Hope still had a place at our table.
18
The weeks that passed were filled with days like slow-dripping icicles. Did an hour suddenly become more than sixty minutes, a day more than twenty-four hours, and a week more than seven days? I think this feeling came from the way Mama wound down, with even the smallest of her gestures seemingly in slow motion. She looked like one of those elderly Chinese ladies doing tai chi in Central Park. I helped her with her needs as much as I could. Mrs. Ascott was there while I was at school and some days stayed until after dinner, but I got the impression early on that she was there mainly to dispense painkillers.
Roxy visited a few times during the first two weeks. Sometimes she came when Mama was asleep and didn’t stay long. Her first visit was the longest and the best, because Mama revealed that she had kept more of Roxy’s things than either Papa or I knew. She directed me to a carton in the small storage attic. I brought it down, and the three of us went through the pictures, some of Roxy’s little drawings when she was four and five, and some birthday cards she had bought for Mama and that Mama had bought for her. There were some memories they could laugh about and some stories about me when I was little that we could all laugh about, but after it was over, the three of us grew quiet. No one wanted to say anything that would resurrect the bad times and the complete break that Roxy had made with her family.
“How did you get along?” Mama finally did ask. “Where did you go?”
“I’ll tell you sometime,” Roxy said, smiling. “You’re tired now, Mama. You get some rest. I’ll return as soon as I am able.”
Mama simply nodded. She knew that Roxy probably would not talk about those days, not now, maybe not ever, at least with her. On the way out, Roxy gave me the first real sisterly hug since she had come to the hospital.
“Why is it,” she asked me, “that it’s the hardships and sadness that do the most to make us grow up?”
“I don’t know, Roxy.”
“No, no one does. Try not to be
too bitter,” she added as she started out. She turned on the steps to look back at me. “In the end, the only one who suffers because of that is you. That’s something I learned the hard way.”
I watched her leave and closed the door. It was the same door either Papa had closed on her or she had closed behind her on him. The effect was the same. She was gone, and whether he wanted to admit it or not back then, so was a part of himself. And for that matter, so was a part of Mama. Perhaps Roxy was trying to give that back to her before it was too late.
Or perhaps she was trying to get Mama back for herself.
Over the next month, Mama and I had many good days like that first one with Roxy. I shopped for food and prepared dinners following her recipes. She ate less and less after a while and ate mostly to please me, but at least we were able to enjoy some quality time together. Roxy was able to come to dinner only once, but she said I was already an impressive cook. She revealed that she never cooked anything. She either ate out or had food delivered, often even her breakfast. I thought she would start talking more about her life, but she seemed to realize that she was revealing too much and stopped talking about herself, almost in midsentence.
I wasn’t sure how much anyone outside our family knew about Mama’s illness. From time to time during those first few weeks, Chastity and some of the other girls asked me how she was. I always said, “Fine,” and left it at that. The way they suddenly stopped asking, however, suggested that the gossip mill had ground out the truth, maybe with some added embellishments. Bad news always had a way of rising to the surface. The worse the news, the faster it would pop up. I sensed it in the way Chastity and the girls looked at me and whispered. Evan couldn’t even look at me. Ironically, it was Richard, the shy boy, who eventually came right out one day in the hallway to ask me if there was anything he could do for me.
“Why do you ask?”
“I heard about your mother, how sick she really is. I just thought you might need something.”
Need something? I thought. Where do I begin?
“Thanks, Richard. I’m fine,” I told him. He nodded, and I kept walking a little faster to get away from him.
A part of me wanted to stay to talk to him, to revive the potential romance, to have friends again, and to participate in school activities the way a girl my age should. Instead, I felt I was living in a strange state of mind, half awake, half dazed. Too often now, I would drift away in the middle of my classes or even when I was walking in the hallways. Everything I did became more robotic. It was truly as if I was losing all feeling, my emotions drying up like flowers pressed between the pages of a book. Touch them too hard, and they would crumble to dust and be gone.
Maybe I was disappearing with Mama. Watching her now, I felt I was seeing someone in a boat pulling away from shore. I had dreams in which Roxy and I were waving good-bye to her and watching her grow smaller and smaller as she headed toward the horizon. Did my fellow students see me the same way? Was I shrinking and shrinking until I would be out of their sight? It was surely uncomfortable for them to see me and uncomfortable for them to talk to me. How many young people my age did they know who had lost both parents? I didn’t blame them for wanting me to disappear. I didn’t blame anyone for anything anymore. There seemed no point to it.
Eventually, Mama became so weak that she couldn’t get out of bed. Finally, one day, Mrs. Ascott recommended that she be returned to the hospital, especially since I was the only one there after she left each day. I didn’t want that. I wanted to forget about school and just be with her, but Mama wouldn’t hear of it. She agreed with Mrs. Ascott, and arrangements were made for her return.
“Just for a while,” Mama said, but I knew she wouldn’t be coming back, and she knew I knew. For now, it was easier for both of us to pretend.
I called Roxy to tell her.
“Have you spoken with Uncle Alain recently?” she asked.
“Two days ago. He said he was about to make reservations for next week.”
“Might be better if he came this week,” she said.
I couldn’t speak for a moment. My throat tightened so firmly that I could feel the blood rush to my face. “I don’t want her to go to the hospital. I can take care of her here,” I finally said.
“Let her go, M.”
She said it without a hint of any emotion. Was that because she was older and more independent, or was it because she didn’t love Mama as much as I did? It made me angry but also strangely jealous. How lucky she was if it was true that she wouldn’t cry ever over anyone. I once read a poem that said, “You can’t love anyone without pain, the pain of jealousy and the pain of loss. It will always be under your skin and in your heart waiting to pounce.”