Within Arm's Reach

by Ann Napolitano

  CATHARINE

  I walk around the corridors of the home every day for exercise. I have a route that I follow. I walk along the upper hallway, then down the stairs and along the lower hallway. If the weather’s decent I also travel the main path to the parking lot and back. I’ve tried to get a few of the girls on the hall to join me, but they say that they’re too old to exercise and that ladies shouldn’t sweat and why fight the natural aging process. I tell them that is all a bunch of malarkey. I have a college degree in nutrition, and I know that as bones age they grow brittle, so it is more important than ever to exercise and strengthen the muscles around the bones. And exercise keeps the mind fresh and alert. You don’t see dotty senior citizens out power-walking. I explain this to my friends, but do they listen? I remind them that I am only trying to help, and then I walk by their open doors on my daily rounds with my head held high, so I can show them the right way by example.

  I think about this, my daily campaign for fitness and health, as I fall to the floor in the middle of my room. It is just after lunch, and as I stand up from the loveseat to get the remote control off the top of the television, my foot catches on something. I feel myself tip forward; my balance is lost. I reach out to grab anything that might stop my fall, but there is nothing to grab. In the next second, I am lying on my side on the floor. It happened so fast—standing, falling, fallen. My first thought from my new position on the floor is: If the girls on the hall find out about this little spill, they’ll think it’s my just reward after all my talk about the benefits of exercise.

  I give myself a minute before I try to stand back up. The fall knocked the wind out of me, and my breath is choppy in my throat. I feel as if someone kicked a gate open in the center of my chest. There is also a dull ache in my hip, but it is my breathing and the odd sensation in my chest that concerns me more. I wait until my breath grows steady before I attempt to move. It turns out not to be much of a move. I manage to prop myself up on one elbow, and then that arm turns to rubber, and I am forced to lie down again.

  I decide I will try again in a few minutes. I still don’t have my strength back—that much is clear—and it is foolish to rush. After all, I have nowhere to be until dinner. So I lie there on my side, the painful hip up in the air. I tuck my arm under my head and am relatively comfortable. I look around and confirm that I have stranded myself in the only clear spot in this small room. The loveseat and the coffee table are a few feet behind me. The television is more than an arm’s length beyond my head. There is nothing solid within my reach.

  However, I can see plenty. The photographs on the wall above the loveseat. The waving trees through the window. I can make out only part of the view, but I know the entire scene. It is just past one o’clock, which means the two old men are reading their newspapers on the bench beneath the oak tree. The more able Alzheimer patients will be crossing the grounds on their supervised daily walk. Mrs. Malloy will be standing at the edge of the parking lot, waiting for the driver she hires to take her into town once a week. She asked me if I wanted to accompany her today, and I declined because Mrs. Malloy talks too much for my liking.

  Perhaps, I think, my head cushioned on my arm, trying to breathe as lightly as possible, I should have said yes. Then I wouldn’t have been sitting on the loveseat. I wouldn’t have stood up for the remote. I wouldn’t have settled into this room after lunch. I would have picked up my purse and met Mrs. Malloy at the end of the hall. I would be listening to her talk about her grandson the lawyer right now instead of lying here. But then I hear a car engine outside the window, and the light tap of a car door closing. So, Mrs. Malloy is gone. My chance for a different present has driven away.

  I glance back by the loveseat, to see what it was my foot caught on. I want to get a look at what made me fall. It felt like a book, or a stack of magazines. But I don’t see anything, at least not from this angle. Only the smooth Oriental rug that used to be my mother’s. I am lying in the center of the rug now. Its weave is soft beneath my cheek. I think how odd it is that although I have lived with this rug for most of my life, I have never done anything but walk over it until now. My children used to crawl and play and watch television from this rug, but I never had time to sit down with them. And, honestly, it never would have occurred to me to sit on the floor. During that time, parents didn’t play with their children like they do today. I was amazed, years later, by the ways in which my children enjoyed their own children. Theresa adored Mary and John from the minute they were born. She played house with Mary, and went to every one of John’s football games before he quit the team. Up until Dina turned eleven or twelve and developed such a mouth on her, she and Meggy were inseparable. They even went through a period when they dressed alike. And Kelly, though maybe not as playful with her children, was the proudest parent I ever saw. It seemed as if every time Lila brought home another A, or Gracie got an article published in the school paper, Kelly called me and her brothers and sisters to let us all know.

  During my time, parents were the disciplinarians. There was no playing, and enjoyment never entered the picture. There were so many children, and it was so much work to get them from infancy to adulthood. I was exhausted for fifteen straight years. I didn’t mind that, though. It was my job. I got the children up and dressed and to school and church and helped with homework and broke up fights and washed endless stains out of endless shirts and pants and demanded good manners and prayers before bed and respect for their father and mother. Times were either normal and hard, or something was wrong. I preferred normal and hard. That was what I wished for. Enjoyment, or fun, never occurred to me. I just prayed to God that I would not lose any more children.

  I shift my shoulder slightly against the rug. I plan to lie here for a few more minutes and gather my strength before I try to get up again. It’s better to just bear through pain. When my children came inside crying from a scraped knee, I used to tell them that complaining wouldn’t help, and that if they were quiet the discomfort would eventually go away. I wasn’t going to lie to them and say that life wasn’t supposed to hurt. I was afraid that if I coddled them they wouldn’t grow strong enough. I needed them to be strong. I always hated the sound of their tears, their weakness.

  I was almost embarrassed when Pat sobbed and wailed while Patrick punished him. Didn’t he know that his blubbering made his father even angrier? I knew the blows couldn’t hurt that badly— Patrick would never really hurt one of his children. I also knew that Pat’s sobs were for me in the next room. They were to make me feel bad. It worked, of course. Those were awful moments for me, but I also knew that if I went in there and tried to stop Patrick, things would only be worse. He would become more angry and hit harder, because I was questioning his authority. It was better for Pat if I stayed away. I couldn’t help the fact that Patrick somehow tied together in his brain the birth of his oldest son and the death of his oldest daughter. He hated Pat for being born right after that death. Patrick never got over the loss of that baby girl. It was something I couldn’t help. But when Pat Jr. had finally had enough and didn’t want to come home the summer after his first year in boarding school, I found him a summer job through one of my father’s contacts and bought him new clothes and packed his bag. I knew I wouldn’t see Pat for a long time, and that he would never live in my house again, but I was glad to see him go.

  I wanted life to be just normal and hard in our house. I yearned for that. And indeed, when Pat left for boarding school, the semblance of normalcy returned. Patrick joked at the dinner table. The other children laughed more. Lightness returned to the household, but I was unable to find comfort in it. I could see that it was a false lightness, an imitation of a peaceful time. I was the only one in the family who seemed to notice, so I kept the truth to myself. I pretended I was happy, too. I pretended everything was as I had wanted it to be. But by that time I had lost not only my daughter, but the twins as well. I had watched my oldest son walk away, still a boy, knowing that I had not gotten him
safely from infancy to adulthood. I had lost him as well. I was losing the live ones now, too.

  When Ryan’s behavior started to change shortly after Pat left, when he started to say odd things, and stopped playing with the other little boys, I was not completely surprised. I had failed at holding my family together. I should have fought for Pat. I should have noticed my baby girl’s symptoms earlier. I should have done something, anything, to bring my twins into the world whole and full of breath. I should have found a way to stop these cracks from forming. I should have kept everyone together, and safe.

  I feel tears, which I recognize in disgust as self-pity, push at the backs of my eyes. To shake away that sensation I heave myself up on my elbow. I breathe there for a moment until my vision clears. I am fine from the waist up aside from the creaking gate door in my chest, but I can’t seem to move my legs. My lap is twisted slightly under my periwinkle blue dress. Apart from the same dull ache, there is no real pain. I just can’t seem to move. My legs have gone to sleep. It is growing dark in the room.

  I will wait a little longer and then try again. I need to drag myself just a few feet across the floor to where the phone is. Then I can call one of my grandchildren. I could convince Gracie to slip in here, help me onto the loveseat, give me an aspirin or two, and then slip out. Lila would be a little more risky; she might insist on an unnecessary trip to the hospital. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. O’Malley for tomorrow. No one here at the home needs to know that anything happened. I can just imagine the hubbub that would result if I was to be found lying on my floor by the staff. There would be whistles and sirens and a stretcher and everyone would crowd around to gawk. The girls on the hall wouldn’t even try to hide their glee that it was me and not them— not yet, anyway. There would be jokes about what good my exercise routine did me. And after I had been wheeled from the building, there would be bets made on whether I would be able to come back to this room, to this building where the fittest and the most able people in the center live. There are three buildings on the grounds, each with different levels of care and support. Most people start out in my building and then move to one of the other two. The girls on the hall would wonder—still thinking, Thank God it’s not me—whether I would be able to live as independently after this, whether I would still be able to take care of myself.

  I hear a noise behind me and freeze so I can listen better. Someone dropped something in the hall, I reassure myself. But it’s not the right kind of noise for that, and it sounds too close to be in the hall. It is unmistakably the soft, swooshing noise of my door opening. The door is behind me, so I can’t see a thing. I fold my arms over my chest so that I look as together and respectable as possible. I pray that whoever is looking into the room somehow doesn’t see me, and goes away.

  But he or she doesn’t go away and I don’t hear the sound of the door closing. This infuriates me. It means some person, or even more than one person, are staring in at me lying on my side like a child curled up for a nap. They might be laughing, or jeering at the sight.

  Hello, I say, sharply, to put an end to this rudeness.

  Sweet Jesus, Catharine. What in the world are you doing on the floor?

  Mother? I look as best I can over my shoulder and see that my mother has stepped into the room and let the door shut behind her.

  She walks around to the front of me and stares down, her hands on her hips. She has on short white gloves and a gray dress with a belted waist. She also wears a gray hat with a wide brim. Answer me, child. What are you doing on the floor?

  I shake my head and try again to raise myself up. Again, I only manage to prop up my elbow. I use all my strength to stay there, feeling that this position has a little more poise to it, a little more composure. I fell, Mother. Will you please help me up?

  My mother shakes her head under the wide hat brim. She actually steps back from me and sits down in the armchair. I don’t think I can.

  Why not?

  It’s just not possible.

  I sigh. I’ve been lying on the rug for over an hour at least and I am growing tired. I have always found talking to my mother frustrating. Where’s Father?

  He couldn’t help you either.

  He’d find a way, I want to say, but don’t.

  I am surprised to hear myself say, Do you know that I’m having a great-grandchild?

  My mother has taken a piece of darning and a needle out of her purse. The darning looks like one of father’s black dress socks. I never even met my grandchildren, she says. It wasn’t fair of you to keep them away from me.

  I didn’t keep them away from you. My arm has grown weak again, and I am forced to lay my head back on the floor. You lived all the way in St. Louis, and it wasn’t like people flew in those days. You could have come out with Father on the train.

  You were happy I didn’t come. My mother speaks matter-of-factly. You thought I was crazy and didn’t want me around your family.

  My cheek is against the carpet. I have stopped fighting my position on the floor. I feel instead as if I am sinking into the rug and the concrete floor beneath it. I am taking root, losing all possibility of escape. I think of the Ballen children, tied to the tree in the backyard. I see my mother, mending holes in hundred-year-old socks on the other side of the room. I think of Ryan. I think, I tried to keep you from rubbing off on my children, but failed. I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t strong enough.

  It doesn’t seem fair that you should know your great-grandchildren as well as your grandchildren when I never got to meet anybody, but then life hasn’t been fair since I left Ireland.

  This is one of my mother’s favorite expressions, and it has always annoyed me. She left Ireland when she was twelve because people were starving there, so it doesn’t even make sense. Life wasn’t fair when she was in Ireland. But I don’t let it bother me this time because of the mention of the new baby. The gate in my chest opens a little farther. My thoughts leave Ryan and I feel hope.

  I don’t approve of why you want this great-grandchild so badly. My mother shakes her head and the darning needles brush against each other with a tsk-tsk noise.

  She’s bitter, I think. Mother has always been bitter.

  You think each time that you’re going to get it right and have the perfect happy family. You think you can make up for every mistake you made and everyone you lost by getting it right this time around. Haven’t you learned a thing about how the world works, Catharine? Every Irish ditty your good husband knew the lyrics to would have told you the truth. You should have listened to him once in a while. Everyone in those songs had a heavy heart. There is no such thing as love without loss. You can’t make things right. Her needles move faster now, speeding up with her argument. But then you always were stubborn. Thinking life was like a jigsaw puzzle you could put together with a few well-shaped pieces. After all, only the most stubborn of Irish women would lie in the middle of her own floor for hours and not call for the decent help that is only a few feet away. Listen to the footsteps, Catharine! There are people walking right by your door!

  I listened to Patrick, I say, trying to remember the words to “Miss Kate Finnoir” or “McNamara’s Band” but coming up with nothing. I was a good wife.

  Yes, my mother says, her head shaking again. You were a good wife, Catharine, and now your husband is dead ten years and you still haven’t a lick of sense. At your age, you ought to be plenty embarrassed. And you think I’m the crazy one.

  I am suddenly very cold. Goose bumps cover my arms and legs. Can you throw a blanket over me, Mother? I say. Can you do that?

  I must have fallen asleep. I remember closing my eyes thinking that if I shut my eyes and mouth, less cold air would get inside me and I would not freeze solid curled up in the center of the floor.

  The next thing I know, there is a slash of bright light across my face and shouts and Nurse Stronk is leaning over me. “Catharine!” she yells. “Catharine!”

  I stare at her, wondering if she sees me right here unde
r her rather large nose. Why does she need to shout? I look over at the armchair, but, of course, my mother is gone. The television is on, though; the noise of static fills the room and gray lines crisscross the screen. Was the television on this entire time? No, no, it wasn’t. Did my mother turn on the television on her way out? Did she use it to get Nurse Stronk’s attention and tattle on me? I wouldn’t put it past her. I really can’t trust anyone except myself.

  Nurse Stronk keeps shouting. “Can you hear me, Catharine?

  “Do you know where you are?

  “How many fingers am I holding up?

  “Do you know what day of the week it is?

  “Are you hurt?”

  I look past Nurse Stronk at the photographs on the wall. I find the black-and-white photograph where all of my children are smiling. They are not smiling with joy; they are smiling because Patrick, who was holding the camera, ordered them to. Again I think of the Ballen children, linked together but laughing, tied to the trunk of a massive tree. I think of my grandchildren, each of them wandering around aimless and unhappy. I try to picture one joyful smile on one face that I love, and come up with nothing. I think that maybe my mother is right, and that I am stupid to keep trying. I am stupid to think this new baby will right all past wrongs. The gate door in my chest swings wide open.

  “Catharine!” Nurse Stronk bellows.

  I will answer her questions so she will be quiet. Only halfway through my responses do I realize I am not speaking out loud. But still, I don’t stop until I’m finished.

  Can you hear me, Catharine? Yes.

  Do you know where you are? The Christian Home for the Elderly .