I leave the busy
murmur of noise in the hall as I enter the dimly lit room. My mother lays in
her bed asleep. Her body looks so small and fragile under the thin fabric of
the sheets. Only the subtle rise and fall of her chest and the constant gentle
beeping of the machine next to her bed make any indication that she is, in fact,
still in the land of the living.
Her eyelids
flutter open at the sound of the door clicking shut and her tired brown eyes
fall upon my tall frame. I step out of the shadows and she extends her hand out
to me. A kind smile settles upon her lips. “Hello
Benjamin.”
“Hi Mama.” I
close the distance between us and take her hand in mine as I take a seat in the
chair at her bedside. “How are you feeling today?”
“Oh,” she says
brushing away my concern, “I’m alive.”
I pat her hand and wonder why she feels like she needs to keep holding on. How much effort must each breath take? What is she waiting for?
“How is Janine?”
The skin at the corner of her eyes wrinkle as her smile widens at the mention
of my wife.
“She’s doing well. She told me to tell you she says ‘hi’ and she’s sorry she couldn’t make it today. Her doctors have her on bed rest until the baby comes.”
Content with my
answer, she nods and closes her eyes. We are silent as I stare at her,
committing her to memory; the grey and white strands of hair pulled tightly
back into a bun squished between her head and the pillow, her pale skin that
lies delicately against her old bones, the peaceful look her face holds as she
waits for the inevitable. I want to curl her up in my arms and rock her as she
once did to me when I was a small boy. I want to rub my cheek against the top
of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. But I don’t. Instead I gently
slide the pad of my thumb against the back of her wrist. “Have you eaten
anything today, Mama?”
She shakes her
head before opening her eyes and turning her attention to me. “No.” I flash her a
look of disapproval.
“What? The
breakfast here is terrible. Besides, I don’t feel like eating.” She coughs and
the beeping on the monitor stutters which sends a nurse into the room to make
sure everything is alright.
“How are you
doing Mrs. Mason?” The nurse asks, taking a quick check of my mother’s vitals.
She is a petite thing with platinum blonde hair and bright pink scrubs.
“Fine, thank
you.”
“Can I get you
anything?” the nurse asks, smoothing the sheets against the bed near my
mother’s feet.
“A refill of my
ice water, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing.”
She slips out of the room just as quickly as she arrived, leaving my mother and
me to sit once more in silence.
I remember, as a
boy, my mother chasing me through the orchard in our back yard. Her laugh could
be heard amongst my squeals of delight as we weaved through the gnarled fruit
trees. She herded me into the waiting arms of my father and the three of us
fell into the long grass in a heap of tickling fingers and laughter.
I remember trips
to the park, each of us in our own swing, trying to see who could swing the
highest. They always let me win. Christmas mornings in our living room; my
mother’s feet tucked up under her body, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand
and a sleepy smile on her face. My father eyeing her adoringly next to her on
the couch.
When my father
was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s my mother would sit for hours by his bedside,
recanting memories and stories from their life together. Even when he didn’t
recognize her any longer, she was there, by his side, being whoever he thought
she was that day.
After my father
died I noticed the light in her eyes begin to dim. And then when her body
stopped responding to radiation and chemotherapy I knew it was only a matter of
time. I know it’s selfish but I want her to keep fighting. I want her to meet
my son. And though I am an adult with a family of my own I still want her
guidance.
A knock comes
from the door and the nurse slips inside the room. She places the cup of water
on the movable table next to my mother’s bed and smiles. “Here you are.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re
welcome.” She stands staring at my mother for a moment, her hands fisted on her
hips before deciding all is fine with a nod of her head and backing toward the
door. “I’ll leave you two. Let me know if you need anything else, Mrs. Mason.”
The door clicks
shut and my mother picks up her plastic cup, the ice scraping against the
inside as she brings it to her face. Her lips pucker at the straw and she sips
thirstily. When she has had her fill she returns the cup to the table and lies
back against the bed. She folds her hands on top of her stomach and turns her
head toward me. “You don’t need to worry, Ben.”
“What? How can I
not?”
“I’m not in any
pain.”
I lean forward
in my chair, resting my forearms on my knees, clasping my hands together in front
of me. I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t.
She reaches out
to me, cupping my cheek in her palm. Her hands are cold; ice cold. “So
handsome. Just like your father.”
My eyes close
and I take a slow, calculated breath. I will the heat from my body to her hand,
trying to warm her skin. It is a vain attempt to ignore the stinging in my eyes
and the impending tears.
“He loves you,
you know.”
My eye lids
shoot open when I realize she is speaking of my father in the present tense. I
notice she isn’t looking at me. Instead she is staring, glassy eyed, at the
corner of the room. “Mama…”
“He is proud of
you and what you have accomplished; of the man you have become. So am I.” Her
lips curl in a smile as her gaze goes off somewhere distant.
She sees my
father. She sees my father. Oh god, she sees my father. “Mama. Look at me.” It
is a demand; a plea. But she isn’t listening. I take her hand from my cheek and hold it
between both of mine, pressing my lips against the backs of her knuckles.
“Please, Mama. Don’t go. Not yet. I’m not ready.”
Her eyes move as
she tracks something from the corner of the room to the end of her bed. I try
to follow but see nothing. It is just air. Vacant, like the growing feeling in
my gut. She coughs again and the machine goes haywire.
“Ah, Jim. I have
missed you so much.”
“Please,” I beg,
my words no more than a whisper.
Her chest sinks
one final time as her hand goes limp in mine. Her eyes close, leaving a slight
smile lingering upon her lips. An eerie tone fills the room from the machine
hooked to my mother. Chaos ensues as hospital staff barge through the door,
though I’m not sure why. She signed the paper forbidding anyone to do anything
more than verify her death.
I don’t move. Instead
I sit, clinging to her hand like a child as I drink in her last moment of
peace, of happiness. A tear slides down my cheek.
She is gone; off
to a better place. She must be happy to be with my father again. I should feel
peace with this thought. I should. But I don’t. Instead I can’t help but feel
empty; abandoned. With a shuttering sob I release my grip and let her hand
fall, lifeless, to the bed. And I let her go.
©2014 Courtney Ann Howard
