by Kate Mulgrew
My mother sat in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, and waited. Her eyes, once keen and mischievous, wandered over us, settling on nothing, until they found Sam, where they assumed a sudden interest. She fixed her gaze on her youngest son, as if enthralled. Her expression also conveyed fear, and suggested that lurking behind the relief of finding a face she understood was the far greater threat that it could just as suddenly be snatched away. To observe this in real time was to observe a theft so ingenious that no one could be sure of what had happened, only that in a moment’s time our mother’s face had lost its vitality and had once again become expressionless.
While my mother’s eyes rested on her son’s face, she was with us, and could even be compelled to smile. If Sam smiled, my mother smiled, and attending this smile was a hint of the mother of old, which so captivated us that Jenny sat down next to our mother and, taking her hand, pointed at Joe, who was sitting across the table.
“Mother, do you know who that is?” Jenny asked.
Immediately, the atmosphere became charged. This question would never have been allowed had my father been present, but he had left the table earlier, excusing himself after consuming exactly one forkful of mashed potatoes and a glass of red wine.
Joe was instantly on his guard and, faced with his baby sister’s pointed finger, asked, “Christ, Jenny, what the hell kind of game is this?”
“Shhh,” Jenny scolded. “Mother, do you know that man’s name?”
Our mother looked straight at Joe and shook her head, no.
“That’s the Alzheimer’s talking,” Joe said gruffly, scraping back his chair and heading into the kitchen for another beer.
For a moment, everyone was quiet.
Then Jenny pointed her finger at Tom, seated at the other end of the table.
“How about that man? Do you know his name?”
Tom grinned and leaned on the table, cupping his face in his hands.
“Your favorite,” he whispered.
Our mother seemed about to smile, as she peered quizzically at her oldest son.
“You see?” Tom asked.
“Mother, what is his name?” Jenny asked, again pointing at Tom.
Our mother allowed herself to look at Tom for a moment before she shook her head and whispered, “No.”
Tom continued to smile and, pausing to consider, said, “It doesn’t change the fact that I’m your favorite.”
Laura had slipped away earlier, having intuited that this was a diversion she wanted no part of.
Now holding both of our mother’s hands, Jenny asked, “Who am I, darling? Do you know my name? I’m your baby.”
This clue elicited murmurs of disapproval, as it was considered cheating.
Our mother’s countenance brightened as she stared at Jenny with what could only be interpreted as affection. Then she lifted her hand and, pointing her finger in imitation of her youngest daughter, said, playfully, “No, no, no.”
“I think I deserve another chance, she just needs another minute,” Jenny pleaded.
Joe, having returned, leaned against the doorframe and said, “No way. Same rules apply for everyone. You lose. Next.”
The afternoon had deepened into evening, but in my memory the room had retained a muted light, so that I can recall every detail of my mother’s face as she was directed to look at me down the long table. A stillness prevailed, while her eyes settled on my face.
“Who is that woman, Mother?” Jenny asked. “What is her name?”
My mother studied me for a long moment, during which it seemed not only possible but probable that she would recall my name, a bright pebble drawn from a deep well. My siblings, leaning in, stared at our mother with unusual intensity. Finally, my mother whispered, “I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Sam took my mother’s hand and said, “That’s all right, sweetheart. You know that’s Katy.”
“And who is that man holding your hand?” Jenny demanded, impatiently.
My mother put her hand on Sam’s sleeve, and plucked lightly at the fabric of his shirt. Then she lifted her eyes to his face, and whispered, “The one I love.”
This elicited a few startled, nervous chuckles, but soon an awkward silence fell over us. We were no more than a band of children, weary and fractious, and yet my little sister, having walked the plank, thought it only fair that Sam should be made to walk it, as well.
“But what is his name?”
My mother gazed into Sam’s eyes, transfixed, and then spoke. “His name is Jesus.”
Silence. Raised eyebrows. Sam lowered his eyes, a shy, tight smile on his lips. He had generously, even gallantly played along for weeks. Not once had he denied our mother her fantasy, which had dodged the plaques and tangles in her brain and rooted itself in a romance with her son. Another synaptic whim, and my little brother had been elevated to Jesus Christ. This development stopped everyone. My brother’s elevation from lover to the Son of God, as bizarre as it was, carried with it a pinched envy, as each of us silently considered the cause for this advancement. There was no question that my mother’s affliction caused these deviations, but the fact that each seismic shift revolved around Sam was no accident. In the years following Tessie’s death, Sam had been unusually present to our mother. He had sat with her for hours, talking quietly, eating meals with her, walking with her. When it came time to pursue a higher education, he did not go away but chose to remain in Dubuque and attend a local college. He stayed home, providing the relationship between mother and son with the kind of nourishment it needed to establish deep, invisible roots.
We all knew that Sam and our mother had an unusual, even exceptional relationship, but to see it made so starkly visible was disturbing. Glancing around the table, I read in the expressions of my siblings a strange vulnerability, as if each of them were silently acknowledging a different kind of loss. I think it occurred to all of us that in the twisted thicket of my mother’s brain the only recognition that had survived was one of love, and that the person assigned this recognition was Sam.
From the vantage point of having had a long history of my own with our mother, I empathized with my brother, and wondered how he would navigate this next, impassable course. Beloved son had been acceptable, if occasionally unsettling to his older brothers, who continually vied for space in our mother’s affection. The role of lover had demanded an altogether different sympathy, one Sam was forced to assume in order to appease our mother.
But nothing could have prepared my soft-spoken, gentle-mannered little brother for this final, astounding transfiguration. In a dining room gone uncomfortably still, my mother looked at Sam but no longer saw her youngest son. She saw only the love of her life, and the name she gave him was Jesus.
Chapter Forty-Three
On the morning of Lucy’s wedding, my father sat on the couch in the TV Room and feigned indifference. After so many years, it could be argued that this was no longer pretense, but reality. His cup of coffee, his crossword puzzles, and his cigarettes were all he needed to detach himself from the palpable excitement felt throughout the house. Lucy was getting married, and the wedding was to be held at the old Dancer McDonald House in town. The house was brick and glass and, from the moment I first glimpsed it, driving down Prairie Street with Sam, I knew it was what I wanted for Lucy and Javier. It’s possible that Lucy may have preferred something simpler, but I somehow doubted it. Hidden behind that strong reserve, a veneer Lucy had carefully cultivated, a young girl waited, and she was growing impatient. With each passing year, the young girl was finding her dream harder and harder to cling to, what with children desperate for a better life and visas languishing on the desks of greedy immigration lawyers and the constant, unremitting care of other people’s loved ones. The old Dancer McDonald House would fulfill part of the young girl’s dream, the part that would raise her above the throng, lifting her high over the heads of those who could never know what she had known, and in the moment of separating herself from a crowd of blue-e
yed women holding glasses of champagne, she would step onto the dais and reveal to them her shining uniqueness, and in that moment the young girl would be vindicated.
Before that dream could be realized, however, there was a list of chores to attend to, and Lucy could not be persuaded to put them aside. Foremost among these obligations was my mother, and how she must appear when she walked through the front door of the old Dancer McDonald House. I pleaded with Lucy to let me handle my mother and assured her that it would be my pleasure to do so, but Lucy’s conviction superseded common sense and, in the end, my mother emerged from her bedroom looking as she had looked on that evening less than two years before, when she had sat at the captain’s table aboard the Seabourn cruise, at the beginning of our adventure on the Aegean Sea.
Impeccably groomed, her short white hair washed and curled, makeup applied to brighten her cheeks and lips, black silk trousers and white silk blouse flawlessly dry-cleaned, a strand of pearls fastened around her neck, my mother was led down the front stairs and into the TV Room, where she was duly presented to my father, whose discomfort was evident when he looked up from his book and was made to acknowledge my mother’s presence.
“Doesn’t Mother look terrific, Dad?” I asked, standing in the middle of the room, my arm tucked into my mother’s.
“You bet,” my father responded and, as he bent his head to resume reading an impressively dense biography of Ulysses S. Grant, it was clear that nothing more would be forthcoming. Because my mother no longer recognized him, my father had retreated behind the lines of a defense that he felt would protect him from further assault. He acted as if he didn’t care, which was his way of judging my mother’s affliction as somehow contrived, the result of too many cooks in the kitchen, stirring a pot that should have been left to simmer away, uninterrupted. My father could not credit what had happened to his wife; it was beyond his capacity to do so. Were he to admit to the vicissitudes of aging, thereby lending credibility to the ravages of time and mind, he would be conceding to an opponent he had battled for many years, and it was not in my father’s character to do so. Acceptance of my mother’s affliction would have connoted failure, which is why he returned to his book after only a perfunctory glance at my mother, whose appearance must have shaken him. Outwardly, she had changed little, and this twisted something in my father so sharply that it was all he could do to remain silent.
“Dad, you’re coming to the wedding, aren’t you?” I asked, still standing next to my mother, who had begun humming.
“Not my scene,” my father replied, without looking up.
“But it’s Lucy’s scene, and I know she’d love to see you there.”
“She knows I wish her well,” my father said, curtly.
“Actions speak louder than words,” I said.
“End of conversation,” he warned, glancing at me over his book with narrowed eyes.
I guided my mother into the kitchen, where I poured her a cup of coffee and prepared a soft-boiled egg. It was becoming increasingly difficult to gauge her needs, so Lucy adhered to a strict schedule of feeding, followed by an equally strict schedule of using the toilet, both of which required attention before we set off for the long drive into town. Draping an oversize tea towel around her neck, I began to spoon-feed my mother tiny bites of the egg, generously flavored with butter and salt. Her gaze drifted aimlessly around the room, assuming focus only when I touched her mouth with the spoon. Hers was the distracted attention of an infant who, while taking in the pudding, is at the same time diverted by light, or sound, or tiredness.
Today, my mother’s distractibility was heightened, and it was all I could do to persuade her to eat a few bites of the soft egg before she clenched her teeth, making it clear that mealtime was over.
“What is it, darling? What’s bothering you? This is a good day. We’re going to a wedding!” I promised her, pulling the tea towel from her neck. The humming increased in volume, and my mother began drumming her fingers lightly on the table. She looked expectantly at the back door, the humming constant, a tuneless melody lodged in a crevice of her memory. I thought it might soothe her if I led her to the back door, so that she could look out the window. My mother stood stock-still, peering out with an intensity I had not observed in weeks.
“Who are you expecting, Mums? Sam isn’t coming out today. He’s waiting for you at the wedding,” I assured her, taking her hand and guiding her into the bathroom. Unlike our struggle over the soft-boiled egg, only minutes before, my mother’s eyes were now riveted on me. The strength of her gaze, and the quality of anticipation that attended it, indicated to me that my mother very much wanted an answer to the puzzle that was causing her considerable agitation. It was the understanding of the puzzle that eluded her. She would no sooner arrive at the edge of what it was she wanted to know than it would be sucked away from her, circling frantically on the fringes of her consciousness before vanishing. I read all of this in my mother’s expression but was helpless to perceive the actual source of her perplexity. Sighing, I knelt on the bathroom rug and, putting a hand on my mother’s knee as she sat on the toilet said, “It will be all right, darling. Wait and see. This is a big day and we don’t want to be late, so let’s get going.”
In the kitchen, I quickly made a fresh pot of coffee and laid out a dish of rice pudding for my father, then placed a can of Ensure next to the bottle of Popov that waited like an aging mistress on top of the old dishwasher. There was a rustling sound and, when I turned, Lucy stood in the doorway of the kitchen, attired in a peach dress, wearing the string of pearls and matching earrings I had given her for her fortieth birthday. Lucy had explained to me that while out scouting for secondhand finds with my mother, she had happened upon this gown in a consignment shop on Main Street. Although it was originally intended as formal wear, Lucy had purchased it for ten dollars, and had transformed it into an elegant dress, shortening the hem to just below her knee, replacing the long zipper in the back with stitching that shaped the bodice, so that when she had finished, the garment looked as if it had been custom-made for her.
“Oh, Luce, qué bonita!” I exclaimed, in my pidgin Spanish, staring at her. On the table sat two boxes that had been delivered by the florist first thing that morning. In one rested the bridal bouquet, an arrangement of white lilies and roses, and in the other a white carnation for Javier, lying next to a spray of wild roses. I chose the two prettiest roses and carefully threaded them into Lucy’s black hair, which she had arranged into a chignon.
“Now, you’re perfect,” I declared, standing back to appraise her.
I gathered the flowers in one hand and, taking my mother’s arm with the other, headed for the car. As I opened the back door, I heard Lucy’s voice coming from the TV Room.
“Adiós, señor. I sorry you not coming.”
“Not up to it, Lucy. But you have my heartiest congratulations,” my father said.
Inside the car, I placed the bridal bouquet on my mother’s lap. She studied the roses through the cellophane window of the box and then her eyes jumped to my face, bright with excitement.
“The bridal bouquet,” I whispered, glancing at Lucy where she sat in the backseat, smoothing the folds of her wedding dress, lightly touching the flowers in her hair.
As we approached the old Dancer McDonald House, I noted that the street was lined with cars and realized, with a rush of satisfaction, that most of the guests had already arrived. Sam and I had invited not only everyone in Dubuque who had met Lucy, but anyone who knew and loved my mother as well. The broad lawn was crowded with people sipping from flutes of champagne, a preceremony feature I had insisted on.
Pulling up to the curb in front of the house, I saw Sam waiting for us outside the door that opened into the glass conservatory. He strode quickly down the brick path and, beaming at our mother, opened her door and extended his hand.
“Hello, sweetheart! You look beautiful,” he said, kissing our mother on the cheek. Entranced, she stared at him until Sam,
laughing, opened the back door and helped Lucy out.
“Wow, Lucy. Javier might forget his English when he sees how gorgeous you are.”
“What English, Sam? I tell him, when the priest asks you a question, you look at me and I nod and you say yes, you got that? Javi no talk today, Sam. Only say yes, yes, yes,” Lucy explained, as if she were preparing to marry a small and rather backward child.
Tucking our mother’s hand into his arm, Sam started up the path toward the conservatory. Handing the car keys to the valet, I turned to Lucy and said, “The time has come, señorita. Shall we?”
As we moved toward the house, several guests spotted us and, calling Lucy’s name, lifted their flutes in salutation. Small clusters of people in colorful summer clothing decorated the broad lawn, while the conservatory held the rest of the congregation, most of whom had gathered around the large silver bowls, each containing several bottles of champagne, tightly packed in shaved ice.
“I think we should go inside and see that everything’s ready,” I whispered to Lucy. As we approached the conservatory, the enormity of what was about to unfold played over Lucy’s features. Unsmiling, she held herself with a dignity bordering on severity, and looked around to locate Javier. The husband-to-be was, of course, inside the ballroom, where he was found busily straightening chairs and smoothing tablecloths. Lucy admonished him for wrinkling his newly acquired olive-green guayabera as she moved to his side and began, reflexively, rearranging wineglasses and plates.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Sam escorted our mother around the conservatory, introducing her to people whose names she had once known. Our mother clung to his arm. Whenever a woman approached them to say hello, my mother would tighten her grip on Sam’s arm and fasten her eyes on his face, willing him to look at her. If he did not immediately return her gaze, my mother would start to hum and pluck at his sleeve, compelling him to return his attention to her.