An Absent Mind(36)

I generally remember only fragments of my nightmares, just enough to haunt me. But this morning when I woke up, every gesture, every word, every movement of last night’s dream was so vivid, like it actually happened. If only it had.





Florence





Day 656—A Miracle


Last Sunday, I was at Mother’s house, preparing for her return home. It’s ironic that she had moved the bedroom downstairs for Father, and now it is she who can’t climb the stairs.

She was at the hospital for over ten days after the attack. The cardiologist told me her heart is really diseased, and the prognosis for some kind of normal life will depend a lot on her stress level.

Mother insisted that she didn’t want a caretaker living in her house. I can certainly understand that. Who wants a stranger living in your house 24/7. I told her I would take a leave of absence from my work and move in until she was strong enough to manage for herself. I have cut back my hours a lot since having the kids anyway, and even more so since Father got sick. The partners at the firm have been very understanding. As long as I take care of my clients, they have no problem with my working on my files at home.

Bernie wasn’t happy that I’d be staying with Mother, but he understood. The kids said they would come by every day after school, do their homework, and stay for dinner, so at least we could see one another.

Bernie went to pick up Mother while I left to get some groceries. I chose things I knew she might not like but that were good for her. I realized that wasn’t going to go over well, but I certainly wasn’t going to contribute to another heart attack.

When they arrived, I helped her into the house and into her room. She had begun light exercise, walking the corridors of the hospital, but she was still very weak.

I got her undressed, put her in bed, and went into the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Only minutes after Bernie left to get back to the children, the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone at five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel by the stove and walked through the living room to the front door.

I almost keeled over when I opened it. Joey was standing there with a suitcase in his hand. He looked like a door-to-door salesman carrying his wares. I asked him what he was doing there. What he said almost gave me a heart attack. After everything I’ve told you about him, you couldn’t imagine his answer. He said he was moving in with Mother and would take care of her. That I could go home to my children. That he would stay with her until she was better.





Joey





Day 660—Why Move in with Mom?


That’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself over and over. If I had to rank my parents in order, I’m not sure exactly how it would come out, maybe neither of them would make the top spot. Like I’ve said before, in their own way they probably did what they could. And I guess they learned their parenting skills from their parents, so you can’t really blame them. But nonetheless, I still had to endure my father’s icy demeanor. I mean, how many fathers, when at seven years old you go to kiss them good night, would offer you a handshake instead—and never kiss you again? And my mother’s being preoccupied with her favorite Florence all the time. What about me?

Anyway, what’s done is done, and here I am. I realize that no parent is perfect, despite what we thought when we were kids. And so to compensate for some of the things that go missing in our childhood, we tend to go one way or the other. I’m having trouble saying this clearly, but what I mean is that Florence is the way she is because of how she was treated as a kid, and the same goes for me.

In spite of everything, seeing Mom lying there so close to death really scared me and made me realize how mortal we all are. Especially me, now that I have the ApoE4 genes. I’d want to know someone would be there for me if something were to happen.

I told Florence I would stay with Mom until she’s better, figuring it will be a month—tops. Even I can handle that. But frankly, if it stretches on much longer than that, then I’ll have to reassess the whole thing.





Florence





Day 668—The Visit


I pulled my Volvo into Mother’s driveway just before noon. A minute later, she appeared on Joey’s arm from the side door. Her hair was up in a bouffant. She had on Father’s favorite dress, the blue one with the silver stripes on the sleeves. Given she had been back home for just over two weeks, it wasn’t surprising that she looked tired. Her gait was a bit wobbly, but Joey held onto her elbow to steady her as she got into the front seat. This would be the first time she would see Father since her heart attack.

When we walked into Father’s room, he was staring at the television, seemingly in a trance.

But a moment later, he turned toward Mother and said, “Bonjour, chou-fleur.”

I had to hold on to her, as I thought she would collapse right there.

She reached out for his hand and stroked it. “Bonjour, mon cher,” she said.

Father smiled and put his hand on top of hers. If I hadn’t been there to see it myself, I never would have believed it.

I slid a chair under her, and Joey helped her into it. Her hand didn’t move, and neither did Father’s. They just looked into each other’s eyes, their gazes never moving, transfixed, experiencing something we weren’t privy to. Seconds later, Father’s vacuous stare returned to the television, and the moment ended.