“It’s Sunday, how about Apple Hill? I thought you might like to head up to the foothills and pick out a couple of fresh apple pies to freeze. Thanksgiving’s just two weeks away and I’m going to fix my famous turkey surprise for us. So go get ready.”
“Apple Hill!” I clap my hands. “I haven’t been there in years. That sounds lovely. Oh, my mouth can already taste a slice of their famous pie. I’ll need to feed the cat first, though.” Bryan looks puzzled; I decide his expression is because he’s an attorney. Puzzlement is what he does for a living.
“When did you get a cat, Mom?”
“I’ve always had a cat. He was missing for a long while, but he found his way home just yesterday… I think it was yesterday, anyway. Poor thing was all wet and hungry. He’s probably hiding because he doesn’t know you.”
Bryan’s face is a sudden mixture of moving eyebrows and mouth, dimensions that loom and lurk and manifest into subtle tics that only a vigilant mother would notice. Despite all this obvious facial chatter, Bryan is unreasonably handsome this morning. I start to tell him about his handsomeness, but I’m interrupted by the sauntering feet of John Milton the Cat.
“There he is,” I say. “He’s come out to say hello.”
“Oh my God, Mother. I thought you were just making stories.”
“Making stories? I’m surprised at you, Bryan. Don’t you remember John Milton?”
“John Milton, the dead poet? I thought we were talking about cats.”
I pick up the cat. “Dear, this is John Milton.” I rub the cat under his chin. “He’s come home after all this time… just blew in on the wind.” I coo into the cat’s small, wide-eyed face. “Oh, and he was such a mess, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, God,” Bryan says. “Just go get ready.”
“Ready? What am I getting ready for?”
“For Apple Hill.”
“Apple Hill? Oh goody… I love Apple Hill. I haven’t been there in years. I’ll just go freshen up a little,” I say, plopping the cat into Bryan’s startled arms. “A woman never knows when she might meet up with Robert Redford, you know.” Bryan looks down at John Milton, snuggled deep into his arms and his eyebrows once again go wild across his face.
I think I might explode with the joy of it all.
“Take your time. I haven’t read the newspaper yet.” Bryan puts the cat down and finds his favorite living room chair. He crinkles open the Sunday paper and pulls out the comics first; the innocence of that small gesture nearly bursts my full heart.
I run to the bathroom to ready myself for our drive. I put on some makeup and when I finish, the sink is dusted with face powder. I reach under the cabinet for a sponge to tidy up and accidentally knock over a tall can of hairspray, which then topples over several bottles of nail polish and a tube of hand lotion. The craziness of it makes me think of dominoes, meticulously stood on end to form an intricate, curling pattern—and how one finger can knock the whole arrangement down—one domino after another. It occurs to me that I’ve never understood if the fun is in the building up or the knocking down. I decide it’s the creation of the pattern that gives dominoes their power. Without such intricacy, there would be no whooping cry for joy when it all comes crashing down.
I rearrange the cupboard and then stand up. A flick of familiarity hits me: sprinkles of powder have poofed onto the countertop. I wonder why I didn’t clean up after myself. “You’re doing it again, Lillie Claire,” I mutter to myself. “Come on, now… think. Think!”
I reach into the cupboard and pull out the sponge from under the sink, careful not to knock anything over. When I’m finished, I decide to do a quick clean-up on the kitchen countertops since I already have a sponge in my hand. I head to the kitchen to wipe the tile when I notice a bouquet of flowers on the counter that I had meant earlier to take to the living room. I scoop the vase up into my hands and head out of the kitchen.
I stop dead in my tracks.
“Bryan!” I cry. “When did you get here?”
Bryan’s face is a picture of bewilderment.
“Mom,” Bryan says. “I’ve been here over half an hour. We’re going to Apple Hill. Remember?”
“Apple Hill? Oh, goody.” I place the vase of flowers on the coffee table. “Apple Hill. I haven’t been there in years. I must be a mess, though. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll get ready.”
“I thought you already did that?” Bryan asks, his eyebrows arched like question marks.
“Of course not, dear. You just now mentioned going. I’ll only be a moment.” I turn to run to my bathroom. “Yay, Apple Hill,” I say, clapping my hands.
Behind me, I hear Bryan sigh deeply into his newspaper. The strange whisper of his breath causes me to think of wet cats and falling dominoes.
Chapter Fifteen
YOU DREAM. You dream in spiky colors of blues and oranges that float about your bedroom, a picture show of your very own northern lights. Now and then, you wake; you’re annoyed with the rudeness of the intrusion, but then you figure someone must be trying to show you something special. So you put your arms behind your head to look at the beautiful lights that sparkle through your bedroom. You lie inside the coolness of your sheets and watch for answers to be spelled out across the ceiling of your room. You drift into sleep again and sometime later you wake to find yourself standing naked in front of your living room window, your thighs burning with the illogical hope that someone might be able to see you through your sheer curtain. Tears stream down your cheeks because you don’t understand the lights or your thighs, or yourself any longer.
The morning is sad with its shadows and wind. Tree branches clack in the breeze like animal claws skittering across the roof. I make my way to the living room to sit in the yellow chair that looks out the large front window with its curtains drawn wide. I’ve neither the energy nor the will to either change from my robe or properly close the drapes. The early hour has fallen across my shoulders; I remain heavy with the half-remembered shame of showing my nakedness in front of that window during the night. The well-wintered maple tree clattering outside the living room window waves its own naked body at me, causing me to pull my robe tightly against my sorry throat. I’m filled with shock and remorse for my nighttime display and yet, the louder, more insistent thought is that I might again repeat the act. Even John Milton’s nose nudging my hand for his breakfast doesn’t rouse me from my terror.
Only one thing repeatedly bangs and clangs and thrashes through my thoughts: I’m now afraid of myself.
The morning travels slowly, dragging its shadows around, warming and thawing the night’s frosted grass, allowing moisture to slowly trickle down the dark legs of the maple. I remain in my chair, holding my robe tightly against my frantic body. John Milton meows from somewhere in the center of the house. I stay frozen in my chair until my children arrive, the chilly near-noon hour swirling across their coats. I’ve, of course, forgotten they were bringing lunch—take-out Chinese, complete with steaming won ton soup, broccoli beef, chef’s special chicken, vegetables in hoisin sauce, steamed rice, and fortune cookies.
Bryan kisses my cheek, his lips cold from the January day. “You’re staying cozy today, Mom? Good for you,” he says. “It’s a good day to stay bundled up in your robe.”
I manage a trembling smile.
Allison bustles past me, a sour look on her face, her arms filled with bags of food. I hear spoons clanking like little bells just before they’re plunged into food containers. I hear plates being stacked and then spread out on the table, utensils arranged aside each plate.
There would have been a time when I’d have done the honors. I’d have used my good serving bowls and proper spoons, rather than tossing take-out paper boxes willy-nilly across the table. I’d have set down my beige linen tablecloth or, at the very least, arranged woven placemats, instead of clattering plates onto the bare wooden surface of my polished table. But that was another time when I wasn’t so damaged by broken thoughts, when I was a
ble to keep my tables gleaming with oil and carefulness. That was another time when I wasn’t so confused and consumed by thoughts of my nighttime nakedness on display for passersby to see.
Allison calls us to lunch and Bryan gently steers me to the table. We’ve each remained silent as we waited for my dear daughter’s feeble table presentation. When we’re seated and food’s been dished onto our plates, Bryan breaks the silence. “You’re quiet today, Mom. Is everything all right?”
I nod. My lips are pulled into a tight line, refusing to speak for fear of something truthful falling from my mouth. I’m terrified I’ll tell my children that their mother stood in the night, naked in front of the living room window, with burning thighs and thoughts wilder than today’s maleficent wind.
“You didn’t get dressed,” Allison says.
Again, I nod. A nod of the head is as much acknowledgement as I’ll allow myself. I’m simply and forever afraid to open my mouth. I look at my fork as if I’m busy admiring its intricacies.
“You haven’t even brushed you hair,” Allison continues. “And your cat is starving. What’s going on? Are you ignoring us on purpose?”
I shrug my shoulders and continue to stare at my fork now as if it’s a wondrous new thing. I’m pleased it gives me distraction from my sense of faultiness, my midnight indiscretion. I take the fork and poke at my food, but for the most part I’m not hungry.
When lunch is over, Bryan’s dear, round hands capture me about the waist. He returns me to my chair in the living room, all the while clucking in my ear about what a nice lunch we just enjoyed.
“Did you like the tea? Allison picked it out. Green raspberry something-or-other.” I wonder if he’s hoping I’ll mirror his face and smile in return.
“Yes, I liked it.” I clamp my mouth closed on any further escaping words.
My children take up spots across from me on the couch, one at each end. Again, we find silence and I’m comforted by the absence of conversation. I find new fascination with my hands as they resume a tight hold on the collar of my robe. I’m sure my pose gives the impression of one in deep contemplation, but the fact is I’m simply frightened my robe will once again spill open.
Bryan and Allison have recently begun to talk around me as if I’m not in the room, but today I don’t mind. I’m happy to be a peripheral occupant. The wind outside seems to have picked up, causing the shrubs and trees to dance in a wild tango formation across the yard. John Milton, although sulking about the wind and my neglectfulness, finds enough forgiveness to swirl about my lap before settling under my hand.
“So what’s up with you wearing that ratty old robe all day today?” Allison says. “You’re clutching it like you’re afraid someone’s going to take it away. And that cat…”
“You should make an effort to be kinder,” Bryan says. “You act like she’s your enemy instead of your mother.”
“I’m nice. I put lunch on the table, didn’t I?” Her mouth forms a circle of propriety, but her eyes narrow into a slash of suspicion and defensiveness. At last, the sibling bickering of my children is something for me to be happy about.
“Putting lunch on the table isn’t nice, it’s ordinary. It’s just a thing people do.” Bryan stands. “I need a beer… anyone want anything?” He moves toward the kitchen on legs that seem nearly angry.
“No, and don’t get all lawyerly with me,” Allison calls after him. “I know it’s just a thing. But, come on, it’s still a nice thing.”
Bryan returns with an opened bottle of beer. “Okay, okay. But don’t you think you could add a smile? Some conversation? A sense that you’re with us here?” Bryan sets his bottle on the table. He’s blinking. Pleading. Forming his hands into a gesture of concern.
“What do you want out of me?” Allison says. “I’m here, aren’t I?” She picks up a magazine from the coffee table, flips it open to somewhere near the middle, then slaps it back on the table. “See? I’m here. I looked at a magazine. I’m engaged.”
I consider telling my daughter her rudeness is causing her face to wrinkle and become misshapen, but I’m still too afraid for what words might accidentally exit my mouth.
“Look. Be flippant if you want. But the way you dance around Mom… the way you ignore her is… well, it’s pretty mean.” Bryan clasps his hands together as if he’s in earnest prayer for her soul. “When’s the last time you came over without me dragging you here?”
I’m altogether invisible to my children. Strangely, I’m happy for the moment—I’m the topic of conversation without the burden of actually needing to contribute to the discussion. I want to clap my hands for the joy of being forgotten and that thought nearly makes me burst into laughter.
“I’ve tried,” Allison says, squarely facing Bryan. “Since Mom got sick, I’ve taken her out shopping, we’ve had manicures. I’ve taken her to lunches and dinners. I tried to take her to Hawaii. But everything I’ve done for Mom has turned out to be a disaster!” The pitch of Allison’s voice rises to match that of the steel wind chimes that clang in the wind outside.
Her body is fierce and lunging. I wonder if she knows how she is twisting her face into an ungainly collection of wrinkled eyes and pursed lips.
She picks up another magazine and smacks it back on the table. “She hasn’t said a word since we got here,” she says, nearly hissing. “She has no thoughts. I don’t think there’s anything in there anymore. Nothing!”
She picks up another magazine and throws it to the floor. “Face it, we’ve lost our mother. She’s gone.”
The familiar sting of tears begins to grow. No, my little pony… I’m right here. Don’t you see me? Here… over here!
“Of course she has thoughts,” Bryan says. He spreads his arms as if he were about to give a benediction. “She’s not gone.”
That’s my boy… he sees me.
“Mom thinks all the time just like everyone else… even you. It’s not her thoughts that are leaving… not at all… it’s her ability to use language. You can call it dementia. Or wigged out, or… or whatever. The point is, Mom is still thinking. She’s thinking all the time.”
“Come on, Bryan. She can’t remember one day to the next.”
“Okay, granted. But, how does that make her not our mother? How does that make her nothing? Mom knows what she loses every day. Can’t you see how sad she is right now? Look at her. For God’s sake, she’s crying!”
Allison fumbles with her hands until they match the prayerful pose of Bryan’s. Slowly, she pulls her eyes up to meet my face. She sees my face, wet with sorrow for my beautiful and befuddled daughter. She looks at how I’m obviously sad above the folds of my robe that I continue to keep pulled tightly to my neck. She sees the agony inside my hunched and crooked body.
Suddenly, something similar to lightning splitting open a night sky flashes across her eyes. My daughter sees me as if I’ve just entered the room for the first time this day.
“Oh, God… Mom!” Allison cries, her face crumbling into small pieces. “Mom.” Her voice crashes against her lips.
She rushes from the couch, her long legs bending to kneel beside me. She buries her face in my lap and circles her arms around me. Together, we become a portrait of remorse—me with my dark night-secrets and Allison with her daylight tears.
Allison sways me back and forth, her arms tight around my waist, apologies spilling onto my robed lap. “I’m so sorry,” she cries. “You do know me, don’t you? You’re still here?” I’m right here, dear. “Mom, I’m so, so sorry.”
I release the grip I’ve had on my robe and allow my hands to fall to Allison’s head. I stroke her hair. For the first time all day I let truthful words come from my mouth. “There, there,” I croon. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
YOU LET. You let words of love drip from your lips until your daughter is bathed and cleansed in the carefulness of your narrow language. You hold your child to your lap and fold your arms like an angel’s wings around her slenderness unt
il it’s impossible to distinguish mother from daughter. While you’re holding her tightly, you lift your eyes in time to see your son tiptoe from the room. You follow him with your eyes. With one on your lap and one in a different room, you find your children are separate, yet nevertheless the same. In your bewildered thoughts, you know no difference between same and separate. When you’re through washing your children with love, regardless of where they move through your house, you watch their bodies go away into the night. When they’re gone, your eyes travel down to the place on your robe that holds dried tears from your repentant daughter. You vow you’ll never allow your robe to be cleaned of the day’s emotion. You realize there’s not much distinction between repentance and shame, except the first can bring joy, while the latter, if not cured, can be terminal. Oddly, the evidence of the day’s mixture of tears on your robe pulls your lips into a brief smile and at last, you’re no longer afraid of the coming night.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m not leaving my house,” I say. “Not. Not. Not.”
My children sit on the couch, their hands tumbling in their laps; Allison picks at a loose thread on her skirt, Bryan straightens invisible wrinkles on his slacks. There’s a growing chasm between my ideas and theirs; maybe there’s always a wrongful distance between a mother and her children. Clearly, I don’t know, but I recognize I’m suddenly in a battle for my future.
I feel lucky to be having a good moment with words coming easily and clearly. Of course, my language skills could simply be propelled by the gravity of the topic. Nevertheless, I use every word that comes to mind in order to argue my case.
“Why would you even think I would leave this home, the home where your father lived, where you were babies?” I say. “This is where you grew up. Underneath all this paint is every crayon mark you ever scribbled over the walls when I wasn’t looking. I couldn’t bear to scrub them off, so I just painted over them so I’d know they are still there. And that front door? We went out that door every morning. I walked you to school with your little hands nestled in mine. Every morning. And then every afternoon, I met you outside your school doors to walk you home again… home… here. How could you even think I would walk out that door now… our door… and never come back? No. I’m not leaving.”
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