“Visitors! We’re having visitors!”
My tone was meant to be cheerful, but achieved something closer to sarcasm. Mother did not appear to mind, however. She was on the bed, lit by afternoon sun, her opinions a mystery.
The sky-blue eyes were closed, hiding ninety years of vehemence. Her hair, a pure silver, was washed this very day and lay in a combed mass over a clean white pillowcase. The scent of magnolias drifted through the room, pushed by fans. (Under the magnolias lay the faint tang of old urine, but that was almost a comfort to me anymore.) My mother was in her newest nightgown, 100 percent cotton, white, and with a touch of lace at the neckline. I had applied her favorite lipstick.
Her breathing was noisy and there was a wet quality to it. The sound filled my childhood bedroom, a place transformed and cluttered with walkers, wheelchairs, and other accoutrements of decline.
In great old age my mother remained beautiful and I almost thought to kiss her as she lay on the hospital bed. But she had never liked being touched. In fact, at this moment she opened one reproachful eye, as if the Universe had informed her of my impulse, warning her so she could put a stop to any nonsense.
Her eye on me, I blew a kiss. She seemed to track something flying through the air, and then her reproachful eye fell closed.
I sat down in the old bentwood rocker and leaned forward to speak to the great and terrible woman who had raised me:
“God, I hope they let you die this time.”
Our visitors showed up forty-five minutes late. Despite the heat, my older brother, Jim, was wearing a suit. His wife, Beverly, was wearing a churchy pastel frock that made her look modest.
But it was her shoes that told the real story.
They were pumps. Low heels. Soft leather uppers in egg yolk yellow. They were Italian and people were meant to notice them.
So I duly noticed them, transfixed by their color, as my brother and sister-in-law came in from the garage murmuring importantly about hospitals.
Because their decision had already been made. No hospice. My mother was headed for yet another cyborgian medical intervention involving tubes and machines, followed by heartfelt calls for prayer. Jim had medical power of attorney and he could do this. Once the crisis passed, whatever was left of my mother would be sent home and here we would be, my mother and I.
Beverly came to stand behind the rocking chair where I was sitting, silently waiting for me to get up. This was how it always went. It didn’t matter where I sat; Beverly always laid siege to my spot.
I always gave it up.
But today I settled back down in the rocker, making myself blatantly comfy.
“Elizabeth?” Her voice was impatient.
“Yes, Beverly?” I said, rocking steadily.
“I need to talk to Mother.” The woman in question, my mother, stirred restlessly in the bed.
“You do that.” I closed my eyes, like someone with a nap coming on.
Another minute passed, and Beverly huffed and threw herself into the easy chair next to me, toeing off her expensive shoes. The magnolia scent was immediately overcome by the raunchiest foot odor this side of a middle school locker room.
This was not new. What was new was my mood.
“Beverly, your feet stink like garlic stewed in monkey piss. Get a cream or something.”
Jim gaped at me like fish thrown onto shore. Beverly tried for recovery.
“We will be looking into other care options,” she said, tossing her head.
She and my brother hurried out of the bedroom for a Very Important Conversation.
After a few seconds and very little thought I leaned over and grabbed the bedpan from the nightstand. I then reached down and poured a dollop of chilly urine into my sister-in-law’s right shoe.
I set the bedpan back on the nightstand, feeling pleased with myself.
Then came a sound I thought I would never hear again, not in this life. I turned to see my mother, clutching at her sheets, laughing.
“Pee!” she choked out. “In Beverly’s shoe!”
My mother had not spoken since her last bout in intensive care, making this conversation only slightly less amazing than the Second Coming.
“My shoe?” Beverly was in the doorway. “What about my shoe?” She hurried forward.
“Mom?” asked Jim, trailing behind.
Beverly snatched up her shoes and stared down in horror, shaking the right pump slightly. It sloshed.
“Pee!” cackled my ancient mother. She had never liked Beverly.
“Jim! Your mother peed in my Ferragamos! Lizzie!” Beverly turned to me, “Why didn’t you stop her?”
Now it was my turn to gape. My mother couldn’t walk, let alone leap down and despoil someone’s footwear.
My mother’s laughter renewed and increased, suggesting that she understood the situation perfectly. She was sitting up a little in the bed, holding herself, her face pink, her eyes shining with laughter.
“Haha! I peed in your shoe!”
Mostly, she was talking to Beverly, but her eyes briefly cut right, warning me that this was her show.
Mom laughed and laughed. Beverly shook with anger. Jim simply stood there, frozen, like a failed project in a taxidermy class.
Mom was still cackling when the light went out in her blue eyes and she relaxed back onto the bed, unmoving as a doll.
911 was dialed. CPR was done. It went on and on, but none of it mattered. After a time, the sun went down and there was only me left, sitting in the rocker by the empty hospital bed. I was drinking red wine from my mother’s favorite coffee mug. I could recall Beverly limping around in one shoe and Jim droning on, but I couldn’t remember them leaving.
There was only the scent of magnolias on the coming night breeze. ◆
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