When Will We Stop Talking About Our Mothers?

 

            I know I had a condescending look on my face while she talked, and I know my classmates could see it, but I didn’t care.  We are adults, for God’s sake.  Grow up.

The professor was showing my art class how to make a collage out of tissue paper.  Although I love this class, this is my junior year of college, and I feel as if I have overstayed my welcome.  The girl who the rest of us have deemed “the smart girl” raised her hand and brought up the picture book The Very Hungry Caterpillar and pointed out that all of Carle’s illustrations were done in tissue collage.  “My mother has a copy of it in her cedar chest because she tells me that I used to love hearing it before bed,” she beamed.  I was embarrassed.  I just knew that the professor was thinking about how young we all must be to still bring up our mothers every time we related to something.  To avoid association with these people, I looked down at my creation and finished up.  After placing my work-in-progress to the side and washing the glue off of my hands, I pushed through the swinging door into the fresh air.  My heels clacked on the sidewalk leading to my car in the far lot.  I walked briskly so that my hair would bounce and kept my head up.  In a sea of T-shirts and jeans, my pencil skirt and pearls turned heads.  I hoped they would mistake me for a professor.

I slammed on the gas so I could make it to the clinic on time.  For Zeta Delta Nu, I owed three more hours of community service, and the soup kitchen got boring, so I signed up for the nursing home just outside of town.  I pulled up and hurried inside.  The nurse at the front desk took down my name and motioned for me to follow; the clacking of my heels echoed through the white, abandoned hallways.  We turned the corner into a small hospital-like room with dim lights and a transparent, limp body in the adjustable twin bed.  Before I could protest, the nurse turned around without a word and exited the room, leaving me alone with this ghost.  I stood frozen because I had no idea what to do.  The body was turned away from me.  I couldn’t decide if I’d rather it be dead so I wouldn’t have to talk to it or alive so I wouldn’t be alone with a dead body.  I looked down at my white knuckles around the steel doorframe and abruptly released my grip.  One quarter-inch, French-manicured nail slid across the metal, sending a clink through the deafening silence.  The body stirred.  I held my breath as it, which turned out to be a she, stiffly rolled over to look at me.  Her cotton hair stuck to the crisp pillow as she straightened her skeleton limbs to match the angle of her head.  She pointed to the chair beside her.  Cautiously, I clacked over to her, disturbing the eerie quiet, and sat.

            “You came to see me!” she practically shouted with an innocent joy.  I was confused because I had never seen this woman in my life, but her smile was infectious, so I smiled back.  “But where’s Kenneth?”

            My smile faded.  “Who?”

            “Kenneth.”  She looked at me as if I were crazy.  “Oh! He must not be allowed in hospitals.  My mom won’t let me in hospitals either.  She says that children don’t have good immune systems, and they don’t need to be around other sick people or else they’ll get sick too.  But I didn’t have a choice this time.  Don’t tell my mom,” she leaned a little over the bed and whispered to me, “but I’ve always wanted to see what a hospital looks like.  Oh! I didn’t jump out of the swing on purpose though, Mrs. Handler, if that’s what you think.  Well, I did,” she added guiltily, “but I didn’t break my arm on purpose.  The cast is pretty neat though, don’t you think?”  Her bright smile returned, and she held up a bony, wrinkled, cast-free arm for me to see.  “Pretty neat, huh, Mrs. Handler?”

            I was baffled by this child’s voice coming from a ninety-year-old woman, by this rapidly spilling story of a broken arm, and I had no idea who Mrs. Handler was.  I smiled sympathetically and nodded.

            “My mom says that I’m just too adventurous, but I don’t really think that’s a bad thing, you know?  She wasn’t mad though, when I told her I thought my arm was broke.  She just told me I’d be just fine.  I had no idea I’d have to go to the hospital, but here I am.  I’m so glad you came to see me, Mrs. Handler!  And you look so pretty!”  I couldn’t help but smile at this poor, delusional woman.  “Look at my cast!” she suddenly said proudly to the wall behind me.  I turned quickly to find the nurse from earlier standing behind my chair. 

            “Yes, ma’am.  That’s a pretty cast!” the nurse said as if she was talking to a puppy.  She tugged on my arm.  “Well, it’s time for your friend to go home now, so you can get some sleep, Faye.”  I got up and awkwardly said goodbye to the woman.

            “Goodbye, Mrs. Handler!  Tell Kenneth I said hello!” she called after me as I walked out the door with the nurse still holding my stiff arm.  She stared ahead as we walked down the hall toward the front door.  I said nothing but a quick thank-you before I freed myself through the front door.

            Dreadfully, I pulled the same door handle the next day to complete another hour of community service.  The same nurse and whitewashed walls greeted me.  I signed in and noticed that I was signing directly under my autograph from yesterday.  I wore stylish flats this time to avoid the creepy echo of heels in the empty hall.  This time, however, the nurse led me into the first door on the left, which was brighter and much more cozy.  The television was on mute, and the woman in bed knitting reminded me of my own grandmother.  She smiled at us as we walked into her room.  “Alma, this is Jackie.  She’s come to visit with you for a little while.”  After my quick introduction, the nurse left us.  I suddenly was not nervous at all and took the seat next to the bed without instruction.  

            “Well, aren’t you pretty,” Alma said to me with a sweet smile.  “I remember when I was your age.  All the boys liked me too, but I only had eyes for one young man.  Do you have a boyfriend?”

            I quickly became very comfortable with Alma as we discussed our twenties together, which were surprisingly parallel.  “I’m just ready to be through with college,” I confessed to her.

            “Don’t say that just yet.  Before you know it, you’ll be doing your husband’s laundry and making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for your little ones every day.  You’ll turn into your mother without even realizing it.”  Secretly, this was a fear of mine, and she must have read my mind because she added, “but it’s not so bad.”  She grinned at me.  “Well, it’s been an hour.  I don’t want to make you stay any longer than you have to,” she said pointing to the clock.  I couldn’t believe it had already been an hour.  It felt as if I had just sat down. 

            The next day I was excited to go to the nursing home.  I walked in and straight up to the desk.  I asked the nurse if I could spend my last community service hour with Alma again.  She laughed.  “Sweetie, everybody needs someone to talk to.  We’re going to rotate you.”  My face fell.  I sulked as I followed her down the sterile hall, heels embarrassingly clacking away.  I followed her into a room and immediately walked to the chair beside the bed.  The elderly lady looked kindly at me as I sat.  I thought to myself that this might not be so bad. 

            “Who are you?” she asked with a smile.

            I smiled back.  “I’m Jackie,” I said and extended my hand.  She just looked at it.

            “But why are you here?”  She looked confused but still smiled brightly.  “But it’s almost time to go.”

            “To go where?” My hope for sanity began to fade.

            “And she’s not here,” she looked at me as if she was hopeful that I would have the answer to her riddle.  I didn’t.

            “Who’s not here?” I asked.  I honestly wanted to figure out what this lady was talking about.  She just stared at me.  Her face had gone from a bright smile to complete befuddlement.  I repeated the question.  She began to cry. 

            I panicked.  I didn’t know what else to do but get up and go find the nurse.  I hurried down the hall, my clacks like cadence on the tile to the front desk.  The nurse looked as if she was expecting me.  “Everything’s fine,” she said, trying to calm me down.  “She just misses her mother.  They all do.  She put them here; she taught them what they know; at some point, they turned into her; and of course, she is the only one they want beside them when they die.  It’s something we all have in common, no matter how old we are.”

            I stared at her still speechless then simply turned toward the door and walked out, thankfully, for the last time.  The daze wore off on the drive home, but I couldn’t get the nurse’s words out of my head.  I lay awake in bed thinking until I drifted off to sleep.  I woke up when the first ray of sunshine shone through my bedroom window, just minutes before my Monday-through-Friday alarm sounded off.  The early alarm was strategically set to give me plenty of time to wash and curl my hair, paint my face with makeup, and carefully put on the pressed, baby-blue, button-down Ralph Lauren collared shirt, khaki dress pants, perfect-match, three-inch strappy heels, and the elegant pearl earrings that had all been laid out at the beginning of the week for today.

            I sleepily walked to the bathroom to begin my routine when I caught a glimpse of my bare face in the mirror above the sink.  I stared at it.  Examining every freckle, every line, I realized that no one had ever seen this girl; in fact, I didn’t even know her myself.  As we stared at one another, I began to recognize her a little.  Her large green eyes hooded by long, dark lashes looked a bit like my mother’s.  I threw on an old T-shirt and some packed-away jeans and pulled my hair back into a ponytail.  Today would be the first day that I would see through my mother’s eyes.

Reviews

[Brittany]

This was beautifuly done.

Your imagery is wonderful and the story very moving.

[Joel Alvarado]

Wonderful story! I was captured in your words from the very beginning. Your such a vivid writer capable of painting a picture for the story that flows so nicely. And thought I enjoyed it I found very few, very minor errors:

I think you meant to emphasize the 'rest of them' here, so commas do that nicely.

The girl, who the rest of us have deemed 'the smart girl', raised her hand and brought up the picture book The Very Hungry Caterpillar and pointed out that all of Carle's illustrations were done in tissue collage.

Also, the story seems to happen all in the same day because it moves at such a fast pace. I would say maybe work on your transitions or just show a passing of time. Otherwise this thought provoking piece was a great read! Wonderful job!