How to Forget

by Kate Mulgrew

  “Everything will stop, but I will know and, Kitten, listen to me.” She was fighting for the right words, and she was finding them, but the effort demanded a monumental exertion of will. I nodded, reached for her hand.

  She immediately withdrew her hand and, leaning into me, whispered, “I don’t want to die that way. I need you to help.”

  I had been sitting, but now I slid off the bed onto the floor. Crawling a little way toward my mother, I found her lap, and rested my head in it. She stroked my hair lightly, distractedly, almost as she had when I was a girl.

  Then, tapping her fingers gently on the top of my head, she whispered, “Pills.”

  It was almost inaudible, she spoke so softly. I wondered, later, if a part of her had wished not to be heard.

  Raising my head, I looked at my mother as she sat on the edge of the bed. She was rigid with exhaustion; this effort had exacted a toll, and now she was utterly drained.

  “Let’s take a little nap, Mums,” I said, easing her down onto the bed. I lay beside her and pulled a yellow cotton blanket over us. Gently, I removed her glasses from her grip and put them on the bedside table.

  We lay facing each other, the late afternoon sun no longer brightening the room. My mother’s small form was still beneath the blanket, but her eyes were alert. She waited, and while she waited I drew her hand to my lips and kissed it. It was imperative that she rest, that the scratching of her mind stop, if only for a few hours.

  “I’ll help you, darling,” I said at last. “I promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I don’t know what I thought I was doing, sitting in the small quiet room with its overstuffed chairs and its ambience of coziness. Playing a game, I supposed, though it lacked all of the playfulness of a game. It was something I observed myself doing.

  “Can you tell me if there is a particular cocktail of pills that will ensure success, in these circumstances?”

  The doctor looked at me, fascinated. Because she was my friend, and innately dramatic, she wanted in on the game, but I wasn’t having it.

  “It’s a simple yes or no answer, isn’t it?” I continued, attempting to lean back in my chair. Like all of the furniture in the room, it was expensive, chic, and uncomfortable, not unlike the doctor herself.

  “Not entirely,” she answered. “Every case is different, but what you are talking about is not as easy as you might think.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Well, first there is the problem of timing. Each pill would need to be taken individually. Then there is the problem of assimilation and, of course, throughout there is the overriding problem of regurgitation,” the doctor explained, regarding me carefully.

  I nodded, glancing out the window.

  “You know, Kate, it doesn’t typically last too long,” she said.

  “What doesn’t last too long?” I asked, suddenly impatient with her manner.

  “This stage,” the doctor replied. “Very soon, she will forget that she even asked you.”

  “How soon?” I demanded.

  The doctor looked down at her Chanel slippers, then back at me.

  “Soon.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  She wore a bracelet now, and walked past the little red Taurus hatchback as if the giving up of that possession had not broken her. It had. Seven years earlier, when I had surprised her with this gift, she had cried out with joy and, approaching the car as if it were a newborn, tenderly kissed the hood. Then, after allowing her hands to travel over the body of the car and peering excitedly into the backseat, she had stopped to exclaim over the size of the trunk, already imagining it stacked high with paintings. Beaming, she had stood and declared, “I will name her Ruby, and she will be mine, mine, mine!”

  But seven years had passed, and when I told her that the time had come to stop driving, that it was no longer safe, she stood and stared at me in disbelief. Then, shockingly, her eyes filled with tears and she began to cry, a state to which she seemed oblivious. She wept, and as she wept she fought to retain the one privilege that still promised independence—the right to get in her car and drive away. I talked to her of danger, of children at crosswalks, of tiredness, of forgetfulness. After ten minutes of this lecture she stopped listening, and I watched as her anguish dissolved into indifference. A brief internal scuffle ensued, during which her features underwent a series of swift, inexplicable changes, before a curtain of blankness dropped, obliterating any trace of the distress she had been feeling so acutely only moments before.

  Two months later, we decided to take a walk down the gravel road and, as we started out, passing the little red car now sleeping in the shadow of the glen, my mother said, “I have a game.”

  “Uh-oh. What kind of game, Mother?” I asked, stopping to marvel at the host of tiger lilies that annually bloomed at the foot of the stone gates. I was sure my mother was going to suggest that we visit the beehives hidden in the woods.

  “Let’s go to that house,” she suggested, pointing at one of the newly constructed houses on the road. My heart sank. This sudden development of oversize modern houses on a road that had long been a dusty ribbon winding through fields of corn, past farms boasting hundreds of acres of land, continued to appall me. Having grown up in the countryside, with the nearest neighbor a quarter of a mile away and town itself strictly a weekend aspiration, I could not bring myself to accept this strange archipelago of cookie cutter structures, all of which seemed to have erupted overnight, like enormous mushrooms.

  Whatever mischief stirred this sudden impulse of my mother’s, I knew it wasn’t entirely innocent. My mother harbored a resentment of these recently sprouted edifices, all of which offended both her sense of history and her sense of taste, while at the same time arousing in her a mordant curiosity. She wanted to see what lay hidden behind the clean brick walls, so new to the sun and the rain, the front lawns brandishing toy cars and pink plastic swing sets, the two-car garages sheltering brand-new automobiles and bright green lawn tractors. Surpassing her interest in all of these novelties was my mother’s overweening curiosity about human beings, particularly human beings she might otherwise never encounter.

  “What are you suggesting, that we just walk up and ring the bell?” I asked, stopping in the middle of the road to face my mother.

  “Yes, say we’re on a walk, and that I’m—you know.” She tapped the side of her head.

  So, this was how it was going to be: I was to approach the house, ring the bell, and announce to whomever answered that my mother was not quite right in the head but that she wanted very much to see the woman’s lovely house and, if it was not too objectionable, would love a guided tour.

  I shook my head at the bizarreness of it but had to admire my mother’s pluck. As we approached the front door of the house, my mother and I linked arms. We stepped onto the cheerful, unblemished welcome mat and, tightening my smile, I lifted my hand and pressed the doorbell. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a stout, middle-aged woman wearing a man’s flannel work shirt and blue jeans. Her unruly blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her feet were bare. I instantly surmised that today was housecleaning day, and that my mother and I had not chosen wisely.

  “Hi there!” the woman said, smiling warmly.

  “How do you do? I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Kate Mulgrew, and this is my mother, Joan,” I said. “We live down the road, and we were just out for a walk when my mother told me she has always wanted to see your house. She’s fascinated by how people decorate, especially a house this size.”

  I looked directly into the woman’s eyes and smiled conspiratorially, indicating that this was entirely my mother’s idea. Whatever wariness she may have felt when she opened the door suddenly dissolved and, as she swung the door wide to allow us in, our neighbor said, “My name’s Angie. Come on in. The place is a mess, today’s cleaning day, but sure, have a look around if you want.”

  As we crossed the threshold, my mother and I looked bey
ond the small foyer and were immediately struck by the immaculate condition of the living room. White pile carpet stretched from one end of the room to the other, and my mother, as if drawn by a magnet, preceded us into the space and whispered, “Blinding.”

  I laughed and said, “She’s blinded by the carpet, and so am I! My God, it’s so clean and bright in here!” I had seldom seen a room in quite this state of spotlessness.

  “Oh, don’t look too close,” Angie warned, pushing back her hair with one hand. An industrial vacuum cleaner waited on the step leading into the living room, and I wondered if every day wasn’t cleaning day in Angie’s house.

  “Don’t you have young children?” I asked, shaking my head in wonder.

  “Oh, they don’t come in here.” Angie laughed. “They wouldn’t dare!”

  “You’ve got hidden rooms for rambunctious children,” I suggested, smiling devilishly. “I can only imagine how spectacular those rooms are.”

  Angie could not resist. Basking in the glow of our awe, our neighbor offered to give us a tour of the house. My mother clapped her hands, and I happily assented.

  “You’re sure it’s not inconvenient?” I asked.

  “As long as you don’t mind the mess!” Angie warned, in the manner of one raised to conceal pride behind a show of modesty.

  My mother’s wish had been granted. Past the living room we went, into the oak-paneled, wide-bottomed den, whose walls exhibited framed photographs of Angie’s children, beribboned, slick-haired, and miserable; past the large and gleaming utility room; and into the kitchen where, incredibly, a plate of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies rested on the counter. The space was impeccable. I cocked my head. Could Angie possibly have been expecting us? Impulsively, I said, “Looks like you’re expecting company.”

  Angie chuckled. “Oh, no, that’s just a snack for the kids when they get home from school. I bake most days.”

  Incredulous, I turned to my mother, who hummed for a moment and then said, “If you like cookies.”

  This remark in no way deflated our hostess, whose cookies I was confident had been featured at many a school bake sale, and she continued to lead the way down the hall into the garage.

  My mother caught my sleeve and whispered emphatically, “Bedrooms.”

  Angie stopped and asked, “What’s that she’s asking?”

  “She’s terrible—she’s dying to see the bedrooms,” I replied, affecting shyness.

  At this, Angie blanched.

  “Oh, no, no, no, I can’t do that, I’d never forgive myself. Some of the beds aren’t even made and Doug—that’s my husband—he’s got his stuff lying around all over the place.” Angie’s cheeks reddened, and I understood that the bedrooms signified an intense, if narrow, intimacy that was strictly off-limits to strangers. Quickly, she led the way down a darkened hall that opened into the garage, where two machines gleamed in the shadows: one a black SUV, and the other a dark blue Chevrolet Malibu. The husband must be driving yet a third car, I mused, watching out of the corner of my eye as my mother, humming, approached the garage door and asked, “Does it open?”

  Obediently, Angie pushed a button, and the automatic door began to rise.

  A blast of sunshine greeted us when we emerged, and my mother threw open her arms and cried, “Life!”

  I thanked Angie for her hospitality and her great kindness in indulging our whim. She stood there, arms crossed, and I realized that she had taken a risk in allowing us into her home. There was a good chance that she had recognized who I was, in itself a cause for wariness, but she had in no way demonstrated this. Instead, she had chosen to understand that my mother was not herself, would never be herself again, and that she could put her cleaning aside for a few minutes and make an old woman’s dream come true.

  When I turned, I saw that my mother had started down the road toward Derby Grange. Her face was tilted toward the sun, in her hand she held a black feather. When I caught up with her, I pulled her arm through mine and asked, “Well? Wasn’t that fun?”

  My mother considered this for a moment, then tucked the feather in her sleeve, shrugged lightly, and answered, “Medium.”

  A cloud of dust appeared at the bend in the road, and when it had settled I recognized Sam’s car speeding toward us. He overshot us by a few yards, screeched to a halt, then skidded backward. Rolling down his window, he looked at our mother and said, “Hello, sweetheart! Are you collecting feathers? Are you visiting bees? What are you up to?”

  “No good,” I answered, drily. “You won’t believe what she just made me do.”

  “Well, I want to hear all about it over a beer. Split one with me?” he asked, grinning at our mother.

  Our mother stood beside me, her eyes fixed on her son. She blinked, then brought her hands to her chest.

  “I think that means we’ve got a date. I’ll race you!” Sam shouted, putting his foot on the gas and disappearing through the stone gates.

  I started after him and had taken a few steps before I realized my mother was no longer with me. Turning back, I saw that she was standing where I had left her. She was looking past the stone gates, into the front yard where Sam now stood, waving his arms and shouting at us to hurry up.

  My mother spoke so softly I needed to lean in. Not taking her eyes off the figure of her son waiting for her in the front yard, she said, “The one I love.”

  “Jeez, thanks a lot, Mums,” I responded, “I thought I was the one you loved.”

  Pulling the feather from her sleeve, my mother pointed it toward the front yard and said, this time more emphatically, “That man is the one I love.”

  “Well, I should hope so, he’s your son,” I said.

  “Who?” my mother asked, looking up at me apprehensively.

  “Sambo, your son—you know, Mother, that crazy guy over there shouting at us to hurry up,” I said, waving back at my younger brother.

  My mother, standing very still, not taking her eyes off Sam’s shape in the distance, put her hand on my arm.

  “No, no,” she whispered, as if shocked by what I’d said. “That is the man that I love.”

  I stared at her for a long moment, then nodded very slowly as I realized that she had meant every word she had uttered and that it was I who had misjudged her intention. Suddenly, and completely without warning, her brain had transformed her son into her lover.

  My mother and I slowly made our way across the yard to where my younger brother waited for us, oblivious to the fact that his identity had changed and that walking toward him was a woman who was about to turn his world upside down.

  Chapter Forty

  Occasionally, our mother’s natural personality flashed through the interstices of the affliction, filling us with unreasonable happiness. Unlike the terrifying moments when Tessie’s malignancy shifted in her brain, allowing her to run into the dining room after she had lain immobilized for weeks, we experienced our mother’s spells of lucidity as wonderful and, despite our better judgment, were made almost giddy with hope. The first hint that this might be happening would be the clear articulation of an opinion, usually involving something insignificant.

  “Mother, would you like more milk in your coffee?”

  Suddenly, like a bolt from the darkness, would come the answer: “Milk is for babies.”

  This acted on us like a drug, and my mother would then be assaulted with questions, each of us vying for a moment’s recognition. Once, when she appeared to be enjoying a sustained reprieve, I leaned into her and asked, “Darling, how would you like to take a trip to New York?”

  My mother jumped up, something I had not seen her do in weeks, and cried, “Yippie ki yo! Yay, team!”

  Within the hour, I was on the phone to my travel agent, and the following weekend we were on our way to New York City. My shooting schedule demanded that I remain in Los Angeles during the week, so it had been decided that Sam would accompany our mother on the trip, and that I would meet them Friday night at the Mayflower Hotel. Througho
ut the preparations, Sam later assured me, she had maintained her enthusiasm. On the flight from Chicago to New York, where I had arranged for them to be seated in first class, the flight attendant had asked for their drink order, in response to which our mother had winked at Sam and made the universal sign for whiskey by wiggling her right hand. She had already had a long day, and Sam was acutely aware that the affliction could at any time reassert itself, so he’d suggested that she have a Coke instead.

  “People who drink Coke are losers,” my mother had replied.

  In the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel, I waited for my mother and my brother to arrive. As they came through the revolving door, first Mother, then Sam, I knew at once that my mother’s perception, her grasp of time and space, had devolved significantly in the past week. She emerged through the glass door, wrapped in her Goodwill trench coat, a look of complete bewilderment on her face. I went to her immediately and, putting my arms around her, exclaimed, “You’re here at last!”