“I think about it a lot. But the clinic is hectic these days and there’s Mom. How can I swing it all?”
“You’ve said you’ve seen too many burned out docs screwing up from exhaustion.”
“I’m not that far gone,” she says too defensively. He is being solicitous.
“I’m taking preventive medicine. Plus the cabin is closer to Duluth.”
“You have a point.”
“How’s your mom this week?”
“Fading away.”
“But seventy-four is too young for that.”
“She’s lonely, needs more stimulus, better medical care.”
Eric watches her. “What can you do? Sounds like Jeanne—despite her drinking and such—is doing her best.”
“She is devoted to Mom. Still, she’s at the bank all day. Mom’s alone and—”
“Monica there’s no perfect solution. You’ve made the decision, hon. You need to stop obsessing.”
“I never made any decision,” she sighs heavily. “I don’t think Mom did either!”
The waiter arrives with their walleye and wild rice.
She tries to regain composure. In a subdued tone, “Jeanne, well—it feels as if she’s hijacked Mom.”
Eric studies his hands, salts the dinner, begins to eat.
“OK, Mom said she wanted to go, that she always loved Lake Superior, but…”
“Tell me, did you get them on the phone when I was jogging this afternoon?”
“No, only Jeanne’s answering machine. They planned to take a shoreline drive. They both have phone numbers. Pam and Gerd seem conscientious. They’d give me a phone message right away?”
“Absolutely.”
She can’t abide his worried eyes. “Alright. I’ll let it go for tonight. I have a right to one weekend respite. And so do you.”
“And a couple of weeks at the cabin?” he raises a thatch of eyebrow.
“One week,” she smiles faintly.
He raises his glass. “We’ve sprung the doctor from the asylum for a week.”
She laughs, clinks her glass. Maybe Beata is right about Eric being the one. When he disconnects from college fixations, he’s a dear.
*****
Lovely holiday, she reflects on the drive back to Minneapolis. Luscious sex, great meals, long walks, intense conversations. Ambling past pretty houses and well-groomed yards, licking ice cream cones. She hasn’t felt this relaxed in six months.
All the way home they laugh.
She shouldn’t invite him in because she has early clinic appointments tomorrow.
His face is both wry and woeful.
She can’t bear to end the weekend.
They set her bags down in the bedroom.
Before she knows it, Eric has pulled her onto the goose down comforter.
She laughs. “Wait, we have to eat dinner. I need a shower.”
He persists, kissing her forehead, nose, neck. Praising each body part in French, German and Italian. He hasn’t been this playful since those first nights two years ago.
“Ummmm.”
“Yes,” he’s unclasping her bra. “Ummm.”
Reflexively, she glances at the answering machine, spots the blinking red light.
“Eric, dear…” Gently, she disentangles herself. “Just let me check the messages. I’ll feel easier. I’ll be more present for you.”
He rolls his brown eyes. “OK, Dr. Murphy, zap the distractions.”
The first message: incomprehensible mumbling and weeping.
She stiffens.
Jeanne’s weeping.
“3:30 p.m. today.”
The next message: a Nordic accent, “Monica, your sister is trying to reach you.”
“4:00 p.m. today.”
She presses the speed dial to Jeanne’s.
The phone rings and rings. No answer. She dials Mom’s new doctor.
An answering service, “I understand this is urgent. Dr. Truman will call you as soon as he can.”
Eric reaches for her hand and she draws back.
“I don’t understand. Two calls here this afternoon. Jeanne had my cell.” She rummages in her purse. “Damn! Damn!” she shouts, “Damn! Damn! Damn!” She shows him the cold grey phone.
He waits uneasily.
“No bars. It was working yesterday morning. But I forgot to charge it in Pepin. I plug it in each night, here in this socket, each night.” She can’t stop rambling. “Each night except the most important one.”
“Monica, we don’t know what’s happened. Everyone forgets to plug—”
“Something terrible has happened. Didn’t you hear Jeanne wailing? The message from Gerd?” She shakes her fists. Not his fault. Her fault. Her fault.
Eric watches cautiously.
“Jeanne doesn’t phone unless she has to. God, maybe I should jump in the car and drive to Duluth now.”
“You’re exhausted. At least wait until the doctor phones.” He takes her hand. “Monica, let’s make a pot of tea…have a glass of wine.”
The syrah unleashes a litany of worries.
Eric listens.
Nothing he says calms her. She switches on the TV news.
Another glass of wine. A Red Lion Pizza.
The phone rings.
“Dr. Murphy?”
“Yes. Dr. Truman?”
“No, Dr. Tremblay. I was on duty at the hospital. Do you have a friend there now?”
She reaches for Eric’s hand and he squeezes hard. She feels as if she’s clutching air. As if she’s about to fall a very long distance.
“What’s wrong?” The sound of her own vacant words unsettles her. “How is she? I can drive up now.”
“I am so sorry, Dr. Murphy, but I have very bad news.”
“Tell me.” Her steadiest voice.
“I regret to say that your mother has died. Your sister Jeanne followed your mother’s living will directive and cancelled life support.”
“How? Why? When?”
“This is awkward. I don’t meddle in family affairs, yet if I knew that Mrs. Murphy had another daughter so close by, we would have waited.”
“She tried to call,” she mumbles. “But when? What happened to Mom?”
“Your mother suffered a severe stroke yesterday afternoon.”
“Afternoon. Yesterday. Why didn’t someone call yesterday?”
Dr. Tremblay stays on track. “We worked with her for hours. Your mother was unconscious. All her systems were down. We could have continued the life support, but your sister decided…”
“I could have got there in a couple of hours. Well, three. I could have said good-bye.” Tears course down her cheeks.
“I understand this, now, Dr. Murphy. But your sister had medical power of attorney. She didn’t mention…and of course I didn’t know about the drinking problem until later, when one of the nurses mentioned it.”
She can’t hear him any longer. Because she’s screaming so loudly. Flooded with rage and shame and grief. Screaming as if she could bring back her mother, could heal her sister, could redirect the course of all their lives.
TWENTY-FOUR
June, 1999, Minnesota
Jeanne pours a second cup of coffee in her small, neat kitchen.
Monica tries to compose her thoughts two mornings after Mom’s death.
“Father Dolan will say Mass,” she reports. Again.
Jeanne nods. Again.
Monica observes how soberly they talk, discussing the cremation and mass, planning where to scatter her ashes. They’re being practical. Civilized. Cold.
She will not r
eproach Jeanne about Mom’s medical care. It’s too late.
“The Altar Society ladies are notifying Mom’s friends at church,” she adds.
Jeanne fixes herself another Alka Seltzer.
Monica believes this is all her fault. If she’d been more adamant, maybe, or less adamant. No, this is a useless train of thought.
Then she simply cannot hold back any longer. “Jeanne, there’s one thing I don’t understand.”
“What doesn’t the doctor understand?”
She concentrates. “After the stroke, well, that was Saturday afternoon. I was at the bed and breakfast. Why didn’t you try to reach me in Pepin?”
“You said your cell phone was dead.”
“At some point, yes. But why didn’t you call the B and B? Eric was jogging and I was sitting on the veranda reading.”
“Thanks for the thorough report. I was busy with other matters. Under a lot of pressure. So I didn’t think of it, OK?”
“You could have reached me. You didn’t cut off life support until Sunday morning. I could have made it to Duluth before—”
“It was too late. Too late!” Jeanne screams. “She was already gone.” Tears stream down her swollen red cheeks. “What was the point? I called the B and B when it was all over. Once the hard work was done.”
“But surely,” she slows down here to be reasonable, desperately wanting to comprehend. “I, I had a right to say good-bye. To see Mom at the end.” She wonders for the first time now if Jeanne really did try the cell phone.
“You made it clear you were busy in Pepin, that you needed a complete break.”
Oh, damn, damn, why, why didn’t she follow her instinct and visit Mom on the Friday? It’s possible that even at that stage, she would have noticed, could have done something. Yet, she wanted to believe Mom when she said she’d be fine, that Monica deserved a weekend with her “young man.” Imagine a holiday in Pepin in exchange for Mom’s life. Of course she shouldn’t think like this. But she’s so ashamed. She should have been there. To attend to Mom. To say farewell.
“That’s not fair.”
“Whatever. You weren’t there, OK? I can’t make important decisions based on what I imagine your wishes to—”
“Imagine my wishes! What else would a person wish? You didn’t let me say good-bye.” She enunciates slowly as if precision will pierce her sister’s shell.
“It’s over now,” she asserts resolutely.
Over. Monica understands that for Jeanne this is a profound relief as well as a grievous loss. But she, herself, will always wonder if Mom knew she wasn’t there at the end.
“We’ve lost our Mother, Jeanne,” she reaches for her sister’s hand. “It’s important to talk about that.”
“There’s nothing left to say,” she glares. “Nothing left to do.”
Monica is astounded by the blend of anger and satisfaction in her little sister’s face. The little sister who somehow has become a kind of enemy. No, she wants to scream, don’t vanish on me like Dad and Mom, We’re the only ones left. I need my sister back. But she remains silent because she knows that for now, Jeanne is at a precipice and she doesn’t want to be the one to push her over the edge, where she’d be gone forever.
TWENTY-FIVE
June, 1999, Minnesota
She walks along Beata’s leafy, quiet street toward St. Luke’s, having parked near her friend’s apartment for a quick exit from the reception. So gracious of her to host the gathering after Mom’s requiem Mass. The church parlor is too institutional. And her own apartment is too far away for Mom’s older friends.
Jeanne bristled at the idea. “She’s not even a member of the family.”
Monica didn’t reply, “She’s the closest thing I have to a sister.”
One of the many things she didn’t say. For the moment, Monica has given up on family communication. Given up trying to understand why she didn’t let her say good-bye. They only discuss practical details of the cremation, mass and reception.
“It’s the one sensible plan,” she answered matter-of-factly.
Jeanne surrendered. The right word. Accepted, agreed, understood: none of these concepts seemed to be in Jeanne’s vocabulary.
She takes a long breath of sweet early summer air and continues toward church, where Jeanne and Beata and Eric will be waiting in the front pew.
He wanted to escort her to church. Jeanne said it would look weird if family appeared separately. Beata understood this walk was her one occasion for solitude today.
Her opportunity to be alone with Mom.
Monica pictures her now: the trim woman cooking corned beef in the kitchen, supervising the potato scrubbing and Jeanne’s table setting. Always Dad’s favorite dish on his birthday.
Mom smiling proudly at the U, taking a photo of Monica in cap and gown.
Mom walking warily along the wharf several weeks ago: a blurry vision of herself, but still there. Marie Murphy. Mom.
Now this gentle, loving presence, has evaporated. “Oh, Momma,” she whispers, “I love you. I love you so.”
She reaches St. Luke’s five minutes before Mass. She’ll chat with Mom’s friends afterward. That will be enough.
The parking lot is full. Mourners stream into the church.
Stricken with panic, she’s sure she missed it as she watches all these strangers, young and old.
This is someone else’s funeral.
Her watch says 3:55. Father Dolan is waving from the steps. Smiling. He’s happy to see her as if she is on time, in the right place.
Although Mom wasn’t much on fashion, she would like her black linen suit, would approve of the green scarf. “A little bit of color,” she’d say, “always makes the outfit.”
Father squeezes her hand. “Bless you dear.”
“Thank you, Father.” He wasn’t the kind of priest to say, “We haven’t seen you in quite a while.” Still, she’s feared the encounter.
“All these people knew Mom?”
“Your mother was a blessing to parish and community. People have been phoning all week to check the time of Mass.” He pats her hand.
She whispers, “I better get in there, then.”
She nods to Mom’s long-time St. Paul neighbors, then to the Somali family who moved in more recently. To Angela and Dorothy of the famous bridge club. Then, an even bigger surprise—Dr. Jill, herself, sitting with Alonso and Terrence. Don’t think about motive, not here, not now.
Beata has carefully arranged seating in the front pew. Jeanne is at the center aisle. Eric beside her, Beata next to him, saving a place by the far aisle for her.
She takes her seat and holds Beata’s warm hand. “Thank you.”
“Bless you, Monica.”
The first notes of “Amazing Grace” strain as Father processes to the altar.
Everyone stands.
Monica thinks how Mom loved this hymn, even when it was considered “Protestant.” A natural ecumenical, Mom embraced Vatican II and the vernacular mass. But she once confessed, “I can’t get used to guitars in church. Maybe, dear, it’s because the Larsen boys are always off key.”
She gazes around reassured there are no guitars or tambourines, just an organist. The Larsens moved to Eden Prairie years ago.
Mass proceeds, as if in a childhood memory. The old words and music are comforting. After so many masses, confessions, rosaries, the Church has marked her indelibly.
Father Dolan stands before them. “Eternal Rest grant onto them, O Lord…” She remembers how much Mom loved his lush, baritone voice, “And let perpetual light shine upon them.”
Monica is glad Jeanne also nixed inviting speakers from the floor. They both want a simple Mass. Mom hated being center stage. Dad was the
one who enjoyed spotlight: when he fled West, they were all a little confused about where to focus their attention.
Now Monica recalls the shock and sadness in his voice when she phoned him on Monday. She pictures the yellow roses—her parents’ favorite flower—he sent to the funeral home. Sees Jeanne tossing them in the waste basket.
“Marie Murphy was a true Christian,” Father Dolan begins. “Deeply involved in worship and service. She reared two fine daughters, Monica and Jeanne, who now grace the world with their different talents in medicine and business.”
“Believe in God?” Her fifteen-year-old sister demanded one night after Mom had gone to bed. “Would a loving god give Mom this cruddy life? Tear her away from Ireland? Take her husband off to Nevada?”
“Wyoming,” she whispered.
“Wyoming, who cares,” she sped on. “Would a god give her arthritis? Leave her with a mortgage and a paltry salary?”
She still has no answer. She wonders if Jeanne was drinking then, in high school.
“Many here don’t know each other. Marie Murphy’s generous spirit extended so widely—the food shelter, the library literacy program, St. Luke’s Good Neighbor Committee. Some of you had the joy of working with her for thirty or forty years.”
“Momma, I love you. I miss you. Please know I would have come.” She’s kneeling now, praying directly to Mom. Praying for herself and Jeanne. It’s been a long time since she felt the kneeler. Odd how she and Carol Fitzpatrick planned to become nuns when they were in seventh grade. Carol writes, occasionally, from her climate field station in Tanzania. They had been so sure in those days. She doesn’t know about Carol, but her own certainty turned upside down at college where she learned to ask questions.
She glances at Jeanne, the once open-hearted child, now harder and wider from years of drink and lousy diet. Through all her disappointments, she remained fiercely dedicated to Mom. Jeanne’s barely holding herself together. Her face is set just so; the wrong word from Father will spring her into a rage or a loud wail.
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