by Jane Green
“No, sweetie. If you can open up the farm and make sure everyone has what they need, that would be great.”
“I’ll help,” says Greta.
“Me too,” says Lizzy.
“Me three,” volunteers Meredith, who has no idea what to do on a farm.
twenty-seven
Nell parks the truck and lets herself into Ronni’s house, bracing herself for her mother’s anger. But Lily, in the kitchen, bestows a beaming smile on Nell as she walks in.
“Ma’am is not so happy today,” she says calmly.
Nell apologizes for her mother. She has watched her take it out on her staff for years, amazed that anyone has ever stayed with her for long. Lily has been here for years, her smiling, sunny disposition a tonic for Ronni’s moods. When Ronni gets vicious, Lily just laughs at her, and, oddly, Ronni usually stops. It’s strangely not unlike the dynamic between Ronni and Lizzy as a little girl.
“Where is she?”
“In bed. Her legs are bothering her today,” Lily says. “I’m making a hot water bottle for her to help the cramps, but they are bad. She’s not really able to walk.”
“What do you mean, she’s not able to walk?”
Lily frowns. “It has been much worse recently. She has a cane, but she can’t really walk much. Her legs don’t work.”
“You don’t think she just wants you running after her?”
“No. This is different. She is very tired and breathing is sometimes hard for her.”
“Have you called the doctor?”
“She saw him last week. She says there’s nothing they can do.”
“Well, that’s just my mother being overly dramatic. I can speak to him, if that makes it easier. There’s always something they can do. Here. Give me the hot water bottle. I’ll take it up to her.”
Nell walks up the stairs clutching the cashmere hot water bottle to her chest, smiling at the fact that it is in fact a hot water bottle with a cashmere cover. Only my mother, she thinks.
She knocks on the door and pushes it open to find her mother lying in bed, no wig, no makeup, her hair thin and wispy, her skin pale, almost gray. Her eyes are closed and she is breathing raspily.
“Mom?” Nell whispers, shocked at how different her mother looks since yesterday. Without the effort to look normal, Ronni looks shockingly old and frail. Unwell.
For the first time, Nell understands that this is truly not yet another of their mother’s claims for attention. Something is clearly very wrong.
Ronni opens her eyes, seemingly discombobulated for a few seconds. “Nell,” she says eventually, regaining her composure. “Can you help me sit up?”
Nell leans her mother forward gently and reaches behind and fluffs the pillows, before helping her mother lean back. She tries not to think of how unready she is to be nursing her mother, for this does feel like that is what she is doing.
Ronni reaches over with her good hand and clasps Nell’s. “Sit,” she says, and Nell reluctantly perches on the bed, unused to affection from anyone, let alone her mother. She clasps her mother’s hand awkwardly, wondering how quickly she can extract her own at the same time that she is relieved that the veil is apparently gone.
“What happened with Meredith?” she asks.
“I woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” says her mother, wryly.
“I think she might want to stay with me instead . . .” says Nell. “She can’t deal with you when you’re . . . when you’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“I know. She never could. Which always made it worse. She would get so upset it always made me angrier. You just shut down.”
Nell shrugs, impassively, not really surprised to learn that their mother is fully aware of their various coping strategies.
The sight of her expressionless face, such a perfect example of one of the ways Nell used to escape, makes Ronni smile. “And Lizzy didn’t give a shit.”
“About anyone or anything.”
“No, that’s not quite right.” She meets Nell’s gaze. “I understand Lizzy because . . . she’s the most like me.”
Nell’s not sure she’s ready for this talk. She’s certainly not used to heart-to-hearts with her mother. She changes the subject. “So what’s the emergency, Mom? I have so much to do, I can’t stay.”
“First you have to promise not to tell your sisters.”
“Fine.”
“You don’t mean that. Swear on . . . River’s life.”
“No. I won’t do that. I can only promise. I don’t break promises. You know that about me.”
Ronni nods. “This small fiber neuropathy. I do know what else is going on.”
“You do? Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because I’m not ready for everyone to know. I need your sisters to figure things out with each other first. I need you all to find each other again.”
“What are you talking about? What’s going on?”
Ronni sighs. “I’ve got amyotrophic lateral sclerosis.”
Nell remembers how her mother has always loved Latin names, the longer and more complicated the better, particularly when it comes to describing her various ailments that are never as serious as they sound.
“ALS,” her mother then adds, with no emotion whatsoever. “Also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
That Nell understands. “What?” She just can’t take it in. She shakes her head. “What are you saying?” She was prepared for histrionics, for weeping, for hushed breath and drama, not for news like this. But her mother is quiet, calm.
“I have a terminal disease. I have probably had it for years. Remember those dizzy spells that started all those years ago? When I had to keep lying down because the nausea was so bad? And my hair breaking off and the tingling in my scalp? All of it was early signs of ALS.”
“But they tested you for everything and couldn’t find anything.”
“No. Isn’t it ironic that all the tests came back normal? And yet, it isn’t. It’s often hard to diagnose. They found it when I started falling, and then they noticed my muscles twitching.”
“So . . . when you say terminal . . .” Ronni’s words are finally sinking in and Nell finds a lump in her throat. She pauses and swallows, takes a deep breath. “How long does that . . . ?”
“Most people have a life span of three to five years after diagnosis. But since mine came late, it seems I have already had more than my fair share. I am well on my way to ending up one hundred percent paralyzed, unable to breathe or eat unaided.”
She pauses, and Nell feels her breath catch. If you were to ask her if she loves her mother, she might say yes, of course. But the truth is, she has never felt love for her mother. If her mother has been anything in her life, she is more a source of annoyance or unhappiness, an obligation to be met, a duty that Nell fulfills in the most minimal of ways. And yet, here she is, forgetting that she and her mother are holding hands in an unprecedented display of affection, forgetting that five minutes ago she was desperate to get out of here as quickly as possible. Her eyes are filled with tears as she opens and closes her mouth, not knowing what to say, but knowing this is real. This is not her mother’s histrionics. This is happening. Her voice is a whisper. “How long?”
Her mother levels a cool gaze at her, squeezing her hand. “I refuse to let this disease take me,” she says quietly. “I refuse to become paralyzed. I refuse to become a vegetable, knowing exactly what’s happening to me but being unable to do anything.”
Nell stares at her.
“I am going to take my life, Nell,” her mother says. “And I want you to help me. I want to go peacefully, surrounded by my family. My legs are now essentially paralyzed. I can drag myself around sometimes, but I’m losing strength in my arms, particularly the left side. I don’t want the hospital visits and the doctors and the nurses and the caregivers. I
have had months to think about this, and I am ready. I want you all with me, and I want to do it soon.”
Nell stares at her.
“Nell? Say something. I’m telling you, because you’re the one I’m closest to.” She gives a sad smile. “I know. We’re not actually close, but you are the one I see the most. You’re the one I rely on. I don’t know how to tell your sisters.”
Finally, Nell blinks. “You managed to tell me perfectly well.”
“Because you can handle it. You’ve always been the strong one. I’m sorry I’ve always been so tough on you.”
Nell tries to find the words.
“I want you to be prepared for when I tell your sisters,” continues her mother.
“So when are you planning on telling them? Because this isn’t fair, for me to carry this burden by myself.” Nell’s voice comes out sounding like a child’s.
“I can tell them tonight,” says Ronni. “If you think I should.”
“I don’t know,” Nell snaps. “I have no idea. I have no idea what to tell you. Jesus. When are you planning to do this?”
“I’m ready,” says her mother. “I want to do it while you’re all here, before it gets worse. And I want to know that you’ll all look after each other after I’m gone.”
Nell lets out a long sigh. “Mom? I don’t know that we can do this. I don’t know that we can sit here and watch you die.”
“You’re going to be watching me die.” Ronni smiles sadly. “It’s just a question of when.”
twenty-eight
Nell drives home feeling numb. There are no tears, just a feeling that she is submerged underwater. The landscape passes by out the window, unfamiliar, everything blurry and strange.
How can this be happening, she thinks. How does she not tell her sisters when she sees them in a few minutes? They will see, surely, there is something wrong as soon as she walks in the door.
Nell is not close to her mother, has never been close to her mother, but Ronni is her mother, the only one she has ever known, and she is not ready for her to die. She is certainly not ready to assist in any way.
And yet, her mother is the vainest creature she knows. Nell understands her mother not wanting to be paralyzed, not wanting to lose control, to relinquish everything to caregivers and nurses. No. That would not be what Ronni Sunshine would ever choose for herself.
Isn’t this the bravest thing of all, for her to take her own life? But she doesn’t want to take her own life exactly; she wants her daughters to do it. The thought is inconceivable.
Why did she tell me, she thinks, but she already knows the answer: Because I can handle it. Because I am the strong one.
The house is quiet, the kitchen cleaned up and tidy, the sound of water upstairs indicating that someone is in the shower. On the counter is a note in handwriting she recognizes as Lizzy’s.
Gone to Westport shopping with Meri! Text if you need anything. Obsessed with this farm!
L xxx
How does she tell them? Does she tell them? Does she wait for her mother to tell them tonight? She did promise, after all.
Why me? she thinks. Why this? Why now?
She goes into her little office and sits behind her desk, staring into space, her mind a blank. She is used to sitting in here and avoiding thinking about her problems. On her desk is a pile of financial papers she hasn’t had the heart to look at for days. To avoid it, earlier in the week she picked up a magazine and put it on top of the papers to hide them completely. Since, she has been able to pretend she doesn’t have financial challenges facing the farm. The papers have been waiting patiently for her to deal with them.
But her mother’s illness cannot so easily be avoided. It is real, and it is happening now. If she pretends it’s not, it will just happen anyway.
Taking a deep breath, she turns to her computer and slides the mouse to look up ALS, jumping from website to website, stopping every few minutes to scribble thoughts and questions into a notebook on her desk.
She lingers as she reads about Stephen Hawking. He has this, has had it for years. Maybe her mother could live a full life, she thinks, looking at a picture of Stephen Hawking. No, she realizes. Her mother would never want a life like this, even if the disease might allow it.
There is a faint knock on the door as Greta pops her head in. “I hope I’m not intruding,” she says, looking around as her eyes light up with pleasure. “Oh, look how lovely it is in here. What a beautiful room!”
“Come in,” Nell says, closing down the screen, welcoming the distraction, unaccountably delighted it is Greta disturbing her.
She is surprised at herself. Usually she allows no one to come in here. This is the space that Nell thinks of as truly hers. Her sanctuary. She put a lot of effort into making it so. It had been a dark, oppressive, wood-paneled office in Theodora’s day. When she took over, she told her mother her plan to paint the wood and Ronni gasped.
“You can’t paint mahogany!” she protested, but Nell could. And did. She painted the paneling on the walls a cornflower blue and the floorboards the palest of grays, almost white. And she put a soft blue and white woven rug over the top.
She pulled out the built-ins and painted an old desk the same gray as the floor. A white ceramic vase, its sides fat and bulging, sits on one corner, stuffed with bright pink cosmos from the garden.
On one side of the room is a slip-covered sofa, white with a tiny hint of a hand-blocked Indian print in a pale coffee color, almost undetectable. Large, soft blue and white pillows are scattered along the back of the sofa.
Nell has covered the walls with framed paintings that River did in elementary school, not that you would ever know. Abstracts, she has always thought, that could cost thousands of dollars in an art gallery. Swishes of paint, spatters of ink, scribbles of pencil. They are surprisingly sophisticated, and every time she looks at them she is reminded of River’s chubby hands and sweet smile, how he would pad into her room and wake her up by whispering loudly, “Mommy? Are you awake?” And she would keep her eyes closed and smile, whispering back, “No,” before grabbing him and smothering him with kisses as he giggled and squirmed.
How happy they were.
“Can I sit?” Greta sits without waiting for Nell to say yes. Nell wonders whether she makes herself this much at home wherever she goes.
“I just wanted to check in on you.” Greta fixes her cool gaze on Nell, who moves to the other end of the sofa. “I know we’ve only just met, but I was curled up on the window seat upstairs when you came back and I saw you come in here, and you looked like you have a lot on your mind. I just wanted to see if you were okay.”
Nell doesn’t know what to say. “That’s very perceptive of you.” I promised, she thinks.
“It sounds like your mother is a challenging woman,” Greta says.
“She is, but that wasn’t the issue today. It’s . . . something else. I don’t think I can talk about it yet. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”
“Of course. I would hate to intrude. Can I get you anything? I thought maybe I could make lunch for everyone. I have no idea how things work here, but I noticed you have an overabundance of vegetables growing. If I’m allowed to harvest, I can make a big salad, and there are some chicken breasts in the fridge. I can make a little go a long way.”
“You don’t have to cook. It’s incredibly kind of you to offer, but after all your work this morning, it’s really not necessary. Lizzy is here, and if anyone should be cooking, it should be her.”
“I feel awful that I had no idea who she is. Daisy filled me in. Do you think I offended her?”
Nell laughs. “It takes a lot more than that to offend Lizzy.”
“I like her. And Meredith. You have a wonderful family. And I really would be happy to cook.”
“Do you always take care of people like this?” Nell asks, feeling an inexplicable
sense of gratitude, an inexplicable desire to reach out and place her hand on Greta’s cheek. She has no idea why, only that sitting here, on this sofa, with this woman so close, she wants her to be closer.
Nell blinks. What on earth is happening to her? It is the upset, she tells herself. I am not myself.
“Yes.” Greta smiles. “Taking care of people is what I do. Now that Daisy has left home I find myself pulling in stray ducks from all over the place.”
“Is that what you think of me?” says Nell. “A stray duck?”
Greta thinks for a while. “No,” she says finally. “You strike me as enormously strong and self-sufficient. A lone lion, perhaps, rather than a stray duck. Strong. But alone.”
“God.” Nell exhales, the first hint of a smile since she got home playing around her lips. “That sounds awful. I think I’d much rather be a stray duck.”
“It was a compliment. Lioness, then. Regal. Beautiful. Powerful.”
“I don’t feel powerful,” says Nell, thinking, Regal? Beautiful? Am I?
“Many of us don’t recognize our best qualities, even when women as wise as me are pointing them out. River was telling me that you and your mother, your sisters, haven’t ever gotten along that well. That the three of you being together in this house is unusual. So that means it also must be hard for you, having this . . . reunion. How do you feel about everyone being here? I would never have guessed that you aren’t close from this morning. Maybe this will be healing for all of you, this trip?”
Healing? thinks Nell. That’s what her mother said she wanted. But how could this be healing, when they are all about to discover news that will change them forever, news that will change the rest of their lives?
Nell looks at Greta, then looks away, feeling an overwhelming impulse to tell this woman everything. She promised her mother she wouldn’t tell her sisters, but Greta is someone else. And she seems gentle and wise, and like a good listener, someone who wouldn’t judge.
Nell does not talk about her mother with anyone. She doesn’t talk about much of anything with anyone. She has a convivial, friendly, warm relationship with everyone who works on the farm, but none of them are friends, exactly. She talks to Cheryl, the caretaker, every day and considers her as close to a friend as anyone else.