.
Small knots of people were gathered in the parking lot, fat women in stretch shorts and stained tank tops showing their bra straps; little kids in sagging diapers; and sweaty men with potbellies, T-shirts, and beers, leaning against an assortment of junky old cars and watching us approach.
“Oh great,” my mother muttered. “What is this, a friggin’ welfare motel?”
I moved closer, accidentally bumping into her. “Sorry.”
“Jesus, do you have to be right on top of me?” she snapped.
“I’d like to be right on top of you,” one of the guys drawled, lifting his beer in salute and smirking at my mother.
Another guy laughed, two whistled, and a few of the women shot her dirty looks.
Face burning, I stared straight ahead and just kept trotting beside her.
“That’s all right, mama, you go take care of your business,” beer guy called after us. “When you’re finished, you come on back. I’ll be right here, waiting for you.”
My mother never turned, never broke stride, only shot her hand into the air, middle finger held high, and kept moving toward that motel office.
And only I saw the effort it cost her, saw the yearning for that beer in her eyes, the pretty pink flush his crude flirting had brought to her cheeks, and the determined grit of her jaw as she struggled to move forward in a place so easy to fall backward.
Chapter 16
MY MOTHER IS ON THE SIXTH floor, in the End-of-Life Care Wing, room 622.
The last room at the end of the hall.
At least this is what the night nurse tells me when I step out of the elevator and lurch over to the reception desk. The place is deserted, strung with holiday decorations and a garland and a fake Christmas tree and a big HAPPY NEW YEAR banner hanging slanted from the ceiling. I’m exhausted, haven’t slept in days, and the weight of where I am, the scents and sounds and reason is crushing me.
“Thank you,” I mumble and turn completely around where I’m standing because there are four hallways off this desk, and my eyes just won’t focus long enough to make out the room numbers on the wall plaques. “Um, which one again?”
She points, and that’s the way I go.
The floors are polished, shiny, and the overhead lights are on in the hallway. I pass room after room sunk in shadows, hear the restless thrashings, the moaning, snoring, and mumbling of those close to letting go.
The end of the hall is in sight.
There is only one room left.
My steps falter and for a moment everything but that doorway blurs. Fear rises inside me, raising chills across my skin despite the suffocating heat and drawing me down, pulling the strength from my knees and turning my feet to lead, rooting me to the floor only four steps from her room.
I can’t do it.
I thought I could but I can’t.
My heart pounds in my ears.
I have followed after her most of my life, and now I have to do it again and I don’t want to. I don’t want to go where she’s taking me.
&n
bsp; I’m out of here.
Good. Go.
And I did go, but now I’m back and oh, I don’t want to be like Harlow’s dog who gets kicked and cursed and slapped around, and who bellies back every time, whimpering, groveling, and grateful for any careless scrap of kindness.
I don’t want to be, but I’m afraid I am because I don’t know any other way.
I’m afraid the year we were happy seeded something deep inside me, something that rooted and survived even the meanest ground, something that still hangs on despite neglect and all efforts to kill it, despite being despised and trampled on and—
I’m afraid that I love her, and I don’t think I can bear finding out if it’s true.
“Oh, hi,” an aide says, coming out of another room. “Do you need some help?”
I blink, and the doorway pulls back into focus. “No, that’s okay, thanks.”
I take a deep, shaky breath and walk into my mother’s room.
Two Steps Forward, One Step Back
THE MOTEL ROOM WAS DINGY AND shabby, the bedspread had suspicious stains on it, and the kitchenette consisted of a coffeepot, a little fridge, and a hot plate with a banged-up frying pan, a fork, and three butter knives. It had two double beds, a view to an abandoned warehouse, a toilet that never stopped running, and was right next door to a couple with a baby who never stopped crying.
My mother did all right the first week. We went food shopping and got Styrofoam bowls and plates and plastic silverware, and some easy stuff like cereal and lunch meat and bread. She didn’t have a car, so she talked to the ladies at the church and arranged for a ride to work with one of them when her factory job started. She notified the school of my new address and showed me where my bus stop would be when school started again. We went to the laundromat and washed our clothes. We went to the library and I picked out books and she paged through magazines, waiting for me to finish. She bought a disposable cell phone. She drank coffee, watched talk shows, and paced.
