Goodbye

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