Straight Up

by Lisa Samson

  “It’s easier to drink.”

  “And to forget. This coma is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to her if you could ask her. It’s like being passed out drunk without the moral stigma.”

  Okay, that was harsh. But who am I to judge?

  So if God’s so perfect and all, is it okay to hold a grudge against Him? Do we sometimes need to forgive God? Is that okay?

  I’m looking for the lightning bolt even thinking this as I now lie in my bed and listen to the sounds of a city falling asleep. It’s late. So I think my cell-phone story will have to wait until tomorrow.

  Sweet sleep. Sweet dreams.

  Georgia

  I don’t know. Doctors can be wrong, right? Can an MRI machine have a bad day? I’m perfectly rational here in the pink. How can they say there’s all this brain damage when I can think more clearly than ever before?

  No visit yet from Grandmom, and I have some questions.

  Sean came again, with Fairly. UG’s been here all day. He shuffles papers and makes quick calls on his cell phone. I didn’t realize how involved he is in other people’s lives. How can he be around so much heartache and still have hope? I thought his involvement was all big stuff, fights against corporations, “the man,” and the whole hippie, social-justice bit. But he advocates for individuals and families too.

  I don’t know where all that energy comes from. Maybe the lamb stew. Or the cigarettes, and no wonder he smokes. He deals with so much. He should be the alcoholic, not me.

  So the doctor walks in. Stan Louis. He sounds dark-haired with dark eyes. Don’t ask me why. And he tells them about the brain damage. Apparently, I’m what people used to call a vegetable, which always brought to mind this picture of an oversized piece of broccoli or a giant carrot in a hospital bed.

  Sean starts tearing up, I think, because Fairly seems to be trying her best to comfort him and he’s sniffling like a kid who’s eating soup. “Doctors can be wrong, Sean. Maybe the machine wasn’t working like it should.” And she just about has him convinced, me too actually, when her phone rings about as loudly as a 5:00 a.m. alarm clock that was set at 2:00 a.m.

  It plays the theme to Mission: Impossible, and Sean starts weeping again, this time like a mother by the grave of her only son.

  Fairly didn’t know what to do so she took the call. From that vacuous boyfriend of hers. Brendon or Brady or something. Thank goodness she took it out to the hallway, her final words in my hearing: “… putting things away for Georgia.”

  Poor Sean.

  Oh, good night. I hope Fairly doesn’t find the letters!

  I’ve got to wake up. I’ve got to wake up. I’ve got to wake up!

  Come on. Come on!!!

  Nothing. Nothing but pink.

  Pink, pink, pink, pink, pink.

  Mary-Margaret

  She already had enough children to know what eight-year-olds do. Her girls always loved dress-ups. Good thing she saved all those prom dresses and bridesmaid dresses. Would Miranda love dress-ups?

  In the middle of the night she tiptoes down to the toy room and gathers the old gowns onto her lap. The lime-green chiffon was her favorite. Then the yellow taffeta with the silk daisies. Yikes, but the attendants’ headpieces in that wedding reminded her of old-lady hats—hers went in the trash the night after the reception! She smiles, remembering her own horrid taste at twenty-one and the teal dresses she chose with the huge bustle-bows on the back, a single peach rose, silk at that, held in her friends’ grasps. Mary-Margaret’s parents didn’t have much money, either.

  Sometimes she dreams of what it would have been like if she had taken a shine to Grant Maugham, the rich boy in the sixth grade who made no bones about his affection for her. Sometimes she wonders what he’s doing now. But not for long. Her husband loves her. Of that she’s positive, and there aren’t many things she’s positive about anymore. Why throw the one sure thing away?

  Her feet go numb as she sits on them, but she doesn’t mind too much. Numb is good at a time like this. She pictures her little girl running around somewhere in some other woman’s dress-ups. And she hopes she’s happy.

  Dear God, please let her be happy.

  She figured she’d know something, feel a strange plucking on her heart if something was wrong, or a lovely warmth if all was well. But she never feels anything like that. She just wonders and can picture only a shadowy shape penciling math facts at school, or watching cartoons on Saturday morning, the sugary cereal she spoons from a bowl in her lap disappearing into nothing.

  She opens the lid of the storage box and folds the dresses, laying them atop one another just so.

  Georgia

  I wish I could see my day nurse. I think this is my second full day in the hospital, which means it’s been three days since I went into this coma.

  It’s nice in here, though.

  And Fairly did find the letters.

  It’s really nice in here. Nicer than anywhere I’ve ever been.

  Sean deserves better than me. Perhaps that’s why I fooled everybody, even myself.

  Outside of me, Uncle Geoffrey talks with the nurse. Apparently only the machines are keeping me alive at this point, which is just totally weirding me out in here. I feel a little lonely, so I like it when she walks in and talks to UG. Her voice, soft and sweet, somehow changes his voice into something unsure and a little wavy when they converse. I may not be able to see things, but I feel things more fully. He’s interested.

  I’ll bet she’s beautiful.

  “So will you be here tomorrow, Mr. Pfeiffer?”

  “Yes. I can’t leave her. I’ve cancelled my trips indefinitely.”

  Wow.

  “You two are close then?”

  He pauses. “Well, as close as we can be. Georgia has intimacy issues.”

  What?!

  “Her mother died when she was young. I don’t think she’s ever trusted anything again. Except the bottle, you see.”

  “Unfortunately, the bottle always delivers,” she says.

  Oh, good night!

  And she is so right.

  Hello, Georgia, sweetheart!

  Grandmom? You’re back?

  Of course. You don’t think I’d leave you alone in here forever, do you?

  That’s what I don’t get. Why do I have to be subject to time here? Surely this place is beyond time.

  You’re still alive, sweetie-pie.

  Oh, so I’m sweetie-pie now.

  She laughs. I know. I wasn’t good at affectionate ways back then. I figured I’d give it a try now.

  Works for me.

  So, Georgia, are you figuring out some things, then?

  Maybe.

  I thought that last conversation Geoffrey had with Robin was rather enlightening.

  Is that the nurse’s name? Robin?

  Yes. They’re right, you know. About your addiction. The bottle is something you can count on.

  Well, yeah. Like you can count on taxes in April, or a tetanus shot when you step on a rusty nail. I’d hardly say it was something that was a lovely experience. It’s hellish, if you want to know the truth.

  Oh, I believe you! No need to go there! She suppresses a chuckle. Pun intended.

  Oh goodness. Otherworld humor apparently can be as corny in here as it is out there. Then again, Grandmom always did like those crazy old comedians like Henny Youngman and Groucho Marx.

  We all hide behind something, Grandmom. I may hide behind the bottle, but you hid behind your pride.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  Maybe if you had been comfortable with who you were, retarded mother and all (and by the way, the word retarded is a no-no these days), maybe I’d have been comfortable with who I was. I was made to play jazz, wasn’t I? I’m sure you must realize that I was made to do that.

  The blue kitchen chair appears. Well, yes, I do.

  Didn’t you realize then?

  She sits. I suspected it. But I was never one to interfere.

 
Seems to me people could have done a whole lot more interfering after my mother died. I never felt like drinking when I was playing jazz.

  Then why didn’t you do it more?

  I thought playing sacred music would be more healing.

  It’s only healing to those it’s supposed to heal. It reminds me of the story in the book of Acts, when the sheet with unclean animals comes down and the Lord says, “Rise, Peter; kill, and eat.” Of course, they’re unclean, not what was viewed as acceptable in the religious community.

  Yeah, got it, Grandmom. Should’ve heard that sooner, don’t you think?

  Grandmom sighs. If it makes you feel any better, I got it wrong too.

  How so?

  I was supposed to be a scientist.

  What? That’s odd.

  Why? I was always doing experiments as a kid. You should have seen the refrigerator at the orphanage.

  Why didn’t you then, Grandmom?

  No money to go to school. I met your grandfather. It was the way things were back then. So many people miss their callings. You shouldn’t feel too bad about it.

  Yeah, right. But I only had one life.

  Who doesn’t, Georgia? Somehow though, God takes that all into account. He really is very merciful.

  But I had a job to do and I failed.

  Other people will pick up the slack. He’s very resourceful. He’ll use somebody more obedient to paint the larger picture if we don’t do it. God wants us to live fulfilled and joyful. He knows how difficult the human existence can be. But our joy depends on doing what it is He’s made us to do. It’s never just joy for joy’s sake. Always keep in mind the bigger picture.

  That’s nice to know. Now. Why couldn’t anybody have told me that back outside?

  Grandmom shrugs again. The only thing I can tell you is that God gave you plenty of clues.

  Really?

  Are you really that thick? A jazz pianist mother? The ability to play yourself? Being surrounded by musicians? Playing since you were three? Your obsession with that club?

  I was drawn to that place for the booze.

  Really? You can get booze anywhere, Georgia.

  Oh, wow. He could have been more obvious about it, Grandmom, that’s all.

  What more could He have done?

  Why don’t you just take your comfy little chair and let me think on that one, Grandmom?

  Don’t be angry with me, Georgia. I didn’t do anything! Well, other than not say anything but—anyway, one thing I’ve learned is that the clues begin in childhood.

  I feel miffed. This is just great, Grandmom. What good does it do me now?

  I have no idea.

  I’m not going back, am I?

  I don’t know the answer to that question either. She stands. Well, I’m off.

  Will I see you again?

  Who knows?

  I’m getting a little sick of pink.

  Fairly

  Sean and I visited Georgia earlier this evening. I picked him up at Sister Pearl’s Rest Home. Make that Sister Pearl’s Rust Home. Thank goodness he met me outside that ghastly, giant roach of a place. Take those corroded awnings down for heaven’s sake, dear Pearl.

  We walked into the hospital room and gave Uncle G leave to go get some supper. Peg the almost prostitute sat there too.

  “Hey, Fairly! This is so awful, isn’t it? I’m sorry for your whole family.”

  “Well, you’re looking at all of us right here.”

  She laid a hand on Uncle G’s shoulder. “Is that right?”

  He zipped up his backpack. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Well, no wonder you like having us all around.”

  I said, “That sure is the truth.”

  I don’t know why he feels the need to stay by Georgia’s side all day. It’s not like she realizes he’s there or anything. Her brain has turned to mush by all medical standards, which means her fingers are useless. I realize her choices brought her to this place, but the thought that music will never come from her again makes me want to weep.

  Sean squeezed Uncle G’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go on home, man? You look terrible.”

  And he was right. Dark, jumbo-marker rings outlined my uncle’s eyes. And I think he forgot to shower because his hair shone a bit too much in that anemic fluorescent lighting.

  “I am tired.” He stood to his feet, bent over, and tightened the straps on his walking sandals. “Did you drive, Peg?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think you’d be up to the long walk home.”

  “Thanks.”

  And when they walked out of the room, she led him through the door, placing her hand on his arm.

  Sean set the little bouquet of flowers he bought in the gift shop on Georgia’s tray table. Then he sat down on the opposite side of the bed from me and held her hand.

  “She feels so dry, doesn’t she?”

  I reached for my purse. “Here. Why don’t you rub in a little hand cream?”

  I tossed him a tube of cucumber-scented lotion.

  He rubbed it into her hands so lovingly, and I sat and wondered how it is we humans can be so wasteful of our lives. We have so much time, don’t we? Minutes full of seconds, hours full of minutes, days full of hours. And the years, oh, all the years.

  I’ve lived twenty-eight of those years. And while I’ve been trying to forget the fact that I’m young and untried, I really, for the first time ever, do believe I’m graciously conscious of the fact that I have my whole life in front of me.

  “Sean? How did you know you were supposed to be a singer?”

  “Because I can sing. I always could.”

  “Did you sing much at the monastery?”

  “All the time. Music was my chief responsibility.”

  “And now that you’re out? What now?”

  He set down Georgia’s left hand, reached across the bed for her right, and began massaging in the moisturizer. The smell reminded me of summer days when I’d run in from playing out in the neighborhood and Mom would be setting out dinner. She always cut up a cucumber in the summer.

  “I wouldn’t mind being a music teacher somewhere. But I don’t know. I guess I’ll start applying around to schools. In the meantime, I’ve got to find something to support myself.”

  “Hey, listen. Why don’t you move into Georgia’s place? The rent’s paid through the end of next month, and it’ll buy you some extra time.”

  “I don’t know, Fair—”

  “Oh, come now. She’s not getting out of here anytime soon. Why should it sit there empty? And Sister Pearl’s should be in a Stephen King novel. Be practical, Sean.”

  He cocked his head. Then he laughed. “Remember who it is you’re talking to. I’ve never won any awards for practicality.”

  I reached over and grabbed his hand. “I’m glad you’re back. We need you to round out this family. I’m sorry she kept you from us for so long.”

  He squeezed my hand, smiled, then continued ministering to Georgia. “Don’t be so hard on her, Fairly. I made my mistakes too. I’m not guilt-free. I didn’t realize that your cousin lives in a world of pain. I was too self-centered, I guess, and she never figured out how to break through on her own. You’re a different type of person, though. You’re strong.”

  Oh yeah, right. Me. Miss Cosmo. Pass the barbells.

  I feel like I’m in the middle of something important. But something important for everybody else. Georgia languishes in a coma. Uncle G, surely devoted to Georgia, seems to be mellowing into a new purpose, though I couldn’t tell you what that is. And Sean’s back, looking for his marriage.

  So what am I doing here?

  Braden called, trying to get back together, and oh my. I thought I would just scream, he annoyed me so much.

  I’m going to bed.

  Alone.

  And I’m absolutely fine with that. I never enjoyed nighttime activities with him anyway. Sometimes I think nuns have nailed the secret to life.

  I called my real estate agent in New Y
ork and told him to put the apartment up on the market, and I wrote a check for the down payment on the little house on Jefferson Street. The current occupants won’t be moving out until the end of September, but that’s all right. It gives me time to scout out the best contractors around here. And dream. Oh, that place will be just delicious someday.

  After breakfast at Della-Faye’s, three-bean-salad Gracen called my cell phone.

  “Can you get to the hospital right away?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Your cousin went into cardiac arrest.”

  One, two, buckle my shoe.

  “Where’s Uncle Geoffrey?”

  “In the room.”

  So I left right away, slamming by Sean’s to pick him up.

  Three, four, shut the door.

  And we made it out to Saint Joe’s in seven minutes.

  Five, six, pick up sticks.

  Uncle Geoffrey sat on the floor outside the room, slumped against the wall.

  Seven, eight, lay them straight.

  “Uncle G!”

  He looked up. “She’s back. They got it started up again.”

  Nine, ten…

  Sean exhaled with force. “Oh my. Oh my.”

  Uncle G pointed to Sean. “You might think about calling your folks, Sean. You probably could use the support.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Are they out of the country?”

  “No, they’re dead too.”

  Good heavens. This is all there is? Really? Uncle Geoffrey, Sean, Georgia, and me?

  “Is there anybody God doesn’t take aim at?” I asked, feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach.

  And both Sean and Uncle Geoffrey looked at me with sad, grown-man eyes.

  Georgia

  Good night, that was a lot of fuss. I’m fine.

  You really aren’t, Georgia baby.

  Mom?

  Even undefined in the pink haze, I’d know that outline. And that voice. Husky and deep.

  Yep, baby doll! It’s me! I was so happy I was called to come. But oh, honey, you’re in a coma.

  Oh, Mom. Mom. Oh, Mom.

  I thought of all the times I looked at blank sheets of paper and willed some cosmic force to draw her as she’d have looked at the age she would have been. Or sketch her and me together at all those places and events we should have been together. It could have been in charcoal, graphite, Crayolas, I wouldn’t have cared. Sometimes I’d look in the mirror, praying that somehow it would turn into a magic mirror, and I’d chant, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, show me my mother—”