What Makes a Family

by Colleen Faulkner

  “Not restless at all,” I respond. “I don’t think she’s moved of her own volition since I arrived Thursday afternoon. Birdie . . . my mom . . . said she was restless Tuesday, after the ambulance brought her here, but . . . she just seems to be sleeping now.”

  Gail nods and lifts her purple stethoscope ear tips to her ears. She presses the drum to the crook of my grandmother’s elbow. I know she’s listening, so I’m quiet. When she’s done, she pulls her stethoscope down to hang around her neck and removes the blood pressure cuff. “Seventy over forty-four.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I thought I was ready for this, but I . . . It’s harder than I thought it would be. To sit here and watch Mom Brodie die. “That’s low, right? For blood pressure? And it’s lower than yesterday.”

  “It is lower, but that’s to be expected. All part of the process.” She checks my grandmother’s pulse. Again I wait. “Is she in any pain?”

  I’m just standing there by the bed, looking down at my grandmother. I’m in the same clothes I wore yesterday. We’re going to pick crabs. Why would I put on clean clothes? I did, however, shower to get the smell of The Gull off me. Celeste sprayed beer in my hair last night while telling a story about a guy trying to pick her up on the subway. “I don’t think so.” I shake my head, thinking. “No, she’s not in any pain, which is kind of weird because she was in the hospital. She was getting pain meds through her IV.”

  Gail nods and opens Mom Brodie’s medical file on the nightstand next to the bottles of pills Mom Brodie won’t be taking, and the teacup my mother put there, and Sarah’s little blue scroll. “It happens sometimes. Patients get home, in familiar surroundings, and they settle down.” She looks at me and smiles. She has a gorgeous smile, one that makes you think everything is going to be all right. Which of course it isn’t. It never is, in her line of work. Or at least all right has to be reinterpreted.

  “I’m glad she’s comfortable and pain free, but should she become restless, there’s medication in the comfort pack in the refrigerator. All you have to do is give us a call, and we’ll walk you through what to give her and how much. Birdie said you’d be the one administering it?” Gail looks at me, waiting for a response.

  I feel like I’m a beat behind in the conversation. I’m trying to wrap my head around the moment. Mom Brodie’s blood pressure is dropping. She’s moving closer to the end. “Right.” I nod. I didn’t open the comfort pack, but I know morphine is one of the drugs in there. Now that I realize I might actually have to give it to her . . . The idea is a little overwhelming. Not that I can’t. Or won’t give it to her. I’d do anything to keep Mom Brodie from suffering. But saying you can do something like that is different from actually having to do it.

  “Don’t be afraid to give the medication to her if she needs it, Abby.” Gail’s tone is kind, but not in any way condescending. “I know this is hard. But you have to remember, this is her choice. To die in her own home, surrounded by her loved ones. We’re here to help her make that journey, and we want her to be comfortable in it. We want all of you to be as comfortable as possible.” The smile again. “It’s a good thing you’re doing for your grandmother. Being here with her. Remember that. It’s the right thing to do, Abby.”

  I smile, feeling myself tear up. I reach for a tissue from a box on the old sewing machine cabinet against the wall. “My grandmother was a great one for being present for births and deaths. I can’t tell you how many people on Brodie Island she’s seen come into this world or leave it. She said it was important to be a witness to both.”

  “A wise woman, your grandmother.” Gail removes her stethoscope and tucks it into a canvas tote bag that says, THIS IS WHAT AN AWESOME NURSE LOOKS LIKE, with a big thumbs-up in the background.

  “I appreciate your coming, Gail.” I cross the room to rest my hand on Mom Brodie’s for a moment. It’s cool and dry. “I know it’s a long drive from Salisbury. Just to . . . check on her.”

  “It’s what I’m here for. And it’s a beautiful drive. This is the first time I’ve ever had a client on Brodie Island. Where have you been hiding this place? I feel like it’s like Atlantis or something. A magical place, hiding in plain sight. I stopped for a cold drink on the way over. On Main Street. It looks like Mayberry. I almost asked the clerk what year it was.” She laughs.

  I chuckle, impressed she’s heard of The Andy Griffith Show. It was certainly before my time, although I actually remember watching reruns of it when I was a kid. Mom Brodie loved Andy Griffith. “Brodie is quaint,” I agree.

  “And you grew up here?” Gail removes her blue disposable gloves and tosses them in a trash can.

  “Born upstairs in my parents’ bedroom.” I point over my head. “It was before the bridge was built. We had to take the ferry or a boat to the mainland, so most women just had their babies at home. My sister and I were both born here. Delivered by the same midwife.”

  “So, let’s see, who’s here with Mrs. Brodie? Your dad and mom and your sister?”

  “And my daughter. Sarah. Named after . . .” I open my hand to indicate my grandmother. “The first Sarah. And also my brother. He’s here, too. In and out. He lives about a mile from here.”

  “I didn’t realize you had a brother. Your mother didn’t mention him when we met for intake. I’m glad he’s here. The more support Mrs. Brodie has, the better. Most families find it comforting to be together, go through the process together.”

  I keep nodding my head like I’m one of those dog statues on the dashboard of a Chrysler.

  “Abs?” Joseph calls from down the hall.

  “Speak of the devil,” I say. It was what Mom Brodie used to say all of the time when the person she was talking about appeared. “That’s my brother.” Then I answer him. “Down here. With Mom Brodie.” I hear Joseph’s footsteps. “Thought you went to Salisbury to get Ainslie.”

  He stops in the doorway. “Change of plans. Her mother’s dropping her off.”

  “Long ride,” I comment.

  He shrugs. “Whatever. Saves me the trip.”

  Gail is standing there checking out my brother. It’s obvious she thinks he’s good-looking.

  “This is Gail, our hospice nurse,” I introduce. “Gail, my brother Joseph.”

  He nods. Smiles. “Nice to meet you, Gail.”

  “You too, Joe.” She’s grinning ear to ear.

  “Nah, it’s Joseph. My dad’s Joe, or Little Joe. If you ask anyone on Brodie Island for Joe Brodie, you’ll get a seventy-one-year-old farmer. Gotta ask for Joseph.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Joseph.”

  They check each other out long enough for me to feel awkward. I pick up the crocheted afghan on Daddy’s chair and refold it, just to have something to do while my brother makes eyes with our home-care nurse.

  Gail finally says, “Well, I’m done here, Abby. Unless you need me to do something else. Give your grandmother a bath, help you change her?”

  “No, no.” It comes out louder than I intend, and Joseph and Gail both look at me as if I’m loony tunes. But all I can think of is that this stranger will see her tattoo, and I know Mom Brodie wouldn’t want that. “I can do all that. We can . . . my sister and I. We don’t mind bathing her. And her . . . diaper”—I hate using the word—“hasn’t even been wet.”

  “Normal, too,” Gail says gently. Then she lowers her voice, brushing her hand against my arm. “Go ahead and leave the Depends on, though. She might need it when she passes.”

  I swallow and nod, thinking to myself that it’s a good thing Mom Brodie is unconscious. She wouldn’t like people standing around discussing her bodily functions. It wasn’t that my grandmother was a prude; she just . . . She was a private woman, at least when it came to herself. And definitely not crude like me and mine. When I excuse myself from the table, I say, “Be right back; gotta pee.” Not Mom Brodie. To my knowledge, she never peed. Which is interesting because she was the one who told me about getting my period and sex and even about birth control.
Daddy told Joseph. I think Celeste learned most of what she knew in her early years off bathroom walls. And fact-finding missions.

  “Okay. I’ll be on my way, then,” Gail says cheerfully, slinging her tote over her shoulder. “You have the number to call if you have any questions, or when she passes. If I’m not available, Mary or Tiffany will be. And they’re terrific. You’ll like them both. But I’m working tomorrow, so I’ll see you then. Like one thirty? Your mom said you’d all be going to church in the morning and a friend would be staying with Mrs. Brodie. That I was to come after church.”

  Joseph and I look at each other, and we both roll our eyes.

  “I’m not going to church with you all tomorrow,” he says.

  “Oh, you’re going,” I warn him. “If I’m going, you’re going, buster.” I return my attention to Gail and smile. “One thirty is fine.”

  She shifts the bag on her shoulder. “Super. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Joseph offers.

  “I’d like that.” Big, bright smile.

  Joseph and I make eye contact again as he lets Gail pass him in the doorway. I raise my eyebrows as high as I can, in an exaggerated motion. He grins.

  Joseph is gone long enough for me to settle in Daddy’s chair with my iPad. I’m reading my book-club book for next month. Erik Larson on the sinking of the Lusitania. Another cheerful selection. We’ve been on a dead or dying kick for months. I was just telling Drum the other day that I needed to do some research and make a couple of suggestions just to get us out of this rut. I could use a book about a woman in her forties who finally figures out who she is and what she wants to do when she grows up. Or maybe about a woman who writes a novel in a year, sells it, and it goes New York Times bestseller. A fantasy of mine that will never come to pass. Mostly because I don’t have a creative bone in my body.

  When Joseph walks in, I lower the iPad to my lap.

  He walks over to the bed, pulls something from his pocket, and sets it down on the nightstand next to the teacup. When he draws back his hand, I see that it’s an oyster shell. None of us have spoken about it, but it appears that we’re making some sort of altar for Mom Brodie. Only altar’s not really the right word because the objects are as much for her as in honor of her. I want to add something, but I’m not sure what. Maybe one of her favorite books?

  Joseph surprises me by leaning over and kissing Mom Brodie’s forehead. It’s the first time I’ve seen him touch her since I arrived. “How is she?”

  I get the idea he doesn’t want to discuss the oyster shell. What it means to him. To her. “Same. But her blood pressure is lower.”

  He turns to me. “That mean it’s going to be soon?”

  I shrug. “Gail says no way to tell how soon. I mean, clearly she’s dying. She will die. But, basically, in her own time.” I switch gears then. “Speaking of Gail . . .” This time I lift just one brow. “Were you flirting with your grandmother’s nurse, or was I reading something wrong?”

  The grin. He whips his cell phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. It doesn’t matter how hot it gets, Joseph wears jeans. And work boots. But he mixes it up with an assortment of black and navy blue T-shirts. It’s black today. Just a little tight to show off his buff chest, arms, and abs. He runs, and he has weightlifting equipment in his house. He actually uses it.

  I lean forward to see the screen of his phone. It’s his contacts, and Gail’s name and number have been added. “What? You asked our dying great-grandmother’s hospice nurse for her phone number?” I’m actually a little shocked. But not as shocked as I’m acting.

  “She pulled my phone out of my pocket and put in her name and number.” He returns the phone to his pocket.

  “Cheeky. I like it.” I look up at him. “So, you’re dating now?”

  He shrugs and walks over to pick up one of Mom Brodie’s pill bottles and read the label. “I haven’t been, but I guess I should. Marly filed.”

  “For divorce?” I ask.

  “No, Abs, for social security benefits. Yes, for divorce. And she’s dating some doctor she works with.” He waves his hands, waggling his fingers, hanging on to a pill bottle with one thumb. “He’s a plastic surgeon.”

  I hesitate to ask what I want to. I ask anyway. “Was she seeing him before . . . before she left?”

  “She sure was. Hey, this is an opiate.” He holds on to the bottle. “You probably shouldn’t leave it out in the open. Sticky fingers.”

  I get out of the chair, completely taken off guard by his statement about Marly. “Celeste wouldn’t take our grandmother’s painkiller.” I make a face. “Drugs aren’t her analgesic of choice, anyway.”

  “She could sell them. I think they go for like thirty dollars a pill. This county’s got a serious prescription-pill addiction.”

  I frown. “How do you know about such things?”

  “What? You think I live under a big oyster shell? Just because I never left home doesn’t mean I don’t know anything. I read, Abs. I watch television.”

  “The Hunting Channel.”

  “Not just the Hunting Channel. I watch Lisa Ling.” He points at me. “And I just binge-watched three seasons of Downton Abbey in one weekend.”

  I meet his gaze. “Marly cheated on you? I’m surprised to hear that.”

  “Because you thought I was the one who did it?”

  I hesitate. Do I lie? Because now that I know it was her and not him, I feel guilty. And he looks hurt.

  “I’m the illegitimate child of a married man. I’d never cheat on my wife, Abs.”

  I look down. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. You’re not that guy. I know that.”

  He thinks for a minute. “I guess people thought the same thing about Dad. He doesn’t seem like that guy, either.”

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again. Then I let the subject drop. Though I’ve got another one to upset us both. “You get a chance to talk to Daddy?”

  He nods. “For a couple of minutes. In the yard a few minutes ago. He was on his way to get the crabs. Was going to make a stop on his way. We’ve got a problem with an irrigation system over on Custom House Road. Jimmy D. called it in. I told Dad I’d take care of it, but he said, “Go help your mother.”

  I wait.

  “Yeah, so the will. Dad thinks we shouldn’t say anything to Blondie. That there’s no sense in getting her riled up now. He thinks we should let Mom Brodie die,” Joseph says softly, as if she can hear him. “After the funeral, we tell her, and let hell fly then.”

  “Hell will fly, all right,” I agree, pacing. “But I don’t agree with Daddy. You?”

  “I think I’d want to know now,” he says.

  “We’re not talking about you; we’re talking about Celeste.”

  He tugs his ball cap off and runs his hand over his short-cropped hair. He looks younger than thirty-two. I bet Gail thinks he’s younger than she is.

  “She home?”

  “Yup. But she didn’t get home until dawn. Birdie was already up. I got an earful on the subject. Of course it’s our fault, yours and mine. It was our responsibility to bring her home.”

  “Not mine. Yours. I’m just the little mixed-breed bastard of the family.” He laughs.

  I don’t.

  He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Abs. It’s funny. It’s never not funny. The Brodie heir apparent having been born on the wrong side of the sheets.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. I don’t like it when Joseph makes fun of himself like this. “I don’t think it’s funny. You’re as much a Brodie as Celeste and I are.”

  “Absolutely.” He walks to the window. “I didn’t know the view from this window was so beautiful. Guess I never came in here that often,” he muses. He turns away from the window. “Was Blondie with that old guy she was talking to at the bar? She was trying pretty hard to pretend she wasn’t interested.”

  “No idea.” I walk over to the bed. I think about Mom Brodie’s tattoo. I w
ant to tell him about it. I turn around. “Daddy say how much money we’re talking about? I mean, maybe all this worry is needless. Maybe it’s not enough money to matter.”

  “Oh, it’s enough to matter.” He names a number without blinking.

  I blink twice, certain I didn’t hear correctly. I repeat the number with a question mark.

  Joseph nods.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I murmur. I look up at my little brother’s face. He’s not kidding. “She left all that to us?” I say, feeling like all of the blood has drained from my face. “Where did she get it?”

  Joseph shrugs.

  Then, against my will, my brain starts turning. Flying in ten directions at once. I don’t want to think these things. I don’t want to be greedy. Feel greed. I’m not a greedy person. I’ve got a lot of faults, but that’s not one of them. But with that kind of inheritance, Drum can quit his job. He can quit it this week, before the semester even starts, if he wants to. We can sell the house and buy one at the beach. He can be a glassblower if that’s what he wants. Hell, he can be a candlestick maker if we’re careful with our money and there’s a market for candlesticks. . . .

  “And all of that is just for you and me?” I ask, still not totally able to believe it. “She didn’t leave anything to anyone else?”

  “Actually she did. Added to the Brodie education fund. Ainslie can go to Harvard if she wants. Hell, there will be tuition for your grandchildren and their grandchildren if we continue to invest well.” He tugs on the brim of his ball cap. “She also left a nice chunk to the church and to a couple of old ladies in town. Mrs. Smith. Mrs. Freeman. I don’t remember who else. Just a thousand dollars here and a thousand there.”

  “But nothing for Birdie?”

  Joseph looks at me strangely. “Why would she leave money to Mom? She and Dad have more money than they know what to do with. And what difference would it make how much money Mom had? She’d still buy her sneakers at Walmart.”

  I sigh. He’s right, I guess; my mother owns half of everything my father owns. Half of Brodie Island. At least the money. The land is in some kind of trust, so it can’t be sold. It just gets passed down generation to generation. And no amount of money would change how my mother lives. But I can’t help thinking Birdie would have been tickled, at least secretly, had Mom Brodie left her just a little pin money. A token of her appreciation.