Mothers and Daughters: An Anthology

by Deborah Bedford

  Robby, Carrie’s brother, was no help. Though concerned, he lived in Michigan and couldn’t grasp the seriousness of the situation. He’d said Mom sounded fine to him when they’d spoken on the phone. She knew how he felt. Denial was easier than reality.

  “Until now, I never even realized anything was wrong,” Carrie told Dan one night as they sat on the patio staring up at an April moon. The evening air was chilly so they huddled under a fleece throw. Instead of the usual romantic snuggle, the air hung heavy with Carrie’s worry. “She’s always been outrageous and silly. Who would notice if she forgot an appointment or repeated herself? I forgot to call the insurance company about that wind damage to the roof and there’s nothing wrong with me.”

  She said the last as if it worried her, because it did.

  “Everyone forgets things,” Dan agreed, his thick, calloused fingertips making lazy circles on her shoulder.

  “The neurologist says she may not get bad for a long time. No one can really predict. In fact, he can’t even be one hundred percent sure she has Alzheimer’s disease. Mother keeps saying she’s fine, that she and God will beat this thing.”

  “Your mom is a strong woman.”

  Carrie made a little noise in the back of her throat. “You can say that again. No one ties down the irrepressible Frannie.”

  No person could, but this ugly disease with a German name eventually would. Bile rose in the back of Carrie’s throat, as bitter as the feeling in her soul.

  “I don’t understand God,” she muttered, gazing up at the marbled-cheese moon. She had grown up without a father, and now she was going to lose her mother in the most heinous manner. Where was God in any of that? “Old lady Smith across the street is a mean, bitter old hag who never contributes to anything and wouldn’t call 9-1-1 if you died in her living room. But she’s still sharp as a tack and making everyone miserable while a vibrant, giving woman like Mother is struck down in her prime. If there was any justice, Ms. Smith would get Alzheimer’s. Not Mother.”

  Dan squeezed the side of her neck but said nothing. That was Dan. Sometimes she longed for him to hash things out with her, to argue or debate or just talk something into the ground, but he never did. No matter how big the problem, Dan kept his thoughts to himself. It was a wonder the man didn’t explode. She would have.

  Especially now when she was angry and confused and depressed.

  Mother’s life had never been easy. Only in the last few years had everything settled into a pleasant rhythm. Mother loved her job as church secretary. Her house, though only a small frame structure with two bedrooms, was paid for and she’d been saving money for another missions adventure, as she called them. This time to help with a Bible camp for orphans.

  Yes, after all Mother had done for the Lord, Alzheimer’s disease was a lousy method of repayment.

  Chapter Three

  Ken Markovich’s farm smelled like fresh-mowed grass with just the hint of the red, muddy river which gave Riverbend its name. Bottomland, people around here called the area. Rich, fertile farmland that would grow about anything. Fran loved coming out here where the birds pecked at plowed ground, and it wasn’t unusual to see a red fox chasing mice across the fields. Once she’d lain on her belly in the grass and watched a mama coyote teach her young to catch grasshoppers. It was the cutest thing.

  “You’re quiet today.” Ken walked beside her toward the horse corral. He didn’t have a lot of animals, but he loved buckskin horses and kept several to ride for enjoyment and in parades. He looked so handsome decked out in cowboy hat and chaps riding astride a big, muscled gelding. “Anything wrong?”

  The feeling of dread that had hovered over her all day settled low in her belly.

  “I’ve been praying about something.” As hard as this was, she had to tell him. He deserved to know. She’d barely slept last night, praying and thinking and trying to decide the best way to break the news.

  “Need any help?” The question was one of the many things she loved about Ken. They shared a common dependence on the Lord. For both of them, God was a friend as well as their Lord and Savior. Talking to Him was as natural as breathing.

  “I need to tell you something. Something important.”

  She followed him through the gate, thinking what a good man he was. He wasn’t hard to look at, either. His hair had gone white a long time ago along with his mustache, but his eyebrows and lashes were a gorgeous contrast in black.

  “I’m listening.”

  A mare plodded forward to greet them. Ken crooked an arm over her back and leaned on the shiny coat. Frannie rubbed the soft muzzle, felt the moist breath from the mare’s velvety nostrils against her skin.

  Every sensation seemed more precious now that she knew she’d someday forget the simple pleasures.

  “I’ve been seeing a doctor.”

  Ken straightened, his arm dropping to his side. She could see the wheels turning, could almost smell his anxiety. “Is it—”

  She shook her head. “Not cancer.”

  A visible quiver of relief ran through him. “Thank the Lord Jesus.”

  “Yes. I’m grateful for that, too, but the news is not very good.” She swallowed, nervous again, her stomach pitching like sea waves. She’d meant to say something funny and make him laugh first, but nothing came to mind. “Remember those times I’ve had difficulty talking? And that night at clogging when I got upset because I’d lost my purse but it was right where I’d left it?”

  “I remember.” His curious concern was edged with wariness. “What’s going on, Fran?”

  “I have early-onset Alzheimer’s, the forgetting disease.”

  Shock registered on his face. Shock and fear.

  A tractor rumbled and rattled in a distant field, stirring up a cloud of dust. A horsefly buzzed the mare. She stomped her foot and the fly buzzed off. Frannie wanted to do the same. Stomp her foot and shoo away the truth.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Not a thing except be my friend.” She’d settle for friendship now, though they’d been more for a long time.

  Ken nodded, looking as if the mare had kicked him in the gut. She knew the feeling.

  “Get that sad look off your face, Ken Markovich.” She swatted his arm, playfully, and forced cheer into her words. “I’ve always been a little crazy, so what’s the big deal, right?”

  He managed a sickly smile. “Right.”

  A pulse quivered in her throat, making her breathless. He was upset, as she’d known he would be, but she also felt him pulling back, retreating from her, as though she’d announced a case of leprosy. The notion ached inside her.

  She straightened her hat, a wide-brimmed bonnet in turquoise with peacock feathers arching from the back. “I’ll need your prayers, you know.”

  “Sure, sure. You got ’em.” He shifted uncomfortably. “This is a hard thing, Frannie. I’m sorry. You’re too good for this.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what to say.”

  Nor did she.

  The two of them had never been at a loss for words, but now they stood with the painful news throbbing between, both lost in thought, and neither able to say what the other needed to hear. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Ken, but she had no words of reassurance and neither did he.

  Frannie waved away an imaginary gnat, sick at heart. Sick in mind. “Well, I guess I should go. Lexi has a ball game tonight.”

  Ken scratched at his mustache. “Can’t miss that.”

  “You coming?”

  “This time of year is really busy, the hay and all.” His eyes slid away from hers. “You know how it is.”

  A beat passed while Fran studied his beloved burnished face. He was afraid. So was she. Maybe he just needed time to think, to process the news.

  Lord, losing my mind is hard. Don’t let me lose my friends, too.

  “Yes,” she said finally. “I know how it is.”

  Heart heavy, Fran walked away.

 
; Hands deep in suds, squeezing Woolite in and out of her favorite sweaters, Carrie heard a car pull up. Wednesday was her day off from the library, and she’d determined to get all her winter things cleaned and organized into clear storage boxes today. Using her shoulder to scratch the inevitable nose itch, she stuck her head between the snow-white Cape Cod swags.

  Frannie popped out of The Tanker and slammed the door, the metallic echo coming right through the walls. Dressed in snug blue capris that turned her hips to anvils and a bluer baseball cap, her short legs pumped across Dan’s manicured lawn like squatty pistons.

  As happened every time she saw her mother since that awful day at the neurologist’s office, Carrie’s stomach nose-dived. The more she tried not to consider what was to come, the worse her imaginings.

  Mother tried to put on a happy face and pretend all was well, an obvious act that angered Carrie. Not that she was angry with her mother, but she was most definitely angry.

  She squinted into the sunlight. What was Mother carrying? Papers?

  The question was answered before she could rinse her hands and reach for a paper towel. Frannie breezed in and slapped a thick stack of eight and a half-by-fourteen documents onto the granite bar. Legal documents.

  “All done,” she announced, jaw unusually set in a face normally as mobile as a child’s.

  Carrie crossed the kitchen and rounded the bar to peer over her mother’s shoulder. “What is all this?”

  “My house is officially in order,” she said, as matter-of-fact as if announcing she’d bought a bunch of broccoli for dinner. “Power of attorney goes to you, of course. Robby lives too far away. Everything is done so you won’t have to make the decisions—right down to my funeral. I want a trumpet to play ‘When the Saints Go Marching In,’ lots of laughs and hallelujahs, a real joy-of-the-Lord send-off. None of that whining, snot-slinging business.”

  “Mother, what are you talking about?” She would love to have blamed the onset of dementia for her mother’s chatter, but Fran Adler had been this way as long as Carrie could remember.

  “While I still have my senses about me, I want to make the decisions. So I did. The papers are here. Put them up somewhere until you need them. You’ll know when. The copies are in my safe-deposit box, which is now in your name as well as mine, along with my house, car, and the little dab of money stuck away in savings.”

  “Oh.” The cold chill of reality seeped deep into Carrie’s bones as she flipped through the stack of papers. Mother had left no stone unturned, including a do-not-resuscitate order. Carrie jerked her hand away from that one. “You didn’t need to do this yet, Mother. For goodness’ sake! You’re still in command of your faculties.”

  “For the most part, yes, but I’m slipping.”

  “You are not. Stop talking about it.” Carrie whirled away from the bar and started opening and shutting cabinet doors with more force than necessary. Throat tight and thick, she fought down the fury that hovered on the edge of her emotions all the time lately. This whole Alzheimer’s thing was wrong. Unfair.

  Life stunk. No matter how hard a person worked and tried, there was always something lurking around the corner to knock the wind out of you.

  Reaching inside a cabinet, she yanked at a Tupperware bowl. A flood of plastic lids tumbled out, splatting all over the floor and counter and even into the sink where one floated atop her pink silk twin set.

  “Carrie Ann, listen to me, honey.” Mother’s voice came from behind. “Quit flitting around the kitchen like a housefly afraid of getting swatted. I’m trying to be sensible while I can. Neither of us can escape the truth.”

  Carrie gripped the countertop with both hands and stared at the diamond pattern of the tiled backsplash. The grout needed cleaning. She bent to the cabinet below and reached for the Tilex. “We don’t have to talk about it all the time.”

  Mother’s hands, strong from a lifetime of busyness, gripped her shoulders and forced her up. “Your grout is fine, Carrie Ann, as spotless as everything in your life except me. And Tilex will not fix what’s happening in my brain. Sit down. Every time I try to bring up the subject, you start cleaning something. Today we’re talking. No cleaning. Do you have any Mountain Dew?”

  “No.” Carrie slumped into one of the Queen Anne side chairs.

  “No Mountain Dew?” Mother huffed as if insulted. “Iced tea then.”

  She retrieved the filled pitcher Carrie kept available in case of company, poured two glasses, plunked them down and then sat, too.

  “I’ve known something was wrong for a long time,” Mother said without preamble. “Now the problem has a name. We can plan for it and deal with it.”

  Carrie stared into the amber-colored tea and absently slid a finger and thumb up and down the damp glass. She didn’t want to hear this, but she was too old to run away and hide in the back of the closet to avoid facing unpleasantness. Hiding hadn’t worked for her at ten, and it wouldn’t work at forty-two.

  “You never said a word.”

  “What could I say? I hoped I was experiencing normal forgetfulness. Where were my keys, my reading glasses, that kind of thing. Then I started getting confused at work, mixing up files and phone numbers. One day I was talking on the telephone and got so confused, I hung up. I knew what I wanted to say but the words wouldn’t come out right.”

  “I didn’t know,” Carrie said past the ache in her throat. Her mother had been in trouble and she hadn’t even noticed. “I thought you were being your usual goofy yourself.”

  Frannie’s eyes widened in mirth. “It helps being crazy in advance.”

  “Don’t, Mother. Please don’t.”

  Fannie patted the back of her hand. “Okay, if it makes you feel better. Laughter’s good medicine, though. That’s Bible. Wise old King Solomon himself said that. Anyway, back to this forgetting thing. I thought I was overdoing, tired, whatever, so I tried getting more sleep, taking vitamins. I even started taking cod-liver oil because it’s supposed to be brain food. Can you imagine?”

  Carrie squinched her eyes and shuddered. “Yuck.”

  “Yuck is right, and the nasty stuff didn’t do anything but make the cat want to lick my face.” Frannie grinned, but the emotion didn’t reach her eyes. Her lipstick had faded with the day, leaving the rim of red liner.

  Carrie had a horrible thought that her mother would be like this. All the color and vibrance fading away with only the outer shadow left behind.

  She took a sip of the cold drink in an effort to wash down the dark taste of sorrow. Mother may be putting on a happy face but Carrie couldn’t.

  The ice maker rumbled and the clock on the stove ticked once. Her mother took a deep breath, held it, held it, held it and then slowly exhaled.

  “I was in the hardware store yesterday and not only forgot why I was there but what kind of store it was. I kept looking around at tools and light fixtures and wondering if someone was having a garage sale.” She made a self-deprecating sound through her nose. “Isn’t that silly? It’s like this cloud comes over my brain, then after a while moves on, letting the sun back in. It’s the weirdest feeling.” Her voice dwindled to a stop like a car slowly running out of gas.

  “Oh, Mother.” Carrie leaned her forehead onto the heel of her hand. Why God? Why are You doing this?

  Frannie sipped at her tea and grimaced. “Unsweetened. You should have warned me.” She plunked the glass down and swiped at the condensation ring on the table. “You know what I discovered in my cupboards last night?”

  Carrie shook her head. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “Twenty-two cans of chicken noodle soup.” Frannie slapped her thigh and cackled. “What do you think? Maybe I was expecting a flu epidemic?”

  How could Mother laugh when Carrie wanted to run screaming from the kitchen. “How did that happen?”

  “I don’t know. Well, I do, actually. When I would go shopping, I’d wonder if I was out of soup, but I wasn’t sure so I bought more. Guess what else I stocked up on?
”

  “Do I dare ask?”

  “Eight bottles of ketchup, nine giant jars of dill pickles and—get this—sixteen cans of creamed corn.”

  “You don’t even like creamed corn.”

  “No, but Lexi does. That child can eat creamed corn like most kids eat peanut butter and jelly. I guess I didn’t want to disappoint her by running out.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Carrie said again, voice as heavy as her heart.

  “I know, honey,” Frannie said, patting her shoulder. “At least I know today. I may forget in ten minutes but I know right now. Someday I’ll be able to hide my own Easter eggs.”

  “Stop it! Stop joking about this. There is nothing funny about Alzheimer’s disease.”

  Expression mild, Frannie answered, “No, there isn’t, but this is my new reality. I can face it with a smile or a frown, but I have to face it. The Lord has always taken care of us, Carrie. We have to trust that He’s in this, too.”

  Yeah, well, if He was in this thing, Carrie would like to know where. How could Mother go on blithely trusting a God who was letting her down in the worst possible way? If He cared at all, He could stop this awful thing from happening to a woman who had served Him all the days of her life. If He cared.

  Carrie shoved away from the table and stalked to the kitchen sink to yank the drain plug.

  Frannie followed her, heeled slides tip-tapping on the tile. “I told Dr. Morrison to put me on the list for trials and drugs tests and anything experimental.”

  “Oh, like that’s going to cheer me up.”

  Swishing the pink sweaters up and down while running a blast of cold rinse water, Carrie had a vision of her mother with probes and electrodes poking from her head like Frankenstein. Knowing Frannie, she’d probably wear the conglomeration like a hat and march down the street in the Independence Day Parade.

  “If I have to have this silly forgetting disease, I want somebody to get some good out of it. If not me, someone else. God can take this bad thing and bring something good from it the way He always does. Besides, I like the idea of being a pioneer,” she said, cheerfully. “Just think, Carrie, if they could find a cure through me. Wouldn’t that be magnificent?”