Exhaustion finally overtook her as she sat curled awkwardly on a waiting room chair, dreaming. Visions of blue scrubs and black and white scans flitted before her, and a doctor who sounded as though he were speaking underwater kept saying “brain damage” over and over. But waking up didn’t change anything, and he kept saying it. Brain damage. Brain damage.
It was a neurological aneurysm, and the attending surgeon informed Sam that Eva had been lucky to survive at all. The extent and effects of the brain damage would only be ascertained if she awoke from her coma, and even then, physical, occupational, speech, and psychological therapy would determine how much and how quickly she would recover.
The irony of the situation was not lost on Sam. Eva had tried half a dozen times to kill herself, and Sam always assumed one day she would succeed. But it was Eva’s body, not her tortured mind, that was her fragile mother’s downfall. Sam had always wanted to live without the fear of her mother committing suicide; and now, the damage done to Eva’s mind meant that, should she regain consciousness, future suicide attempts would likely be beyond her capacity.
The whir and hum of machines grated on Sam’s nerves, as did the fact that the hospital was air-conditioned when the high in Vermont this time of year was barely sixty degrees. She paced, read to her mom, and tried in vain to write. She blamed the creative blockage on hospital food.
She received multiple voicemails every day from her father begging for updates and offering reassurances. Unprepared to handle someone else’s grief, Sam continued to hit decline whenever her phone rang until, on day four, she answered. She barely said hello before the dam broke, and tears cascaded down her cheeks. Jack murmured soothing words of comfort for over an hour, but Sam didn’t listen to any of them. When a doctor came into Eva’s room with an update, Sam mumbled that she had to go and hung up. For the rest of the day, she only managed to stop crying for brief, ten-minute intervals. She burned through an entire box of tissues and was halfway through a second before she started applying Chap Stick to the raw skin under and around her nose. When the hiccups started, she ran out to a liquor store and filled a flask with tequila. Two shots later, her breathing normalized. On day five, she got a hotel room and slept for twelve hours straight before returning to her post at her mother’s bedside.
Eva regained consciousness on the sixth day. Even after the medical staff removed most of the machines, she was unable to speak. Holding her hand while doctors performed various cognitive tests on her mother was the hardest thing Sam had ever done. The walls of the ordered world she constructed for herself came crashing down, and she was standing on top of a mountain alone, while bitter winds ripped through her clothes and left her too breathless to speak. It was as if they carried away her voice along with Eva’s.
When the final tests of the day were complete and the doctors finally left, Sam crawled into the hospital bed and wrapped her arms around her mother’s weak form. Brutal dreams haunted her sleep—dreams where a bunch of doctors and nurses crowded around her mother saying things like, “We’ve lost her”—but she snuggled tighter against her mother and managed to cobble together a few hours of rest.
After the coma, Eva spent weeks battling pneumonia and other infections and was unable to remain awake for any length of time. Because she struggled to keep food down, the staff reinserted a feeding tube that prevented her from speaking; she lacked the skills to do so anyway. She communicated with nods or shakes of her head, and thumbs-up signs, but was confused by any question more complicated than “Are you hungry?” or “Are you in pain?” She could move her arms and legs a little, but the strength to stand eluded her. It wasn’t until the fourth week that they were able to remove the feeding tube, and she began some light therapy. The aneurysm crippled Eva’s mind and undid the pathways that controlled her muscles and memory. Five weeks after she awoke, she spoke with a thin, hesitant voice. The doctors were confident she would walk again, but warned that it would take time for her to regain basic skills.
It was possible that after a few years of intense therapy, she might be able live alone and take care of herself, but there was no way to tell for sure when or if this independence might be achieved. For the foreseeable future, she required assistance with dressing, bathing, eating.
As the staff prepared to discharge her, the attending physician took Sam aside, and they sat together at a table in the waiting room. The bright yellow walls with their nondescript geometrical prints seemed to close in on her. Fake plants occupied the corners of the waiting room, and magazines from four years ago dotted various chairs and tables. The warm colors of the room did little to cheer those who languished there waiting for news of loved ones, waiting for life to return to normal, just waiting.
“What will I have to do?” she asked. Maintaining steady eye contact felt like the first of many tests related to her mother’s care. Dr. Kruse’s eyes were bright blue, and they seemed to pierce whatever façade Sam had managed to maintain.
“Well, there’s the physical and emotional support you’ll need to provide. I think it would behoove you to secure a nurse. Someone who can spend a few hours a day with your mother. Give you specific instructions on care. Help train you as your mother’s needs evolve. You’ll need to take regular breaks, time for you to go out and get some air and space. The physical therapy will be hard, and there will be times she’ll resist it. She might become disoriented, especially in the morning and evening. Many people who have suffered the kind of damage she has sometimes act more aggressive. Anger issues.”
Sam tried to remember if she had ever seen Eva angry.
The doctor continued. “They get frustrated when they recognize their limitations. Tasks that used to come so easily, well…A situation or person they used to remember with ease? Can’t remember now. She’ll have good days and bad days. You too. So, Samantha, can you commit to this? She’ll need you in ways you can’t anticipate or even imagine.”
“Yes, of course,” she mumbled, looking at her hands. Clearing her throat, she wiped a trickle of salty wetness from her left cheek. She met the doctor’s eyes with conviction. “Yes. Of course, Dr. Kruse.”
“Do you have help, Sam? Family nearby? Close friends? Doing this alone…it’s too much for one person.”
“My dad will send money. I mean, he already has. I have an uncle in Boston who said he’d come up when he can. I’ve been gone for five years, so I don’t really…I didn’t really keep in touch with people here…” The shame of the prodigal daughter, she thought bitterly.
Patting her arm, Dr. Kruse’s eyes softened. “Well, Sam, my best advice is to get yourself a support system—people to help you when things get rough or when you need a break.”
“Thanks. I’ll do what I can.”
Rising from the uncomfortable chair and wiping her palms down the front of her jeans, she extended her hand and the doctor briefly shook it. As Sam turned toward her mother’s room, Dr. Kruse assured her, “You’ll be all right.” She wished she believed him.
She returned to her mother’s room, where Eva sat in a wheelchair with a blanket across her lap wearing slippers, a nightgown, and a pair of sweatpants. Her head hung at an odd angle, and her eyes were glassy. She clutched a stuffed elephant Sam had picked up from the hospital gift store. Sam cringed at her own inadequacies as she imagined what would follow after she took Eva home. Perhaps this was how Eva had always felt before, when depression erected an insurmountable barrier between her and everything and everyone around her, no matter how hard she tried. Still, Eva had always managed fleeting moments of connection, and as Sam gathered her strength, she vowed to do the same.
She knelt down in front of her mother and put her hands over Eva’s. “Hi, Mom,” she whispered.
“Samantha?” Eva’s blue eyes suddenly became clear, and their gaze bore into Sam’s with anger. Jerking her hands away, she spat out with a wavering voice: “I thought you had left me in this place to die
.”
So, that’s what it felt like to have the wind knocked out of you. “You—you thought—why on earth would you think that?” she sputtered.
“You don’t love me anymore. You were gone so long,” Eva’s scolding cost all her breath, and she broke out into a coughing fit.
Once she had stilled, Sam said, “Mom, I was only gone a few minutes, and I was just around the corner talking with the doctor.” She touched a cold cheek, offering reassurance, although she wasn’t sure if Eva’s reprimand related to the immediate past or the previous five years during which Sam’s visits home were few and brief.
Eva turned her face away from Sam’s fingers. “That man! I don’t like him. He wants to keep me here forever.”
“Mom, he wants what’s best for you. And I’m going to take you home.” She held her mother’s hand and squeezed gently.
“Really?” Suddenly suspicious, she clutched at Sam’s arm. “When?”
“Now. Just let me gather your things, okay?” Sam turned away before Eva could see her tears.
While the staff completed Eva’s discharge papers, Sam took the elevator to the hospital pharmacy and bought two plastic pill containers with a different compartment for every day of the week, which she would refill on Saturday evenings. She sat on a bench outside the pharmacy and e-mailed her Stanford professors from her phone, letting them know the situation and that she was withdrawing from the semester. She asked Constance to mail some of her textbooks so she could continue reading for school, even if she couldn’t attend class.
Technically Eva and Jack were still married. She wasn’t sure what she wanted from her father in this situation, but she called to let him know they were leaving the hospital, and the sound of his baritone voice filled her with such relief that tears threatened to fall again. He assured her not to worry about money and requested she give him updates at least once a day. Although he didn’t offer to visit, he expressed his confidence that Sam could handle this, and said he was proud of her.
As she wheeled Eva out of her hospital room and toward the elevator, she called Dolores, who answered on the second ring.
“Oh, good, Samantha. I’m glad it’s you. I’ve been waiting for you to call, dear. What time do you think you’ll be home?”
Glancing at her watch, Sam calculated, “Probably around three thirty.”
“And you’re sure you shouldn’t take an ambulance home? I know you’ve got Eva’s car up there, but that doesn’t mean you have to drive it home right away. We can send some folks to get it for you.”
“We’ll be fine. She can move a little, so, with my help, she’ll be able to get into and out of the passenger seat. And I already made sure the wheelchair fits in the trunk. Besides, she’ll be more comfortable in her own car.”
“I went over this morning and opened the windows to air the place out. It’s a little chilly, though, so I’ll go turn the heat on for you ladies. And I’ve picked up the basics for you: milk, eggs, bread. You and I can make a more detailed grocery list later tonight.”
“Thanks, Dolores. I really appreciate it.”
“Be safe on the roads, dear.”
The drive from Burlington to Stowe was quiet. Eva peered out the window with unseeing eyes as they passed charming barns and rolling pastures. Spring had come to Vermont, and brilliant spots of yellow that flashed as the car passed bespoke daffodils in full bloom. Daffodils had always been Eva’s favorite.
When the car rounded the final corner and the house came into view, Sam’s jaw dropped. Both sides of the road in front of her house were lined with cars, trucks, and SUVs, and a couple of bicycles lay on their sides on the front lawn. Half the town had shown up to welcome Eva home. Father Mark, who had baptized Sam, stood in the doorway. As she put the car in park, Alfredo, her mother’s mechanic, came forward to help transition Eva from the passenger seat to the wheelchair, which he and Father Mark lifted up the two steps of the front porch and into the house. As Sam entered, she nodded to the postman and the cashier from the grocery store. Dolores was in the kitchen laboring over a pot of chili on the stove. Tupperware containers, casserole dishes, and round platters covered the dining room table, filled with lasagna, tamales, macaroni salad, soups, and sweets. A big sign reading Welcome Home, Eva! stretched across the living room.
Overwhelmed, Sam sat down on the couch and stared while people she didn’t recognize or hadn’t seen in years greeted her mother and wished her a speedy recovery. Most of them stopped by Sam’s stiff body on their way out to quietly wish her patience and strength and to assure her that they could be called on for help any time, day or night.
An hour after their homecoming, the last of the guests had seen themselves out, and Sam and Eva were alone with Dolores, who wiped her hands on a dishtowel and then plopped down on the couch next to Sam, putting her hand on Sam’s knee.
“I hope you don’t mind, dear. They all wanted to help, and filling your refrigerator came naturally. No one knew if you can cook.” A beat passed. “Can you?”
“Probably not.”
“Well. There are books for such things, and I know you love to read. What else do you need?”
“I’m not even sure. I guess I’ll learn on the job.”
“You’ll do just fine.” Dolores squeezed Sam’s knee. “Just remember, she’s still your Mama. She’ll come back to you. Might take a little bit, but she will. I won’t fill your head with platitudes about God opening a window or things not killing you making you stronger, but I’ll tell you this: she won’t need you forever the way she needs you now.”
“Thank you,” Sam murmured. She looked down at her hands and realized someone had put a glass of something into them. She drank, glad it was Sprite; hopefully it would settle her stomach.
“Alrighty, I can see you’re beat. I am too, truth be told. I’ll head on home, but Samantha, you know where to find me.” Dolores patted her knee again and exited, leaving Sam alone in the house with her dozing mother.
It was the first time in months Sam had been here; it was almost an affront that it looked exactly the same.
Returning to the car, Sam grabbed her suitcase and the bag of Eva’s clothes that Dolores had brought to the hospital that first week. She unpacked her mother’s bag first, putting most of its contents in the hamper. It would be an odd role reversal, doing her mother’s laundry.
After stowing Eva’s bag in her closet, Sam rolled her suitcase into her bedroom. The gray afternoon let in little light, so she flipped the switch inside the door and gasped at what she saw.
The day of Yale’s graduation, Eva must have stopped by Goodwill after Sam had dropped off most of her wardrobe. Lovingly draped over Sam’s childhood bed was a huge quilt made from the T-shirts Sam adored but had deemed inappropriate attire for a young professional. The middle square contained a new addition that Eva must have purchased on her own: If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate. With tears cascading down her cheeks, she gathered up the quilt, buried her face in it, and collapsed onto the bed, wrapped in tangible evidence of her mother’s talent, thoughtfulness, and love for her. Before sobs could take over her body, she forced herself to stand, wiped her face, and shook out her shoulders. Such weakness would have to wait: she needed to get Eva ready for bed.
PART II
After
SPRING 2008
“Um, hi there. Can I have two slices of frittata to go?” Sam said uncertainly to the woman fussing with something behind the counter of Stowe Away. The restaurant Eva had raved about a couple years ago was as cute as her mother said. Dark hardwood lined the floors, and exposed brick and rough-hewn wooden pillars gave the place a rustic feel. A dozen wooden tables were scattered throughout the room, and a large bar, currently covered with plates of pastries, ran the length of the back wall. About twenty patrons were spread across the tables or barstools, sipping coffee and nibbling on scones, c
roissants, donuts, or muffins as they read newspapers or typed on laptops.
The woman behind the counter straightened and wiped her hands on an apron. “Oh, hello, Samantha. It’s nice to see you again. I was so sorry to hear about your mom.”
Once again, here was someone from her hometown who knew her but whom she didn’t quite remember. She squinted; the woman did look familiar. She was petite and slightly curvy. Dark, curly hair fell between her shoulders, and two dimples warmed her smile. Sam knitted her brows a minute while she cast her mind back to high school. “Maria Sanchez, right?” They had been in the same class in high school, but the only things she really knew about Maria were that she had a painfully good aim when it came to dodgeball and she hadn’t gone to college.
“I’m surprised you remembered.”
“So you work here now? That’s great!” She tried to sound enthusiastic about waitressing, although she suspected Maria saw right through her.
Nevertheless, Maria grinned at her. “Actually, I own the place. For three years now. It’s my baby.”
“So it’s a coffee shop?”
“By day. We close at one p.m. in order to get ready for dinner. We have a small menu that changes weekly based on whatever’s ready from my gardens or greenhouses. It’s mostly Mexican and Italian fare, but we throw in some French every now and then. Our specialty is chipotle lasagna.”
“Wow, that’s really great. You grow all of the restaurant’s produce?”
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