Maybe he should call right back and explain more that he didn’t mean some of the things she thinks he did, but she already might be being helped to the bed, if she wasn’t sitting on it when she was talking to him, or now laid back on the bed, head on the pillows, legs straightened, shoes or slippers removed, and could be too tired to talk to him. Later, tonight, better. But why’d he say all those things? Why’d he do anything to make things worse for her? Confuse her with some of the things he said, scare her, even? Why’d he say anything about her mind other than reassuring things: she’s sounding bright, chipper, lively, full of energy, she’s really on the ball today, not that she isn’t every day but today even more than most? He doesn’t know, he only wants her to feel better; those things just came out. And why’d he lie about having called her several times yesterday and they didn’t answer? Shame, that he hadn’t called sooner—same day he got here as he told her he would—and that he’s up here and she’s down there and summer’s only started and the weather can only get worse there while staying pretty much the same here: a little warm some days, maybe even a few days with the temperature and humidity in the 90s, but cool every evening and, because their rented house is on top of a hill with a big clearing around it, windy, even if a warm wind, most afternoons. How could he get her up here for a week if he wanted to? He wants to, that’s not the problem, and she stayed with them here for a week for ten summers straight and always had a good time and they with her, but hasn’t come since she broke her hip three years ago. This time he could buy round-trip plane tickets for her and her main helper, but the doctor says she’s too frail to travel that distance anymore, plane or car, so that’s out. Then what’s in? Nothing. It’s all out for all time. So she stays there doing nothing all day, and that’s why he feels so lousy for her. She goes out, in, wheelchair down the block if the weather’s not too hot, up to the park where she sits in the shade, looking, yawning, maybe falling asleep in her chair there, napping at home in the cushioned chair by her bed or in the bed if she asks to, napping after breakfast sometimes, often after lunch, another nap late afternoon, eating little, napping in the wheelchair lots of times while the helper pushes it outside. Little comments to the helper through the day, same ones she’s made to him the last couple of years: “This is no life … This isn’t living…. I’m vegetating, not even just existing, so why can’t God order my body to call it quits? … Believe me, if I was plugged in now I’d ask you to take me out, and if you didn’t want to, and I could hardly blame you, then I’d somehow manage to myself…. People are lucky when they go before their health does or before they get too feeble and old to enjoy or do anything.” He and his family were in the city for three weeks before they drove to Maine, staying at their old apartment, which most of the time they sublet, and he came to see her every day but one, sometimes with the kids, took her out to lunch most of those days, later wheeled her to the park and sat with her there or stopped in with her at a coffee bar, took her out to dinner a couple of times, and once wheeled her across the park to the Frick to show her his favorite Rembrandt and El Greco portraits and the two or three Vermeers, but she wanted to leave after ten minutes because she said people were staring more at her than the pictures. She perked up when he was with her, though, more so when he brought the kids; it even seemed she looked forward to his visits, but some days she was still in bed when he got there and he’d ask the helper if his mother wasn’t feeling well or didn’t get much sleep last night, and if the helper said no he’d say to his mother, “Mom, why aren’t you up? We’re going out,” and she’d say, “Why, where’re you taking me?” and he said, “For a good time, lunch, the works, wherever you want to go,” and she’d say, “I’m too tired to go out, I only want to rest,” and he’d say, “Mom, you’re not sick, you got about twelve hours sleep last night, maybe sixteen for the entire day, so come on, you got to get up, showered, dressed, refreshed, I don’t mean to be a tyrant but getting out will be good for you, and better now before the real heat comes, and I’m hungry,” and, if the kids were with him, “and so are they,” and she usually got up when he told her to, in fact did it every time because he was very persistent, wouldn’t take a no, and she always enjoyed the lunch and park and stroll and drink and coffee and cake or whatever they’d do, and then that last time when he got her home she wanted to get right into bed without even first stopping at the bathroom, and he said, “You know, today’s the last day we’ll be seeing you for two months … well, less than that, barely seven weeks, though we’ll be seeing you again for a few days on our return. We’re off to Maine early tomorrow, so I can’t even drive by before that because I know you won’t be up, you’re so tired now,” and she said, “You’re going? So soon? It seems you only just got here,” and he said, “Do you mean about today or our entire stay in New York?” and she said, “Both. But they say if things go so quickly like that it must have been fun,” and he said, “I’m glad you think that, it’s certainly been fun for us with you,” and she said, “I’ll miss you all … I’ve grown so used to seeing you and my little sweethearts. I just feel much better when you’re around, but I’ll live with it; I have before,” and he wanted to say, Mom, I wish you could come with us or fly up later, but thought saying it would be worse than not saying it. He used to look forward to her visits in Maine, pick her up at the airport, show her around, invite people over for drinks or dinner whom she might like. Her younger sister would usually call him a few days after she got back and say, “Bea looks great, trip did her wonders, highlight of the year for her, she said; you’re such a dear for having her every summer; I know for myself that having old people around can be very hard,” and he would say, “No, she’s very easy, a big help.” When he took her back to the airport those summers he could always say, “So, see you in a few weeks—month at the most” and she’d usually say something like “This trip was just the lift I needed, so it ought to hold me for the next few weeks without all of you.” The last day he saw her he said, “Kids, come on, we’re going, kiss Grandma goodbye, you won’t see her for a while,” and they kissed her and he kissed her and said, “So, see you on the twenty-third of August—a Thursday, I think—and I’ll call every day without fail, I promise,” and she said, “August? That seems so far away. What month are we in now?” and he said, “Last day of June, so you can say beginning of July,” and she said, “Then August and the twenty-third day of it is very far away. Why so long?” and he said, “Because that’s how long we’ll be away. As I said, it’s about seven weeks total,” and she said, “It still seems long to me. What month are we in now?” and he said, “Mom, I told you, and you have to start remembering: it’s just about July. So August is next month almost—all right, we get back near the end of it—but I’ll speak to you on the phone every day, and if you need me just say the word and I’ll fly in,” and she said, “No, I want you to go; it’s the best thing for everybody, being away. And you work hard and have a lot at home to do and can use the long vacation, so I wouldn’t interrupt it for anything,” and he said, “Really, if you need me,” and she said, “But I won’t.” He broke down the last two years after he left her apartment the day before they were to drive to Maine and thought, This the last time I’ll ever see her? This time, while he was still in her room—she was lying on the bed, eyes closed, near sleep or asleep; he’d helped put her there, took her shoes off, straightened her legs on the covers, made sure her head was comfortably centered on the pillows, then kissed her forehead and ran his hand along her hair and said goodbye and she didn’t give any reaction like a word or nod or smile—he started to cry—kids were waiting for him outside—and thought, Why am I crying? Because I don’t think I’ll ever see her again? That’s what I thought the last two years, and she’s not much worse off now than she was then. So it’s partly that and just leaving her here for two months. Later, walking with the kids down the block to the bus stop, he wondered if she’d thought something like that about them just before. Like “Will I ever see them aga
in? I don’t know. Not the way I feel now, that’s for sure. But that’s what I thought the last two years, and I made it through the summer and saw them again, so why not this time too? Because I’m more tired more often and for longer periods; because some days I just don’t think I can get up.” Her look when they were talking about not seeing each other for two months suggested, “There’s no way you can see to taking me along or sending for me midway through the summer? I suppose not because I’m supposed to be too frail to travel, but as my dad used to say, ‘If it’s packed well, any bottle of wine can be shipped safely.’ And I’m not sick; I’m just old and tired and bored silly and I can use a little vacation too from this place, just a last one if it has to be that. Wouldn’t it be better for me, no matter how hard it is to get me there, to sleep for a week where it’s mostly cool and dry and the air’s real and healthy and clear and everything smells fresh and where I can see other things than this city block and the noisy avenues and the park, pretty as it is but made ugly by all the old people like me in it, and just to be with all of you for a while as I did so many summers in a row? I can come up with the weekday girl, even if I wouldn’t mind a short break from my helpers too. And if there’s no room for her or you don’t want a stranger in the house, though she’s very honest and sweet and would be more help than bother, then alone—a little extra work and inconvenience for you, since with my bad hip and brittle bones and weak bladder I’d now have to sleep downstairs on the pullout and near your one bathroom. Though for the more personal things, I can still take care of myself, and for bathing all I need is to be alone by the sink with a washrag and sponge. The food would be much better with you too. Here it’s only so-so, the wrong bread, none of the exotic cheeses I used to love to eat, and I’m not particularly fond of Caribbean cooking, which is the only kind these girls do well. Or takeout Chinese or barbecued chicken from the barbecue shop or eggs, eggs, eggs, cooked the way I like them, sunny-side down, but with too much grease; and there’s also not much conversation or mutual interests with my helpers, and the TV always on; and that pounding music, which you could hear through twenty doors and walls no matter how deaf you are, would drive a sane man nuts. And you’d give me a drink every day, maybe also a glass of wine or beer at dinner. Here I have to beg for one—they’re looking out for my health and want me to have soda or juice—and when the bottle runs dry it takes a couple of weeks for them to buy another one. But it’s tough, I know—you have your kids, and your wife now needs some taking care of, and the house has a lot of trouble accommodating more than four, if I remember it correctly, especially now that the girls are bigger, and whatever else is preventing me from going.” Now, still seated by the phone, he feels terrible about her, knows he’ll feel this way after every phone talk with her the next two months, wonders what she thought soon after she hung up and why she didn’t, as she usually did, say the final goodbye right after his (because she was too tired, depressed, a combination of the two, and what she thought?)—that she wishes she was up there with them or could look forward to going in a month or so, but he made no offer, though he must know what it’d mean to her, and she can’t plead with him, it wouldn’t be right, he’ll have to come around on his own and that doesn’t seem promising, so this is her lot. And then maybe what it was like when she was here: the sights, smells, quietness, sleep-inducing sounds of bugs at night, moderate temperatures, mostly low humidity, those beautiful blue Maine days, their dinners together, watching the kids play, reading the Times outside in the sun if it wasn’t too hot—“A little direct sun is good for me,” she’s said, “vitamin E, or whichever one it is, D,” and other things. And then maybe she’d feel sleepy and want to nap again and ask the helper to get her to bed, and she’d lie on top of the covers, shoes off or, if kept on because the helper would only have to put them on again in an hour, then her feet placed on a newspaper section or paper shopping bag at the end of the bed, and close her eyes and soon be asleep, the helper sitting across from her for a while and then getting up and leaving the room and closing the door till it was almost shut.
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