How to Forget

by Kate Mulgrew

  Sam came up behind me, kissed my cheek, and whispered, “I think she’s pretty tired.”

  My mother had lapsed into silence but continued to stare at me as a confused child might, a child who wanted to trust this adult woman fawning over her, but who was too disoriented to remember why this trust eluded her.

  “I know you’re tired, darling,” I said, taking my mother’s arm, “so let’s go upstairs.”

  As we began to move toward the elevator, my mother quickened her step and, as she half walked, half skipped across the lobby, began to hum. The humming had an urgency to it, an edge, and I understood that my mother needed to go to the bathroom.

  “You go up, take the bags, here are the keys, we’ve got to get to the loo,” I explained to Sam, already ushering my mother to the lobby restroom.

  She did not make it. Inside the stall, after wrestling with the zipper of her pants, I saw that her adult diaper was soaked through and urine was beginning to leak down her leg. Coaxing her to sit on the toilet, I knelt beside her and said, “Don’t worry, darling, we’ll go right upstairs and you’ll have a lovely bath, all right?”

  This bewildered child, who was my mother, sat on the john with her stained pants around her ankles and looked at me with an unmistakable expression of shame.

  A year and a half earlier, during my hiatus from Star Trek: Voyager, I had taken my mother on a luxury cruise up the Aegean Sea, and we had been delighted when, on our first evening aboard the elegant ship, a porter had delivered to our cabin an embossed envelope containing an invitation to dine at the captain’s table. I was seated next to the captain, while my mother held court at the opposite end of the table. Shortly before dinner was served, the captain lifted his glass and, saluting us, launched into a monologue the length and substance of which were astonishingly trying and, although I maintained my composure and kept my eyes fixed on the bridge of the captain’s nose (an old and very effective acting trick), my mother had decided that she had not traveled halfway around the world to suffer yet another excruciating bore and, putting her hand to her mouth, yawned loudly.

  Hearing this, I turned sharply in her direction and mouthed, “Mother!” but she was undeterred. Looking straight at me, she said loudly, “But he’s so boring.” Then she rose and, without excusing herself, walked quickly down the length of the dining room, threading her way through tables occupied by well-heeled patrons, many of whom wondered why this trim, white-haired woman was so anxious to leave her place of privilege. Following her, I watched with growing horror as a stream of urine escaped from the hem of her black silk trousers, running down the sides of her patent leather pumps, leaving a vivid trail on the polished dining room floor. In the cabin, minutes later, my mother acted as if nothing untoward had happened, as if wetting one’s pants in public was no big deal and I, as usual, was exaggerating the reality of what had happened simply because it suited my sense of the dramatic.

  At the Mayflower, as I guided my mother to the suite upstairs, I realized that there was a strong possibility this trip had been a mistake, that my decision had been impetuous. In a week’s time, she had regressed, and I worried that the prospect of having to navigate so much as a city block might overwhelm her.

  I ran a bath for my mother and, as lavender-scented steam filled the room, watched as relief smoothed her features. Leaving the bathroom door open a crack, I returned to the sitting room, where Sam stood at the window, looking out over Central Park West.

  “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, Sambo,” I said, pulling a bottle of pinot grigio from a bucket of ice.

  “She needs a good night’s sleep, the poor love,” he responded, turning to look at me. “On the flight, she kept asking me the same question over and over.”

  “What question?” I asked.

  “She wants to know what to do about this thing,” my brother replied, “this thing with her mind. She’s incredibly anxious, and she knows. She kept asking me what she should do about her—condition. It was awful.”

  “How did you handle it?”

  “I told her we all loved her, that we were all fighting for her,” Sam answered, softly.

  “How did she respond to that?”

  Sam looked at me, then shifted his gaze to the park.

  “She didn’t,” my brother said.

  I plucked a beer from the large bowl of ice on the coffee table and brought it to my brother. Sipping our drinks, we gazed at the city spread out before us and fell into silence as we shared a view that had never ceased to captivate us. Below us, Central Park was disgorging a stream of people, eager to avoid the crush of rush hour, some in pairs but many solitary, unfurling umbrellas, carrying briefcases, bending under the weight of backpacks, all purposefully striding to their respective destinations, delighted that yet another chaotic day had come to an end and that soon, very soon, cocktails would be ordered and keys inserted hurriedly into latches, ties ripped from chafed necks, raincoats thrown carelessly over barstools. Thousands of people would simultaneously be seeking the same reward for having once again survived the challenges that attend the privilege of living in a great city.

  We heard a sound, a slight rustling, and turned to find our mother standing in the sitting room, dressed in her pajama top, khaki trousers, mismatched socks and, completing this ensemble, the ubiquitous Goodwill trench coat.

  “I am prepared!” she announced, making a beeline for the coffee table, where she found herself momentarily confounded by the array of snacks laid out before her.

  “You’re dressed for just about any occasion, sweetheart,” Sam said.

  “Drinks,” our mother responded, pointing to the bowl of beers, now sweating in their bath of ice water.

  Sam smiled and immediately opened a Bud Light, which he poured into a short glass and offered to our mother.

  I was surprised at her recovery but decided not to overthink it. We were together, in a city we all loved, and we would make the most of it. Apparently, Sam agreed with me, because he popped open a second beer and, putting a hand on our mother’s shoulder, asked, “What would you like to do, Mother? Are you hungry? Would you like to take a walk? We’re in New York, sweetheart, and we can do anything you like!”

  Our mother, without hesitation, replied, “More drinks!”

  At that moment, my husband came through the open door, disheveled from his journey, hair wet with rain, carrying a garment bag.

  “Joan!” Tim exclaimed, taking large strides across the room, where he embraced my mother, who looked at him curiously, almost critically, before deciding that he, too, must be a member of this clan, and would therefore be interested in her pursuit of liquid refreshment.

  “Drinks,” my mother suggested, flirtatiously.

  Tim considered this request for a moment, first observing our mother’s outfit, then looking questioningly at Sam and me. I was almost certain that my caring, principled husband would advise against drinks but, to my surprise, he said, “Okay, Joan, if that’s what you want, then that’s what we’ll have. But first, I need to take something off and you need to put something on.”

  The bar at the Mayflower Hotel was dark, corners of the room illuminated by festive strings of lights, fake ivy strung over the arch which separated the bar from the dining area. At our mother’s urging, we had come downstairs and found ourselves hesitating in the doorway, trying to decide our next move. The atmosphere was convivial. A gaggle of patrons had converged onto the stools in the center of the bar and were engaged in lively, competitive chatter.

  My mother, whom I presumed was having trouble growing accustomed to the dim light, made her way gingerly down the length of the bar until she had arrived in the middle of the line of strangers, whereupon she smiled at the man to her right, whose telepathic powers were immediately in evidence when he turned to my mother and said, “I think you’d like to join us, wouldn’t you, my friend?”

  Within seconds, room was made for my mother and myself, and we slid onto the high stools that faced the mirr
ored bar, overhung with red lights that flickered like small flames.

  As grateful as I was for the stranger’s kindness, I was nevertheless slightly abashed at having put out an entire bar’s length of regulars. The man who had so thoughtfully accommodated us smiled at me, nodded, and then turned to my mother.

  “What will you have, my friend?” he asked, cocking his head to one side, as if this was part of a familiar and very pleasant ritual, one that included any and all comers.

  “Irish whiskey,” my mother answered, with a confidence that surprised me. Standing behind us, Sam chuckled, Tim groaned, and I said, “Make that four, please, bartender. Lots of rocks.”

  When the drinks were placed in front of us, my mother did something I had never seen her do before, and it gave me pause. She studied the drink for a moment, then plunged her fingers into it and shoveled out the ice, which she flicked into the bar drain. Then, lifting her glass, she clinked with the man sitting next to her and said, “To my pub mates!”

  This toast had a combustible effect and suddenly, in seamless accord, every patron sitting at the bar lifted his glass and shouted, “To pub mates!”

  Glancing furtively at Sam and Tim, I couldn’t help but feel the first prickle of complicity as I, too, raised my glass in salutation. Sensing this, Sam leaned into me and whispered, “Let her have her fun. Why not? If this is what she wants, let her have it.”

  “But what if she gets sick?” I asked, recalling my mother’s violent reaction to the medication Dr. Fortson had initially prescribed, Aricept, which he hoped might delay the onset of more symptoms. He had warned me against giving my mother any alcohol, as one poison was likely to react adversely to the other. That conflict had not arisen, because my mother had vomited so convulsively after having taken the Aricept that I stashed the bottle away and the next afternoon offered her a glass of beer instead.

  Sam shrugged, then said softly, “We’ll know when it’s time, but it’s not time yet. Another half hour or so.”

  Comfortably ensconced at the bar, immersed in conversation with strangers she perceived as friends, my mother was avid for more whiskey. She consumed the toffee-colored liquid as if it were water, and no sooner had she downed one than she demanded another. I was convinced that any moment she would throw up all over her new pub mates, but this didn’t happen. Instead, the rapport she had developed with the gentlemen on either side of her contained a surprising element of solicitousness. It struck me that these men, whom she had never laid eyes on before, understood my mother’s dilemma, and empathized. No words were spoken, but every whiskey placed in front of her was accompanied by a sidelong glance from her pub mate, a look that assured me that my mother was in very good hands. The atmosphere was dense with smoke, laughter, and ribaldry. Although I was seated next to my mother, I was not a part of the central clique, one which fanned out on either side of her. Sam occasionally chimed in, but our mother kept her eyes riveted to the man on her right or the man on her left, as if their presence promised something far more appealing than anything we had to offer.

  After two hours had elapsed, and my mother had consumed eight whiskeys with breathtaking dispatch, I nodded to Sam and said, “That’s it, Sambo. One more and we’ll all end up in jail.”

  But when we attempted to remove our mother from her barstool, she resisted with a strength and audacity that caught both Sam and me off guard. Our mother fiercely defended her right to stay at the bar, in the company of her pub mates, because wasn’t she a mature woman who could do as she liked? Who were we to tear her away from the first pleasure she’d known in months? And yet, tear her away we did, and almost immediately our mother’s ebullience collapsed. We watched, incredulous, as the vitality drained out of her. On the elevator, we observed our mother with a new kind of alarm. What had we done? We were complicit, we knew that, but in what? Our mother was not drunk, not in the conventional sense. She had not stumbled as she left the bar, nor had she slurred her words. This drama playing out in our mother’s head was one we could not define, but we understood that it hinged on a sliver of hope that had revealed itself through an old, familiar lens. At the bar, she was just another pub mate, one on whom all judgment was suspended. At the bar, for a short time, she knew herself.

  Once inside the suite, my mother pleaded to be allowed to go down for one final drink.

  “A nightcap with my pub mates!” she implored, her back against the suite door.

  We cajoled, we wheedled and, finally, we persuaded our mother to take off her coat and to get into her pajamas. I turned off the light in her bedroom and slipped across the hall to my suite, where my husband, unaccustomed to more than the occasional Irish coffee, was fast asleep under the covers. I slid in beside him and, still restless, picked up my book and tried to read by the dim light of the bedside lamp.

  Suddenly, I heard a sound that made me prick up my ears. In hotels, it is the most ordinary of sounds, that of doors opening and clicking shut, and yet this particular sound pulled me from my bed and drew me to the suite door, where I peered through the peek hole into the hallway. Nothing. Unsettled, I pulled on my coat and opened the door, using the open bolt as a doorstop. I put the key in the lock of my mother’s suite and entered quietly, not wanting to disturb Sam, who was sleeping on a rollaway in the sitting room. I made out his form under the white duvet and tiptoed into my mother’s bedroom. The bed was empty, and her trench coat was missing from the armchair.

  Without thinking, I left the suite and made my way down the corridor. At two o’clock in the morning, no one was on the elevator, so I stepped in and pressed the lobby button. When the elevator door opened, I wrapped my coat tightly around my nightgown and hurried to the entrance of the bar. Opening the door, I immediately saw my mother, sitting exactly where she had sat for most of the night, perched between her pub mates, an Irish whiskey on the bar in front of her. She wore her Goodwill trench coat over her blue pajamas, her walking shoes untied beneath her scalloped pajama bottoms. No one at the bar seemed the least surprised by her reappearance. I watched as a wave of laughter rose from the group when my mother said, “I told them that I couldn’t say good-bye to my pub mates without a nightcap!”

  Sitting unobserved at a table in the corner, I knew that I would wait it out, that it would not be long before the bartender announced last call and the patrons would slowly gather their coats, their briefcases and handbags, throw money on the counter and, bidding the bartender good night, would one by one pull my mother into an embrace and tell her what a wonderful night it had been, how happy they were to have met her, and how they would look forward to many more nights at the Mayflower bar because, after all, they were pub mates now, and pub mates were nothing if not loyal.

  Buttoning his coat against the damp night, the man to her right was the last to leave my mother’s side and, just before passing me on his way out, he nodded slightly and said, “She’s a hell of a woman.”

  My mother was not surprised when I came up behind her and said, “I think it’s time for bed now, darling, don’t you?”

  Not a word was uttered, she was completely compliant. For the third time that night, we stepped on the elevator and rode silently to our floor. I helped her out of her coat, took off her shoes, and pulled back the covers on the bed. Satisfied that she was comfortable, I leaned in to kiss her forehead and, seeing that her eyes were closed, concluded that whether she was asleep or not was none of my business.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Lucy’s sacrifice had been considerable, and yet she never complained. It was not in her nature to indulge feelings of loneliness or despondency. She had been raised in the Mexican state of Campeche, a land of limestone hills and rain forests, a land of poverty, where children were born on dirt floors in shacks that housed twenty people. There was no running water, no plumbing, no electricity, and young girls went to work in the local factory as soon as they were able to stand on their feet for twelve hours straight. The only luxury Lucy had ever known was the devotion of her fi
rst love, a boy named Javier, whom she had met in her pueblo when they were both sixteen years old.

  The vicissitudes of poverty are harsh, however, and Lucy and Javier were forced to separate when Lucy’s family encouraged her to marry an older man, who took her away and immediately impregnated her, which resulted in the birth of a daughter nine months later. This marriage proved to be less than auspicious, and Lucy soon ran away. She subsequently married twice more, each union producing two children, so that at the end of what she considered her salad days, Lucy had been bound to three men by whom she had had a total of five children. Her last husband, roused to fury by Lucy’s apparent indolence when she collapsed to the floor in hard labor and refused to make him his dinner, took a bottle of tequila, broke it, and sliced her calves as she lay moaning on the ground.

  Lucy escaped, but was forced to leave her children behind when she drew the short straw and fate determined that it was she, of her eleven siblings, who would cross the border in the dead of night, huddled in the back of a truck driven by a coyote who, after seizing her last peso, had deposited her alone and penniless in a strange and foreign land. Because Lucy had learned very young to stand on her feet for sustained periods of time, the journey to Los Angeles was successful, and it was on the outskirts of that sprawling city, in a suburb called Bell, that Lucy was reunited with her mother’s sister, Tia Josefina, who gladly offered her niece shelter, but warned her that this came with a proviso, one which Lucy was fully prepared to accept. It happened that Josefina cleaned for me twice a month, and after my second son was born and I had inquired as to whether she knew anyone who might be available to live in my house and help me with my children, Josefina came as close to smiling as her thin, sallow mouth would allow.

  The only regret that Lucy harbored, after having brought each of her children as well as a number of her siblings to Los Angeles, was that she had lost touch with her childhood sweetheart, Javier Flores, for whom she still secretly carried a flame. Imagine Lucy’s great surprise when one day the phone rang, and it was her sister Paty calling from Bell with the news that Javier had shown up on her doorstep and that there would be a fiesta at her casita that weekend welcoming him to America and that everyone was hoping Lucy would ask Señora Kate to give her the night off. Señora Kate was only too happy to oblige and stood in the doorway watching as Lucy, attired in a black lace dress, a cluster of bougainvillea braided into her long, inky hair, sling-back heels adorning her small feet, and a red shawl wrapped loosely around her shoulders, walked off into a night that would return her to her first and only true love.