A Good Distance

by Sarah Willis

  Chapter Ten

  It’s dark outside now, and the house is quiet. My mother’s still asleep behind the rails. I wonder how long I have been sitting here, and what Todd and Jazz are doing. I want my life back. I am too old to be a daughter anymore.

  I stand up, lean over her bed, and kiss her forehead. I remember that night, when she brought me home after McDonald’s. She did the same thing, kissed my forehead as I pretended to sleep. I was so glad to be home, but I never told her that. “Sleep tight,” I whisper to my mother, then walk into my daughter’s room.

  Jazz looks up at me from her bed. “I’m on the phone, Mom,” she says, stressing the Mom, letting me know I’m not supposed to just walk into her room.

  “I know, but I want to talk with you. Can you call them back?”

  Jazz closes her eyes as if the sight of me is just too much to bear. “I guess.” Then, into the phone, “I gotta go. I’ll call you back.”

  I pick up the unicorn music box off the bureau and wind it up. It plays “My Favorite Things.” I remember how badly Jazz had to have this music box three years ago. I would hear it playing whenever she was in her room. Not lately, though. Not for a while.

  “So?” Jazz says. “What?”

  “I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

  I watch her face squint up, but she stops herself from rolling her eyes. “Thanks. Love you, too.”

  She’s really not a bad kid. At least she knows what I want to hear and gives it to me now and then. She’s just at that age when she’s confused and frustrated by her own feelings, and the easiest thing to do is to be tough. Why is being tough easier than being loving? Even now? When Todd tells me he loves me, I can feel my shoulders tighten. “My Favorite Things” slows, then stalls, as if the music box forgot the rest of the song.

  “Do you like living here?” I ask.

  “I have a choice?” Jazz says, looking at me like I’m nuts.

  “Yes, if you had a choice. Would you want to live here?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I don’t know where else I would live. I mean, maybe if I could live with . . . my dad?” Her eyebrows arch up. I haven’t told her who her dad is. She hasn’t asked for a while. I kind of hoped she’d stopped asking for good. I ignore the almost question she has asked me.

  “But you doing okay? I mean, you’re happy, mostly, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you tell me if you weren’t? If you had a problem?”

  “I guess.” She rolls her eyes.

  “Well, I want you to,” I say. “I want you to be able to tell me if something’s wrong.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Just remember I’ll love you no matter what.”

  “Like if I get pregnant or steal something?” She says this with a smile, and I know she’s just trying to shock me.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Okay. Fine.” There’s very little sarcasm in her voice. I’ll take it.

  “Don’t stay up too late,” I say. “Love you.”

  She half smiles, nods. She’s not going to say she loves me twice in one night. There are limits. I understand them.

  I walk downstairs, taking each step as if it were a slow, difficult thought. I’m so tired of being the caretaker of someone with Alzheimer’s. I’m betting Todd’s tired of being the caretaker of the caretaker. The sound of the TV wavers from the family room. I follow the sound to Todd.

  He sits on the couch watching one of those shows where a good-looking but down-to-earth couple walk the viewer through building a fireplace from scratch, or installing a Jacuzzi in a newly built bathroom the size of a living room. Todd watches these shows as a way of relaxing, just as I watch the Discovery Channel. No plot, just something to rest your eyes on.

  “Hey there,” I say.

  “Hi, Babe.” He slides over to make room for me on the couch.

  “If I sit down, I’ll never get up,” I tell him. “I’m going to go to bed in a minute anyway.” I lean against the door frame. He mutes the TV.

  “You were up there a long time,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  “Who knows? I’m just as crazy as she is. I think I just imagined a whole conversation with her. It was like talking to my own subconscious. I don’t know if I liked it much. Did Jazz say anything to you about coming home and us being in the bedroom?”

  “What’s she going to say? And besides, it’s normal. We’re married.”

  “Remind me about that,” I say.

  “Hey, I’m the one who moved over so you could sit down. You’d rather stand against a wall than let me put my arm around you.”

  “Point taken. At least you’re not on the computer, talking with someone.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Have you forgotten what we did upstairs?” I ask. “That was more than putting your arm around me.”

  “Yeah. And the thing by the back door was very good, too, but I think you just did that to thank me for getting the chicken.”

  “Hey, if that’s how I thank you for picking up the chicken, wait till you see what I do when you bring home a turkey.”

  “I’m not kidding, Babe.” The lines around his mouth are tight.

  “I know. I just can’t think straight. Look, what I did by the back door was because I wanted to make you happy. Is that so bad?”

  “I’m confused. You give me this great blow job, make dinner, we go upstairs and have sex, but you won’t sit down and talk. You’re stumbling backward for something you left behind, and you don’t want my help. I’m the only one worrying about the future.”

  The TV flickers across his face. He hasn’t turned to look at the screen once. I know I would have. If I was sitting on the couch right now, I’d be staring at the couple with the saw and hammer.

  “Yeah, well, I can’t think about the future because the future is that my mother’s going to forget how to eat, how to walk, and then she’s going to die, probably in a nursing home while I’m not there. I have to watch her so she doesn’t stuff shit into toilets, or eat something poisonous, or . . . whatever.” I know I’m getting defensive. Getting my back up, my mother would say. “I’m too tired to talk about this right now. I love you. Thanks for getting the chicken.”

  He only nods, not a good sign.

  “Good night,” I say.

  At least one of us is still talking.

  Rose wakes in the middle of the night. There’s a dim lamp glowing and rails around her bed. She doesn’t cry out. She knows better. It won’t do any good. She doesn’t waste time with things that won’t work. She’s practical that way. Michael was never practical, always a dreamer. Wanted her barefoot and pregnant, but then he up and died on her. She got smart quick. Learned to handle a mortgage, invested in stocks bit by bit, saved money for her retirement. All along she knew there would never be another man. Just not in the cards. But Simon . . . oh, she had hoped . . . but he was practical, too. Didn’t waste time on things that wouldn’t work.

  She grasps a cold metal rail with her hand. This is what holds me in, she thinks. Well, so be it.

  For a while, maybe an hour, she is seventy-four and knows it. Knows everything. That everyone thought she couldn’t live without Michael, but the truth is, she could. Love could wear thin, and it had started to, before Michael died. No one knew that but her and Michael, and he took that truth with him to the grave. Oh, she loved him, but she loved him more after he died. She loved him then and after, for always. But there were other men.

  She will have to tell Jennifer about Simon.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wake up as the sky begins to brighten. Todd’s already out of bed. He’ll have made a pot of coffee and laid out the Living section of the Plain Dealer on the kitchen table at the spot where I sit, argument or not. He’s probably the best damn thing that ever happened to me, and I resent it. I want me to be the best damn thing that ever happened to me.

  Sitting up in be
d, I know I should call Kethley House and tell them we want the room, but before I make that commitment, I’ll drive my mother to the nursing home, see if her feelings have changed. I’m sure they have. She has a great range of disgust.

  Downstairs, Todd’s reading the paper, but the Living section is not at my place. I’m glad he’s not as good as I thought. I kiss him on the forehead.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?” he asks.

  “For nothing,” I say, and mean it. Ignore me just a little and I’ll be fine. I’m constantly exhausted by trying to keep up with his good standards. I wonder if this idea to take care of my mother is something I came up with to impress him.

  “I’ll call Kethley House,” I say. “Ask if we can visit again. Tell them we’re still interested. I’ll see how long they can hold the room.”

  “Thank you,” he says, both words dry and flat.

  “Sure,” I say, using the same tone.

  “Jazz said to tell you she was going to Turtle’s after school,” he informs me.

  “Okay. Thank you.” He’s wearing his work clothes: jeans spattered in paint, black T-shirt, a red plaid flannel shirt over that, holes torn on both elbows. I used to be up and dressed by now, in a blouse and skirt, stockings and nice shoes. We’d look so odd at the breakfast table, as if I were one of those women who pay him to fix up their homes. One night Jazz was at a sleepover and I kept on my work clothes, overdid the makeup. When he came home smelling of sweat, I wouldn’t let him shower. I pretended I was one of those rich woman, employing him, telling him what to do. “Lower,” I said. “Softer.” It was very, very good, but it was too close to the truth, and we never did it again.

  Now, sometimes, I don’t even change my clothes for two days.

  Finished with the paper, he ties his bandanna around his head now. It’s to cover his hair from sawdust and paint, and to look tougher, hide his pretty hair. This man, in his bandanna, always finds work; word of mouth keeps him employed, although he never seems to break even. My salary and health care are what make it possible for the three of us to live as we do.

  “I don’t know when I’ll get home,” he says.

  “Okay,” I say. “Just come home.”

  He looks up. Our eyes meet. We both know we’re falling apart. I’m not the only one here who uses sex as a temporary adhesive.

  “I will,” he says. He picks up his travel mug full of hot coffee and leaves. He forgets to kiss me goodbye.

  He doesn’t really forget, he just doesn’t.

  I tell my mother that we’re going to take a ride to the ice-cream shop. I just don’t tell her that the ice-cream shop is in a nursing home. She climbs into the car without question. I think of all the times I told Jazz never to to get into a car with a stranger.

  “Okay, we’re here,” I say, pulling into the parking lot. It’s a clear, blue day and not too chilly for October. A few old men and women—mostly women—are set outside on benches, cheeks pink, noses dripping. A black woman in a white uniform stands off to the side, smoking a cigarette. I shudder; these old people with deep wrinkles and droopy ears are the good ones, trusted to sit outside with only one aide to watch them casually, as if they are potted plants. I am thankful, once again, for the fact my mother has great skin, that she doesn’t show her age. Heredity: When I am old and set out like a potted plant, I will look younger than the rest.

  My mother turns and glares at me.

  “We’re going to get an ice-cream sundae. Remember?” I say.

  Her lip curls and she shakes her head. She snorts. I know exactly what she’s saying. Do you think me an idiot? So I answer her.

  “Okay, it’s not a regular ice-cream shop. It’s Kethley House. The nursing home I brought you to before. I really think you might like it. Give it another chance, okay? And they do have an ice-cream shop. That’s the truth. We’ll just go in to get ice cream. That’s all. That’s not so hard, right?”

  She rolls her eyes. Either she has been taking lessons from Jazz or this eye-rolling thing is hereditary because they both do it exactly alike, their green irises slowly arching up, then back down like the sun rising and setting—big dramatic gestures followed by a slow shake of their head. Seeing that, from my mother or Jazz, makes me feel small and stupid. And angry.

  “Oh, come on,” I say. “I’m going to get out of the car and come around and open your door. Just get out and come in with me for one ice-cream sundae. That’s all I’m asking. Just this one small thing.” I get out of the car without waiting for the next show of unspoken words, and with my back turned to her, I pretend she’s nodding, agreeing with me. I’m good at pretending. I tell myself that if I get her to go inside, I’ll reward myself with a video tonight. Something science fiction, far in the future, on another planet. You never see nursing homes in science-fiction movies.

  I open her door, offer a hand. My mother is a statue, hands folded in her lap, legs together, feet planted firmly on the floor, looking straight ahead as if she were deaf. “Come on,” I say, a bit loud. The old people on the benches are staring at me with big droopy eyes, and the aide is looking my way. I want to kick the car. “Come on, Mother, just for a few minutes. Please? Ice cream? Pretty, pretty please with ice cream on top?” I try a laugh. It doesn’t work. I grab her arm. Sometimes I can propel her about like this. Sometimes that’s all she needs. Not this time. It’s surprising how strong the muscles are under the soft, flabby-looking skin of her upper arm. A few weeks ago she threw a dictionary at me, and it went a whole lot farther than I thought it would and hit me in the shin. I try to lift her out of her seat, flashing back to a long time ago when I did this same thing to Jazz to get her into the doctor’s office. She stiffened her legs and dragged her feet, so it was quite a scene. I have the feeling that if I actually pull my mother out of the car, she will drop like a lead balloon onto the parking lot pavement, with an audience, to boot. The aide will come over and ask if I need help, and I’ll burst into tears. I let go of my mother’s arm.

  “Please?” I ask again, my voice sweet and kind and sounding ten years old.

  Her lips are pressed so tight together they disappear. “Fine,” I say. “Have it your way.” I carefully don’t slam the car door.

  I don’t want to go home yet. Todd will have called, to see how our nursing home visit went. I don’t want to go into my house, see that red light on the answering machine. I won’t be able to ignore it, it would be rude; that red light blinking like a heartbeat, knowing it’s my husband’s.

  “Do you want ice cream now?” I ask as we drive away.

  “Okay,” she says. She’s smiling now because she won. I drive to Draeger’s, a homemade ice-cream and candy shop where I used to take Jazz for her birthday.

  After ordering a mint chocolate chip sundae for me, and strawberry for her, I touch her hand to get her attention. She seems dazed. The inside of the shop is brightly lit, and the walls, tables, and floor are the blue and pink of cotton candy. “Do you remember when I ran away from home for four days?” I say. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “You were gone three days,” she says.

  The sentence is grammatically correct, and she seems to know who I am, but the facts are wrong. “No, I was gone four days. Remember?”

  “Oh, bosh!” she says. The waitress has just put the ice cream down in front of us. I smile at her and she nods. Maybe she has a mother.

  “Really. You took me to McDonald’s after you picked me up. Four days.”

  She rolls her eyes and eats the hot fudge off the top of the sundae. “I don’t like strawberry ice cream,” she says. “You know that.”

  I didn’t. I thought she liked strawberry ice cream.

  “You and Simon broke up right after. Remember?”

  “Simon?” she says. “Oh. I have to tell you about Simon. Good I remembered!”

  “What did you remember?”

  “Simon!”

  “Yes, but what about him?”

  “He was the one.�
� She points to her chest. “I want you to know.” Then she looks at me and squints.

  “I’m Jennifer,” I remind her.

  She nods, but I can tell she’s not so sure.

  “So tell me,” I say. “Tell me about Simon.”

  “He was too smart for me,” she says. “Damn it. He liked me, though. He almost loved me. He was a children’s . . .”

  “Pediatrician,” I say. She nods.

  “You really screwed things up,” she says. “And you didn’t even know I . . .” She taps her chest three times. I see the words, loved him.

  My mother tells me the story of Simon, skipping words, using the wrong words, drawing words in the air. I hear all the words she misses. I’m getting good at this.

  This is what I hear, although it’s not exactly what she says.

  Rose swore that she would never love another man. She made this promise as Michael grew thin in the hospital. She made this promise standing by his freshly dug grave. Even as she goes out on dates with the men her friends have set her up with, she has no intention of falling in love. And then she meets Simon.

  He’s bright, and makes her feel bright. She feels connected again, both to the world outside her own narrow scope and to the girl she used to be. They follow the elections with an intensity she had forgotten she ever had. They both agree it’s a good thing Nixon won over Humphrey, who seems to be a lightweight. And Simon likes sports, something Rose has never paid much attention to. They sit on her couch watching the Olympics in Mexico, and he surprises her by jumping up and hollering at the screen during the fight between George Foreman and the Russian boxer, then shouting with joy when Foreman wins. She likes it that he surprises her. He feels solid, substantial; adult. And he kisses like all get out. They make love at his apartment a month after their first date. He’s the second man in her whole life she has made love to. She doesn’t cry until after she gets home.