The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  “Call Sara!” Carrie wailed. “She’ll know what to do.”

  “She’s not home,” Doug shouted. “She said she was going out with what’s-his-name, the guy with the funny name.”

  “Reuben,” Abby said. She was dialing her cell phone. “Sara!” she cried a minute later. “Where are you? We need you! Mom’s fainted or something, she just fell forward, she—yes, the nurse is here, but please, Sara, please come! Oh, okay.” She held out the phone to the nurse. “She wants to talk to you.”

  The doctor came in, and Abby and Carrie and Doug retreated to a corner, no one paying attention to them. They held hands, Doug buried his face in Abby’s sweater, and none of them spoke. The bright room Sara had filled with reds and purples and golds had darkened…like a cave, Carrie thought, her imagination lifting her above the scene she could not bear to face; a cave with ghosts and dragons and a brave bird, a huge bird, with a red crest and gold wings, injured but still able to fly above them all and find a way out.

  By the time Sara arrived, half an hour later, Tess was in bed. The doctor had left. “She’s sleeping,” the nurse said, “and she’ll probably sleep through the night. It was an ischemic stroke, actually not uncommon in people who have had strokes before, and not as serious as it might have been. She’ll probably be fine when she wakes up, well, that is, she’ll be about the same as before. This wasn’t life threatening, you know, really, it wasn’t.”

  When the nurse had left, Sara looked at the three in the corner. “What happened?”

  “I did it,” Doug said. He looked at his feet and began to cry. “I was telling about Abby’s play and how she made people cry and I said…I said that… Mack didn’t. Didn’t cry.” He was sobbing in loud gulps. “I didn’t mean to, Sara! I was being really careful, but then… it just came out, sort of, you know, slid out, and Mom was pointing at me and I didn’t know what to do, so I said he was here. You know, he came back. And then she…she… fell over… Sara, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to! Do you think I killed her?”

  Sara put her arm around him. “Of course you didn’t. You heard what the nurse said.”

  “Yeah, but she could be wrong. Or Mom could be worse than ever. And she’ll hate me for making her worse, and everything is all my fault, and I didn’t mean to!”

  Sara held him close. “You didn’t kill her, sweetheart, and I’m sure you didn’t make her worse, and she would never hate you. You made a mistake, but—”

  “It wasn’t Doug’s fault,” Carrie said loudly. “He was doing all the right things; he brought Mom his bear that he just made and we were all talking and laughing and she was really happy, and she was wearing the new shawl Abby brought, and everything was fine.”

  “I know,” said Sara. “And it was bound to happen, it was silly to think we could keep it a secret forever. As long as we tell Mom about all the things we do, all the things she wants to know, it’s impossible to keep somebody who lives in our house a secret.”

  “It was so awful,” Carrie said. “I hated it, her head fell down and her thumb was twitching and it was scary and awful, and you weren’t here…Where were you, anyway? I mean …where were you?”

  “She was out,” Abby said. “She has a right to do that.”

  “Not when we need her,” Carrie shot back. “She should be close, in case we need her.”

  Right, Sara thought ruefully. And if “close” isn’t good enough, perhaps I should stay home all the time, in case someone decides I’m needed. That definitely would be best, as far as my family is concerned: stay put, where I’m always available.

  She turned to her mother’s bed, angry and guilty and hungry: she and Reuben had been planning to have dinner after visiting the River North art galleries. Leaning down, she listened to Tess’s breathing and kissed her on the forehead, then moved away from the bed and picked up her shoulder bag. “Let’s go home,” she said abruptly.

  “Shouldn’t we stay here?” Carrie asked. “I mean, if Mom wakes up she’ll wonder where we are.”

  “The nurse said she’d probably sleep all night, and even then they don’t think she’ll remember much of what happened. Come on, Doug, stop sniffling; it happened and it’s over, and it would have happened eventually, so let’s try to figure out how we’re going to deal with this from now on.”

  “We don’t have to, if she forgets about Mack,” said Doug hopefully.

  “I’m not sure she’d forget that. Anyway, it’s bound to slip out again, and we have to be prepared to deal with it. Come on, I’m hungry, and I left dinner at home for you, so now we’ll all share it.”

  They sat at the round table in the breakfast room, their voices subdued. “We have to be honest,” Sara said. “We can’t lie; she’d hate that worse than anything.”

  “But Doug said Mack was great.” Carrie groaned. “How do we get around that?”

  “He is great,” protested Doug. “Mom would like that, wouldn’t she? I mean, he’s her son.”

  “But he treated us like shit,” Abby said despondently. She shot a look at Sara. “I’m sorry, I mean, he treated us abominably. He walked out just when we needed a man around here!”

  “I was here,” Doug said.

  “You were six years old. What could you do?”

  “Nothing. I can’t do anything now, either. I’m no good for anything.”

  “You’re good as part of this family,” Sara said. “You’re important to us, and we love you.”

  “And stop feeling sorry for yourself,” said Abby. “Just because you messed up with Mother—”

  “Abby,” said Sara firmly.

  “Sorry.”

  “But Abby’s right,” Carrie said reasonably. “I mean, he turned his back and walked out and so now he’s walked in and it’s okay, I mean, you know, it’s okay that he’s here, but it’s kind of hard to tell Mom that everything’s fine when all she remembers is that it wasn’t fine and she had her stroke because of him.”

  “We’re not sure exactly what caused her stroke,” said Sara.

  “We have to just… talk about him,” Abby said. “Like he’s just another thing we do. I mean, we talk about school and my play and Carrie’s stories and everything and… Mack.”

  “Like it’s normal?” Carrie asked.

  They all looked at Sara. She nodded. “That’s really the only way. And I guess it is normal, at least as long as he’s here. But let me talk to her first, okay?”

  “Yes,” Abby breathed in relief. “Thank you, Sara.”

  The telephone rang and she ran to answer it. “It’s Sean,” she said to Sara. “Can I go out with him for a while? He wants to walk to Webster Place for dessert.”

  “It’s been quite a day—” Sara began, but then, as Abby’s bright eyes began to cloud, she said, “Have you finished all your homework?”

  “Yes! Can I go?”

  “Fine. Not too late, though.”

  “Ten o’clock?”

  “Fine, but he has to walk you all the way home.”

  Carrie said to Sara, “When can I go on a date?”

  “Has someone asked you?”

  “No, but I just want to have some idea of the parameters.”

  Sara laughed. “Fifteen, almost sixteen seems a good time to start.”

  “Like Abby.”

  “Like Abby.”

  “Back in a minute,” Abby said, running upstairs.

  When she came back, Doug said, “That was fifteen minutes.”

  The doorbell rang, and Abby made a face at Doug. “No time to argue with somebody who can’t tell time. Bye, everybody. Love you.”

  They seemed to have forgotten their awful afternoon, Sara thought. How wonderful to have that kind of memory.

  The house was quiet, Sara reading in the library, Doug and Carrie in their rooms, when Mack came in. He went straight upstairs and was heading for the stairway to the third floor when he stopped at Doug’s open door. “Hey, you’re getting ready for bed? Is it that late? Sorry, bro, I meant to have a quiet evening at
home, but things got busy.” He sat on the edge of Doug’s bed. “What were you up to today? You get in any trouble I’d enjoy hearing about?”

  “I got into trouble,” Doug said uncomfortably, “but I don’t know if I should tell you about it.”

  “Oh, come on, you think I’m not old enough to hear it? I’m old enough. Tough enough, too. Whatever it is, if you could handle it, I can, so, come on, spit it out.”

  “Well, it was just…I mean, you know, I didn’t mean to…I just…sort of accidentally told Mom that you’re back. And we weren’t supposed to tell her.”

  After a moment, Mack said, “Ever?”

  “Uh, I don’t know,” Doug said. “I mean …I don’t know.”

  “Well, sure you’d tell her. After all, she’s my mom, too, and she’d want to know. She’d be mad if you didn’t tell her. So you did the best thing, you oughta congratulate yourself.” There was a pause. “She want to see me?”

  Doug looked wildly at his door, willing someone, anyone, to come to his rescue. When no one appeared, he mumbled something.

  “What?” Mack asked. “Didn’t catch that.”

  “She got sick,” Doug said loudly. “Really sick. So I don’t know if she wants to or not.”

  “Sick, how?”

  “Uh, she fainted, sort of.”

  “Passed out?”

  “I don’t know. I guess so. They said it was some kind of stroke, I forget what kind. The doctor and the nurse put her to bed and said she’d sleep all night, so we came home.”

  “She passed out when she heard I’d come back.”

  Doug said nothing.

  “Shit,” Mack muttered.

  Doug heard the telephone ring, and Carrie answer it in the hallway just outside her door, and then her voice, calling down the stairs to Sara.

  “The boyfriend,” Mack said, perking up and grinning at Doug. “Romance is in the air. Sounds like the four of us are about to have some time together again. That’ll give me a chance to tell you about the time I was on a ferry that sank.”

  “It sank?”

  “Right out from under us. Three hundred people, two hundred and ninety drowned. Real dramatic stuff.”

  “Were you in a lifeboat?”

  “Nope; I swam.”

  “How far?”

  “A long long way, but it’s too late to tell a story with great dramatic twists and turns tonight. Next time big sister goes out.”

  “You could tell it to all of us.”

  “I sometimes think sweet Sara doesn’t always believe my stories. You ever think that?”

  “Oh. Well, I guess, but, you know, she just doesn’t have all the facts.”

  “You don’t, either, and you believe me.”

  “I guess I want to more,” said Doug shrewdly.

  “Well, fuck it, you do amaze me, little brother; you are one sharp guy.” He raised his hand, palm out, and they gave a high five. “See you tomorrow, bro.” He waved over his shoulder as he walked out. “Sleep tight.”

  In the hallway, he hesitated, then went to the top of the stairs. No sound came from below. He walked halfway down, listened again, then walked the rest of the way, and moved quietly toward the library. He heard Sara’s voice, low and level. “There isn’t much I can do, Mrs. Corcoran. You need friends; you’re too isolated. The quickest way for you to meet people is to get involved in some organizations. I’ll be glad to introduce you to the presidents of some boards of directors; you’ll be surrounded by people… No, I can’t do that. I have a family; I can’t spend my evenings with you… No, certainly not; do you know what time it is?”

  There was a long silence. Mack frowned, wondering what the Pussy bitch was going on about this time. And why had she come to the house this morning? Weird thing to do.

  “I’m sorry,” Sara said at last, “that’s the best I can do. I’ll call the board presidents tomorrow, and if you come to my office at about ten, I’ll give you a list of those who want to talk to you about joining them. And, please, listen to me: do something on your own. Go out and explore the city, get to know it. You’ll feel better; you might even begin to enjoy yourself. It’s destructive to close yourself off and brood about everything you don’t like and can’t control. Good night, Mrs. Corcoran, I’ll see you tomorrow, about ten.”

  “How do you know that?” Mack asked from the door of the library.

  Startled, Sara stared at him.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I was on my way to the kitchen to make some coffee. Can I make you some coffee?”

  “You can stop sneaking around this house,” Sara snapped. “Haven’t you anything better to do than spy on me?”

  “Hey, sis, not fair! Why would I spy on you? I was just walking by, and I heard you say it’s destructive to close yourself off and brood about things you don’t like. True, absolutely true, I know from personal experience, and I thought maybe, if you still feel that way, I could help.”

  “I’ve already told you what you can do. More than once.”

  “And I’m doing it. I’ve got a job. I was going to surprise you when it was a done deal, but this is almost as good. Are you proud of me?”

  Sara walked around the couch to the bookshelves that lined the wall, putting the couch between them. “Should I be?”

  “Sis, it’s a job. I might make a lot of money, you’d be glad, then, wouldn’t you? And proud of me?”

  “You ‘might’ make money. Which means, if you do get this job, whatever it is, you won’t have a salary.”

  “Well, no, not if you mean the every-other-week paycheck most people are slaves to. But this will be big, sis, I promise. I worked for this guy in New York and he’s big, his ideas are big, his company is big. He likes me and I like him, and this is going to be fine. I promise, sis. After all, I owe you big-time, I know it, and I’m so glad to be here, you know, part of a family, my family, I’ll do anything I can to make life easier for all of you.”

  Sara contemplated him. “Who is it? The big man you’re going to work for.”

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet, anyway. Not till it’s a done deal. But if you’re worried about his being real, you know, having a real company, all that, you can stop worrying; he’s everything he says he is. More.”

  Sara studied the shelves and stepped on a small ladder to reach a book on the top shelf. “I’m going upstairs. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sis, wait. Please. I’m asking you. Don’t go yet. Can’t I make you a cup of coffee? I like late-night coffee; it never keeps me awake; it’s relaxing after a hard day. Let me do this for you; I want to talk to you for a while; we’ve been so busy we haven’t talked much lately. Please, Sara, coffee?”

  Her shoulders sagged, but she nodded. “For a few minutes. I’m tired and I have a long day tomorrow.”

  “Right. I know.” He walked into the kitchen ahead of her, to the brick fireplace on the far wall, and lit paper and kindling while Sara sat in one of the two armchairs flanking it. She watched him as he moved about the kitchen with only the firelight to guide him, taking the jar of coffee beans from the cabinet beside the sink, going from task to task with casual familiarity, as if he had always lived there. As he worked, he chatted about Abby’s play and Doug’s latest carving and Carrie’s short story that she was submitting to the school magazine. He talked proudly, and intimately. My family.

  Sara watched him, the warmth of the fire curling about her, its half-light turning the kitchen’s sage green and ivory to a dreamy wash, like a desert at dusk, close, warm, silent, the only sounds domestic ones. Languid from fatigue, she let herself sink into the depths of the armchair and the spell of the late hour, for the first time soothed by Mack’s familiarity with the room, the house, Abby and Carrie and Doug: their life, the life he said he wanted to share.

  “Now,” he said. He set the pot and two espresso cups on the low table between them, and took the other armchair. Fleetingly, Sara thought how strange it was that they were there, exactly as her pare
nts had been, and later, after her father died, her mother and Mack’s father, sitting here every morning, drinking coffee, reading newspapers. We’re running the house, she thought, as our parents used to. It was a pleasant thought: sharing the burdens of the family.

  Mack filled the cups. “Not the Italian machine I’d rather use,” he said, “but that’s at the top of my list of things to buy as soon as I can.”

  They sat in companionable silence, drinking coffee and nibbling almond biscotti Mack had found in the pantry. “Nice,” Mack murmured. “I like nighttime silence. Better than daytime. Deeper.”

  He was wearing dress pants and a crisply ironed shirt open at the neck. His socks matched his pants; his shoes were polished. His face had lost its gaunt pallor, his hair was combed.

  “You look very handsome,” Sara said.

  He grinned. “High praise from a sister; thanks. I try to keep up with the general atmosphere of the house and the Elliott/Hayden family. You’re really gorgeous, Sara, and you’re terrific, the way you dress. Abby ought to take a few lessons.”

  “Abby is fifteen and has to dress the way her friends dress; it’s not an age when young people want to stand out from the crowd. I’m not gorgeous, Mack, and you know it. Why do you keep saying it?”

  “Do I ‘keep saying it’? I guess I must mean it. You gonna argue with how I feel about my sister? I’ll tell you: I think my sister is gorgeous. Beautiful. Stunning. All of the above. And also too tired. My sister works too hard.” He paused, but Sara was silent. “And I plan to make her life easier. Take some of the burdens off her shapely shoulders. Pull my weight around the house. Look, Sara”—he leaned forward and refilled her cup—“I know you don’t want the kids running around, coming home to an empty house, all that stuff—they think they’re old enough, but you don’t feel comfortable with that, and I can’t say I blame you—but you’ve got this new guy and your own life to live, so why not let me help? I can be here most evenings and weekends, so you can make plans without worrying. That would lighten the burdens, right?”

  “All of a sudden you’re going to be here evenings and weekends?”

  “That’s the plan. I told you: I’m a working guy now; I don’t have to see people at night to get things settled. Things are settled; everything’s in its proper place. A place for everything and everything in its—”