As my mom launched back into an impassioned rant, lip-pumping increasing in both frequency and strength, I could hold it back no longer. As my lips broke apart in laughter, my mom gave me a glared smiled—which was quite a feat considering her chin was packed tight with air, precisely like an amphibian’s pouch. Though there was absolutely zero croaking and no slime or webbed appendages to be found, she did, as a matter of fact, give the impression of a great, big bullfrog. This phenomenon, rare these days, only occurred when she became frustrated or intensely vexed. In this way, she was very much like The Incredible Hulk.
“I don’t understand how professionals can be so blasé about a parent’s concern,” she asserted, still blowing.
“I don’t think they’re intentionally trying to be dismissive, Mom. They probably receive a few dozen calls like that every hour,” I said, trying to reason with her. “And, really, there wasn’t much they could do, right?”
She made a noise indicating she was not impressed with my answer. “That’s not the point,” she countered, her lungs expanding with air as she geared up to tell me just exactly what was the point.
Then, suddenly, as if she’d changed her mind, she released the breath noisily. She looked at me, pointedly, and said, “Had you been in real danger, Fost—life-threatening danger—I would have known it. I would have felt it like poison in my own blood.” She paused, shaking her head, and swallowed. “Looking at you laying there in your bed, I was worried, yes, but you were drinking plenty of water consistently and your fever was steadily decreasing.” She took the hand that rested on her bandana and wrapped it in both of ours, bringing all three hands to her heart.
“Whether or not you were in any actual peril does not justify poor doctoring. I’m not saying all doctors are this way, because I know many personally who are not. Doctors who take great care in providing their patients with attentive and thorough care, but—when you decide that you’re going to make it your life’s work to help and heal people, with that decision comes responsibilities of all kinds, the noble and collectively agreed upon as the less glamorous. However, that does not make it less important. Now, if it was your brain or heart I was putting in the trust of someone else, I would without a doubt choose things such as capability, expertise, and experience over tact, but being a physician is not only about saving lives. One’s job should never become so perfunctory that you forget why it is you ever fought and struggled to get there in the first place. I can’t even tell you how many times your father and I were taken from the lab, from our work and ushered thirty flights up to where corporate was waiting for us to explain methodology and formulas they would never begin to understand. When they disturbed us from our lab work, requesting a meeting, it meant more time away from you—my child. It meant I would have to work faster and longer to make up for that time spent away from my work. Some might say it was in my right to have told them to leave the math to the professionals.”
She lifted her chin to an angle of pretention, demonstrating what this would have looked like. In all honesty, it looked tremendously wrong on her. As riled up as she was, emanating from her entire being was a true warmth distinct enough to feel. Passionate she was, but not contentious. It was because she cared deeply that her anger was aroused. “We could have patronized their questioning and undermined what we as scientists understood was needless concern. We didn’t, though, because that wouldn’t have been the right thing to do.”
She paused here, and I took the moment to apologize. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said, sliding my thumb out to squeeze her hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She smiled, squeezing back reassuringly. “You didn’t upset me, baby. But it’s my job as a parent to help you understand the difference between ideal and idealistic. The two often appear to be the same thing, though they’re really not at all. What I was looking for when I called to speak with someone was not the perfect answer to make you all better—I knew they couldn’t give me that. What I was looking for was compassion and kindness, two incredibly undervalued assets that are overlooked when hiring those vying for positions in advanced fields. All I wanted from that doctor was sixty seconds of genuine empathy. Instead, he inundated me with facts and condescension. Plain and simple,” she said primly, “doctors really tick me off sometimes.”
I laughed. “Are you not a doctor?”
“Pff!” She waved a hand. “Of Molecular Biology,” she pointed out, “not of medicine. I have students wanting to know things like . . .” She ran her middle finger horizontally across her creased forehead as she located an answer. “Like if the bilayer of the cell membrane is composed of phospholipids or chlorolipids. Or helping them differentiate between a hydrophilic head and a hydrophobic tail. These things, while important, are not as important as you.” She reached up and pinched the end of my nose playfully.
My mom, not traditionally the worrier in our family—my father and I shared that likeness in equal proportions—had never quite recovered, emotionally speaking, since having to watch my chest sliced in half as an infant, in order to correct an extremely rare congenital heart defect. Understandably, she had remained sensitive about my health from that point forward.
“Foster”—she sighed in what sounded like resignation—“I can see what you’re thinking and all I can say is that there are some things you just won’t understand until you have a baby of your own. Until you have a precious little monster who doesn’t let you eat, sleep, or shower, who stretches every last nerve until you’re considering spiking their milk with Nyquil, just so you can get two hours of consecutive sleep, only then will you understand the way I feel about you. Because, despite all of that, there will be this moment . . .” Her voice began to thicken and her large brown eyes shimmered luminously with unshed tears. “This moment when you look into one another’s eyes and are filled with a love so powerful, it makes everything else seem inconsequential.” She touched my cheek. “As if by giving birth to you I had somehow changed the world, and now I cared about the world more than I ever had before, because now . . . you would be a part of it.” She blinked, and one tear splashed up and out of her eye, coursing down her smooth cheek. I hurried to catch it.
“Mom . . .” I pulled her close, hunching so I could wrap my arms around her properly. I still felt incredibly weak on my legs and hoped I didn’t lose my balance.
“I know,” she mumbled into my shoulder. “But I’m allowed to say things like that every once in a while, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” I said, “Of course you are. I just don’t like to see you cry.”
She was playing with the ends of my hair, pulling lightly on the tight coils and letting them bounce up. “Crying is nice sometimes,” she said wistfully. “Especially when I’m remembering what a beautiful baby you were. Oh, Fost, you had the greenest eyes! Most babies’ eyes don’t develop pigment until later on, but you—you stared up at me with the biggest, most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen.” I felt her head shift slightly on my shoulder. Then she cleared her throat. “Speaking of big and beautiful things,” she said, her tone changing to that of delight and mischief. “What do you think of your gifts, hm?” She pulled back, and I could tell just by looking at her “which” gift she was referring to. Her barely suppressed grin made determining this incredibly easy. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”
I nodded and for a moment thought I might be feverish again, until I realized I was only blushing. “They are,” I concurred softly. In the hazy, dim light of my bedroom, they looked almost golden, instead of yellow.
“How did he know you had an affinity for sunflowers?”
The card was still in my hand; instinctively I clutched it tighter, dropping both hands to my sides and turned to stare at my dresser. Even without sunlight, they bloomed with the confidence of something knowing how lovely it was.
“I’m not sure,” I said honestly. “He said . . . he said they reminded him of me.”
“Mm.” Her eyes remained forward, shrewd and sparkling with
dangerous motherly assumptions. “I would have to agree . . . there is something about them—I don’t know if it’s their vibrancy or mood, but yes, they exude that same unnamable something you have. Something that makes you happier just by having them close.” She angled her head, smiling. “There’s nothing overpowering about them; neither in fragrance or color. With roses or orchids, you can’t help but notice them—arrogant little flowers, those are. Sunflowers, though . . . so unassuming. What makes them special is that they need do nothing more than open up to share their beauty.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm again, when her all-seeing gaze fell on me. The way she contained her smile caused all sorts of reactions at once. Joy, hope, doubt, fear. Mostly, though, I didn’t want her—the way I had for one foolish second—thinking there was more behind this gesture than kindness.
“He’s my partner,” I explained. “In Music class. We’re working on the Senior Piece together. We had just started working on it when I got sick.” I was rambling and I knew it. My mother knew it, too.
“As soon as you’re feeling up to it, you should probably call him,” she suggested. Brushing a curl away from my face, I noticed there was something selcouth in both her expression and tone of voice.
I waited to see if she would say more, then anxiety flitted across my stomach like gnats over a lake, and I couldn’t wait any longer. “Did everything go all right?” I asked. “I mean, nothing out of the ordinary happened when he brought the flowers by, did it?” I saw her flinch and my stomach gave a responding pull.
“If you’re asking was it the average visit of someone stopping by to check on a friend, the answer is no,” she said, shaking her head. “He was very polite, but also extremely edgy and anxious—kept running his hands through his hair like this.” She demonstrated Dominic’s rake and pull over her bandana covered head.
Well, I guess that explained the strange sense I got while reading his card. “Anything else?” I asked. I don’t know why, but I had the feeling she wasn’t telling me something. “Did he say anything?”
She cupped my cheeks, and with a laugh said, “Just call him back,” then pivoted and started toward my bed.
“Back?” I repeated. “So he called, too?” I glanced around the room, having no clue where my phone might be.
At the foot of my bed, she roused Rhoda, leading her gently by the collar to the doggy stairs. She laughed, meeting my eyes with a smirk. “Yes; he called,” she said, and nothing more. She pulled back the comforter and let it fall to the floor, tossing an unsheathed pillow on top of it.
“More than once?” I probed.
She grabbed the corner of the bed sheet and yanked. It curled back and she leaned over to do the same with other corner. Moving to the head of my bed, she paused to stare up at the ceiling, appearing to think hard. “Yes.” Another long pause. “Definitely more than once.”
I fidgeted, moving my weight onto my left foot. “Twice?”
“Hm . . .” One after another, she slipped pillows from their cases, tossing the soiled sheets to the floor. “If I were to make an estimate, I would say it was probably about . . .” I began walking forward without even realizing it; as if my being closer in proximity would bring the answers quicker. “Somewhere in between”—she tossed her head from side to side—“ten to fifteen times,” she answered placidly
From my skull, I felt my incredulous eyes thrust forward, the rest of me frozen in disbelief. “You can’t be serious,” I whispered.
She gave me another motherly look, smirking. “Completely serious,” she replied. “Every time he called or stopped by, I let him know you were doing fine. And I promised, more than once to have you call him when you were feeling up to it. However,” she continued, her voice dropping as she curled a finger beneath the ruffled mattress pad, “either he didn’t believe me or was actually more worried than I was.”
I looked down and saw the card in my hand. I lifted it up, opening the front and read his words again—this time hearing a note of anxiety in his words.
Call me as soon as you wake up. Please. I’ll be up.
“I think it was Wednesday,” she went on, now on the opposite side of my bed, “around lunchtime when he came by for the third time to check on you. I thought about suggesting he not come by, since there was nothing new to tell him. But the concern was so genuine, I just couldn’t do it. So, I told him the same thing I had the first and second time, that you were sleeping and slowly but surely showing signs of improvement. And each time, he would thank me, shake my hand, then show up the next day to ask the same questions. On Thursday, later in the afternoon, I was surprised I hadn’t seen him yet. I’d actually left the front gate open, anticipating his visit.” Remembering something, she paused. “Did you know that he’s traveled all over the country? Been to thirty-three out of fifty states!”
It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay focused, and I found myself a little weak on my feet. Leaning forward for momentum, I made it to the bed, reaching out first with my hands, then settling the rest of my body on the edge. My mother sat down beside me, a pillow case in her hand. She took my chin in the other, looking at me with very sincere eyes.
“When I went out to get the mail,” she said quietly, “I found him parked in our roundabout, looking . . . bereft.” Taking a very deep breath inward, her chest rose, heaving her entire body up off the bed a few inches. A moment later, she released both a sigh and words in one, long exhale. “Foster, I just had to.”
I very honestly had no idea what she meant by “had to,” until with a stomach-churning awareness, I understood.
I closed my eyes in capitulation. “He saw me.” My voice was thin, but rich with the knowledge of corroborated confirmation. I opened my eyes and peered down at my grubby, filthy clothes. “He saw me in clothes covered in . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Not when I knew that while it sounded this awful in my mind, it would be even worse once spoken aloud. I took my mom’s hand, pulled it gently from my chin and stared at her, a mixture of incredulity and despair. “Mom . . .” My voice was raspy, my head dizzy, and at that moment I could think of nothing else to ask but one question. “Why?” I said, my voice pleading for understanding. “Why?”
“Fost,” she replied immediately, eyes darting side to side and looking innocently into mine. “I told him at least half a dozen times that you were doing well, but it was as if he had been convinced otherwise.” I opened my tired eyes and found her holding my once white, now yellowed with age and discolored teddy, one missing eye from a furry socket. She held it to her chest. “You would have done the same thing had you been in my shoes.”
“I don’t think I would have, Mom.” I reached up, fisting a clump of curls and found something small and hard embedded there. I knew immediately what this was: vomit. With absolute conviction, I repeated myself. “I definitely would not have.”
“That’s not fair,” she complained, though I could hear in her voice that she struggled with gray area on this one. “Fost, you didn’t see his face.” She looked straight ahead, obviously visualizing it. “Sweetheart, I’ve never seen someone so out of sorts over the flu—like he thought you might not make it.” She squeezed my teddy tighter, pulling in her lips and mashing them together.
I stood no chance against my mother’s tears. She wasn’t normally prone to this degree of emotion. The last couple of days must have been hard on her, I reasoned.
“With you being sick as you were—really, for the first time in your life to that extent—the whole ordeal before and after your heart surgery came flooding back. And when I looked at Dominic, I saw that same helpless torment reflecting back at me in the recovery room window. I wanted to tell him not to worry, to go home and get some rest. Those, verbatim, were the same assurances I had been given by your cardiologist.” She paused and sniffed. “And it didn’t help even one little bit. I tried, Fost,” she said wearily. “I really did, I promise. I just couldn’t send him away like that, though. It was only for a few seco
nds, just a peek from the door, and I made sure you were completely covered.”
I could hear the guilt in her voice and understood it hadn’t been an easy decision for her to make. Of all people, my mother had an intuition unmatched in accuracy and sensitivity. While I could not imagine—even as she explained it to me—Dominic’s adverse reaction to my sickness, I knew that she hadn’t led him up to my room on a whim or impulse. Again, I put my arm around her. This time, however, it was she who pulled me in for a tight embrace.
“Are you very upset with me?”
“No,” I said, “I’m having a hard time understanding everything, truthfully, but I’m not upset with you.”
She shifted, pulling my head beneath her chin. “I’m not a terrible mother, right?”
I laughed. “You’re a wonderful mother,” I said. “Just . . . no more visitors if I’m ever sick again. Please?”
“Yes,” she said on a sigh. “If it makes you feel any better, I felt terrible about it afterward. That look, though—the look he had was so darn eerily familiar.” She sighed again. “You forgive me?” she asked, taking me by the shoulder and meeting my eyes.
“Of course I do.”
She gave me a watery smile, running her hand along my arm from shoulder to wrist. “When did you get so long? And beautiful?” She gave me a proud smile.
I laughed. “I think I could use a shower—or sanitation facility.”
“Maybe not such a bad idea,” she agreed. She handed me my teddy, then with a second thought took it back, burying her nose in his scruffy head. With a wrinkling of her brow, she added it to the pile of sullied and malodorous sheets on the floor. Leaning away from me, she dipped the tip of her finger into the bowl of broth, then brought it to her mouth and sucked it clean. “It’s cool enough to eat now,” she said, and glanced toward the balcony doors. “Maybe take your lunch outside?” she suggested wryly. “Enjoy it while your room aerates. And after you have some food in your stomach and are all cleaned up, come on downstairs, okay?”
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