by Wiess, Laura
She didn’t call Candy or any of the other Fees. She didn’t go out after dark or linger in the parking lot talking to the guy with the beer. She snored and ground her teeth at night, tossed and turned, twitched, and sometimes groaned. She hacked and spit in the morning, and sat out on the curb in the sun at noon, trying to get some color in her face and arms.
We still didn’t talk much, not about anything important, only things like Don’t leave your underwear on the floor or God, I wish they’d just take that goddamn baby to the clinic to see what’s wrong with it, already. Nobody can cry for seven straight days and not be really sick, don’t you think? or I have to find a better room somewhere. This place is a hellhole.
That surprised me because this place was like heaven compared to the Fees or that weekend we stayed in some guy’s shack by the river or even Grandma Lucy’s house at the end. Then I realized that what she saw when she was high were not the same things I’d seen, and now that she was sober she was seeing them, too.
I never knew that before, and it made me feel a little softer toward her.
Seeing real life didn’t make her feel better, though. Not at all.
“Bleak, disgusting, miserable,” she would say every time we walked into the room. “How the mighty have fallen. Great. Welcome to my new life. Jesus, if this is straight, I’ll take stoned any day of the week.” And then she would shake her head and say, “Kidding, kidding. I’m still here, aren’t I?”
But it worried me.
When we ran out of cereal, I talked her into going over to the mission because they served a free hot breakfast and I was able to see Miss Mo again. I wanted to run around that long serving counter and hug her and tell her how much I missed her but I was self-conscious and embarrassed now, being on the receiving end of it, and so I just stood there in line with the others, waiting my turn.
She was surprised to see me that first morning, and when I introduced her to my mother, she gave her a big smile and said, “Ms. Huff, you have a wonderful daughter there and it was a real pleasure having her stay with us.”
My mother glanced at me, eyebrows raised, and said, “Well, I’m glad you two got along so well. Now, can I get rye toast with my eggs instead of white?”
I looked back at Miss Mo as we got our food and moved on, and she was watching me with such softness in her eyes that I knew she saw how it was, and was maybe even a little sorry she had let me go so easily.
We ran out of food and were running low on money, so instead of buying more groceries we started eating all our meals at the mission for free. My mother hated being there—she called it Loserville—so she would get her food and eat it as fast as she could, almost always finishing way before me and then getting cranky because she had to wait.
That’s exactly what happened on the day the junkie next to me in line freaked and hit me with his elbow. My mother was way off at a back table eating and didn’t notice a thing, while Miss Mo soothed him and sent him on his way. She held up the line to make sure I was all right, smiled at me like she really cared, and put an extra-big serving of Tator Tots on my plate.
That was the last time I would ever see her alive.
Chapter 17
THE HOSPITAL ROOM IS SPOTLESS, DIMLY lit by a small fluorescent light, and has only one bed in it, only one slight, skeletal woman lying on her side under a white cotton blanket draped over her swollen, fluid-filled belly and with a loose fist curled like a child’s under her chin. Her eyes are closed, her mouth open, and her breathing slow and labored. Her hair, liberally streaked with the gray that began when Ellie died, is pressed flat against her head, as if she’d been laying on it and had just rolled over. Her skin is dull and blotchy, cast with a yellow tint, and sagging off her cheekbones, neck, and arms as if dying has drained every drop of moisture inside her and left a loose, wrinkled husk over the bones.
I pad to the edge of the bed. Her muscles twitch in her sleep and her eyes rest in sunken, gray hollows. Trembling, I grope behind me for the armchair and sink into it before my knees give out. I have no strength left in my body and slowly, as if caving in, I lean forward and rest my head against the cool aluminum guardrail on the side of the bed. Her fetid breath puffs out, hot and sweet like rotting meat, and the smell is nauseating but I don’t turn away because at least she is still breathing. Death is here, waiting in this room, as calm and patient as only a sure thing can be but I’ve been waiting, too, and surely that counts for something.
“Sayre?” someone whispers from behind me.
I sit up and turn to see Red standing in the doorway with my coat, my purse, the canvas tote bag, and the ruby velvet blazer.
“I’m sorry to intrude but you left your things in the truck and I thought you might need them,” he says in a low voice, tiptoeing in and setting them down next to my chair. He straightens, looks at my mother, then back at me. Puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “Are you all right? Would you like me to stay for a while?”
No, I don’t, but I don’t want him to leave, either.
I don’t know what I want.
Yes, I do.
I motion for Red to pull over a chair, and when he does, I shift to face him and say in a low, fierce voice, “Do you know how many times I tried to get her to a doctor but she wouldn’t go? She said all they wanted was her money, and all she needed was her stupid, stupid pills. And now look.” I motion blindly toward the huddled figure on the bed. “That’s my mother and she’s dying and there’s nothing I can do. There’s no way to get her well again. Look, there are no heart monitors or catheters or IVs or anything in here. They’re not even trying.”
“That’s what end-of-life care is, Sayre. They do what they can to make the patient comfortable when there is absolutely no chance of recovery. So in that way no, they aren’t trying.” He takes my hand, cradling it in his. “She can’t live without a liver, Sayre, and hers is so damaged it’s ceased functioning. She’s not eligible for a transplant. There is no other answer. I’m sorry.”
“Well, wait. What if I give her some of my liver?” I say slowly, sitting up straight. “Why didn’t I think of this before? Mine is healthy. Why can’t I be the donor?” I look around, feeling a wild surge of hope. “Who can we talk to? What do I have to do? C’mon, Red, we have to go find someone fast because—”
“Sayre, wait. Look at her,” he says softly, holding tight to my hand as if to pull me back to earth. “She’s so weak she’d never live through the operation.”
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“She has to be lucid enough to initiate the evaluation and be able to get to the transplant hospital of her own accord,” he says, holding my despairing gaze. “She has to be awake and physically strong enough to survive the evaluation, and it’s invasive. They do a series of tests: blood, a heart catheterization, X-rays, ultrasounds, a liver biopsy, and more. She has to have been sober for a minimum of six consecutive months.”
“But she’s dying,” I say, because he just doesn’t get it. “And maybe I can—”
“You’re a minor, and her daughter, and it’s a clinically hopeless situation. They wouldn’t even talk to you about donating under those circumstances, not to mention the psychological trauma and guilt you’d suffer if you changed your mind and said no, which is always your right. It’s a very serious surgery, Sayre, for both you and your mother.”
I stare at him, silent.
“Part of your liver rests beneath your ribs, so they make a Y incision and spread your ribs for access. They take out your gallbladder to get to your liver. They take out part of a vein in your leg, too. You’d be on the operating table for six or more hours and that’s providing there are no complications. You could hemorrhage. Get infected. The liver could be rejected. Insurance companies don’t always pay for transplants. They cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. And Sayre”—his voice is very soft and solemn now—“even if you somehow overcame al
l of those obstacles, what about the hepatic encephalopathy? The ammonia that’s been built up in her brain all of this time? It’s hit a level she can’t recover from. Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s toxic, and it does damage. Irreversible damage. Brain damage. Even if a miracle occurred and she somehow survived the surgery, her mind wouldn’t be—”
“Stop!” I cry, repulsed, and yank my hand from his to clutch the bed railing, head spinning. “All right, I get it, Red. Just stop.”
“I’m sorry,” he says wearily, rubbing the side of his face. “I was just trying to help you understand—”
“I do understand, okay? I understand. You’re saying I’m just supposed to sit here and let her die.”
“No, Sayre, I’m saying you can’t save her. No one can, now.”
“But she’s only thirty-three.” Frustrated, I look at my mother’s pale, sunken, yellowish face, at the skeletal hands curled under her chin, and want to scream and rage, bang my head and pound my fists on the walls until they bleed, until death gives way to one more chance, but it won’t, I see the miserable, unacceptable truth of it right in front of me and so instead I just sit there breathing hard, stomach sick and fingers locked like iron around the bed rail.
“I know,” Red says quietly, settling back in his chair. “We’re the same age. We had the same homeroom in sophomore year of high school until she dropped out.”
“Which was when she got pregnant with me,” I say dully.
“Her father passed away right around then, too,” he says, like he’s trying to shift that legacy off me. “When I was here visiting, she told me she’s been an addict for seventeen years, and for the last seven or so has been drinking anywhere between a quart and a gallon of vodka a day, depending on what she had access to. And taking those painkillers that started with her back injury, of course.”
“Oxycontin. Vicodin.” I watch my mother but she doesn’t stir. The smell of her breath is terrible, thick and sweet with decay, surrounding me, choking me, and suddenly I can’t stand it. I let go of the bed rail and lean back, just to be able to breathe. “When I was little it was meth and drinking. Then, after Ellie . . . after she hurt her back, she’s been taking anywhere between twenty-eight and forty-three Vicodins a day. And yeah, still drinking.”
“My God, the acetaminophen alone . . .” Red shudders and rises, goes over to my mother’s tray and pours two cups of water from her pitcher. “She said after the funeral . . . uh, after what happened to the baby, she just didn’t care anymore. She went as far as to say that she doesn’t think she ever got over the death of her father, either. The guilt, I mean, but she wouldn’t discuss it with me any further.”
“Did she say anything else about Ellie?” I ask, accepting the cup he hands me and draining it.
“No,” he says, sitting back down beside me.
“Beale?”
“No.”
“Me?”
He sighs and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Sayre.”
“But she still wanted to see me,” I say, at a loss.
“Perhaps because you’re her only daughter?” he says gently.
“Oh Goddamn it, and whose fault is that?” I snap, and any lingering sadness is buried beneath a landslide of pent-up, molten anger. “I’m serious. Whose fault is that?” Oh, I am raging now and the low fury in my voice scares me. “It’s not my fault and it’s not Beale’s fault, it’s her fault, only just like everything else, she didn’t want to deal with it so now what, she’s just gonna die because life was too hard? Because if she had a new liver then she couldn’t party anymore and if she can’t party then she has nothing to live for?” The words fly and I don’t even try to stop them. “What about me? I’m her daughter. Aren’t I something to live for? No, don’t even try to answer because I already know, okay? The answer is NO, I am not something for her to live for and I never have been.”
“I know you two have a lot of unresolved issues and she hasn’t always been the best mother—”
“Try any kind of mother,” I mutter, staring down at the empty paper cup in my hands.
“Well, she can’t change that now even if she wanted to, but what we can do is go forward in a way that will help you cope with what’s coming.”
Oh, I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “If you’re saying I’m supposed to forgive her just because she’s dying, forget it,” I say, shocked by the cold fury in my voice. “No offense, but you don’t know anything about my life, Red. You have no idea, and you don’t know what she’s really like, either. I do.”
“Sayre,” he says, but the dam has burst and there’s no stopping it now.
“All you see is some tragic, pathetic girl you probably had a crush on back in high school who fed you all her Oh, poor me, I had such a hard life bullshit stories and you’re sitting there holding her hand and feeling bad and suddenly she’s a saint just because she’s thirty-three and dying, but you know what? She did it to herself. She chose it, just like she chose to hate me for being born.”
“Not hate, Sayre,” he protests.
“You don’t know,” I say with a sharp, dismissive gesture. “I do, but somehow it doesn’t seem to matter because she’s finally managed to kill herself and now I’m supposed to be the bigger person”—my voice is rising—“and forgive her for making sure I knew—in every possible way—that I was a mistake and she wished she’d never had me. That’s not the kind of stuff you tell someone you love, especially a little kid, unless you want to hurt them. And it worked, because you know what that does to me, even just saying it?” I grab the front of my shirt in a fist. “It tears me up. Do you hear what I’m saying? I’ll never forget that. Ever.”
“Sayre, I—,” Red begins, glancing at my mother’s slight form. Her feet are twitching and her eyelids are fluttering, and he looks like he’s going to shush me and if he does, if he tries to stop me from finally saying what I feel then I’m going to lose it, I am, and the crazy he saw in Iraq will be peanuts compared to the crazy I’ll let loose in here.
“I mean if your own mother doesn’t want you, who will? And she didn’t, Red, right from the beginning and that never changed.” It takes effort but I manage to lower my voice slightly. “She never took care of me. We had no food, but she always had meth. Or vodka. Or pills. She sold everything we had to get high. She stole from people who were good to her. She left me with strangers. Tweakers. Jesus, Red, a murderer. Her best friend tried to kill me with a hammer. Doesn’t that matter?”
“Of course,” he says, and is about to say more but I cut him off.
“She’s the mother. The adult. The one who’s supposed to be loving and caring and who shows me how to live, and how to be a good person. She chose to have me and isn’t that choice supposed to mean that I’m wanted? Isn’t it supposed to mean that I’m worth something to her?” I’ve never said these things out loud before, never dragged my pain out into the middle of the room and left it there for everyone to see. “I’m the daughter, Red. The kid. The one who was supposed to be wanted. So what the hell happened?” I sit back in my seat, feeling raw and miserable and totally humiliated.
The huge silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the fluorescent light and the sound of my mother breathing.
“You’re right, Sayre. I owe you an apology. I don’t know what you’ve been through,” he says finally, rising and pacing the room. “I’d heard some talk, of course, about her drug arrests and being banned from the stores downtown for shoplifting and I thought I saw her once down by the mission, but she turned away, so I was never actually sure it was her . . .” He stops and looks at me. “I never imagined it was anywhere near as bad as you’ve said. I admit it was quite a shock, walking in here and seeing a girl who used to be so pretty and lively and always seemed so . . . limitless, I guess, end up like this, and not being able to offer anything other than comfort, but . . .” He turns and stares out the win
dow a moment, watching the snow peppering the glass, then turns back to me. “No buts. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I never should have believed her assurance that you were fine. I should have followed through. I just never imagined . . .”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know. Nobody does.” I give a weak snort. “Well, until now.”
“Really?” he said, and turns back to me in concern. “What about Beale? Did he know how badly you were treated?”
“No.” I rest my elbows on my knees and lower my head into my hands. Close my eyes and feel a tear run down and drip off the end of my nose. I am exhausted, aching inside and out. “I don’t know. I never told him. I mean, he knew things weren’t great between us but . . . no. I don’t think he had any idea of how it was before we got to him. Or after. He c . . . c . . . couldn’t have imagined it, Red, b . . . because he had such a g . . . g . . . good heart.” I wipe my face on my sleeve. “I’m not t . . . trying to be mean, but could you g . . . go now? I . . . I just really need to be alone.”
“Of course. I understand.” He gives my shoulder a brief squeeze and turns to leave. “I’ll be here for a while longer, so if you want me, the nurses know how to reach me.” He nods, his blue eyes soft with sympathy, and disappears out the door.
I take a tissue from the box on the table tray. Blot my face and blow my nose. Sit in the quiet and stare at the shrunken ruin of my mother. Part of me—the part that still shouts She doesn’t get to be forgiven just because she’s dying!—wants up and out of here because staying is surrendering, giving her all the comfort and tenderness she never gave me, and that side of me balks hard at letting her have it.
