Bridge of Clay(136)

“Oh,” she’d said, “still alive, huh?”

Some mornings, she’d start to lecture us. “If any of you boys see death today, just send him over to me.” We knew she was flaunting her courage.

On days she was too sick to leave, she’d call us toward the piano.

“Come on, boys, put one here.”

We lined up to kiss her cheek.

Each time might have been the last.

Whenever there was lightness or buoyancy, you knew drowning wasn’t far.



* * *



—

As it turned out, the third Christmas was her last.

We sat at the kitchen table.

We went to a hell of an effort; we made pierogi, and unspeakable barszcz.

She was finally ready, by then, to sing “Sto Lat” again, and we sang for the love of Penelope; and for Waldek, the statue, and no countries. We sang only for the woman in front of us. We sang only for all her stories.



* * *



—

    But soon, it had to happen.

She was given a final choice.

She could die in the hospital, or die at home.

She looked at Rory in the hospital ward, then me, and all the rest of us, and wondered who should talk.

If it had been Rory, he’d have gone, “Hey, you there—nurse! Yeah, you, that’s it—unhook her from all that shit.” If it was me, less rude, but blunt. Henry would be too confident, and Tommy wouldn’t speak—too young.

On short deliberation, she’d settled for Clay, and she called him close and whispered it, and he turned to the nurse and doctor; both women, both kind beyond measure.

“She says she’ll miss her kitchen here, and she wants to be home for us.” She gave him a jaundiced wink then. “And she has to keep playing the piano…and keep an eye on him.”

But it wasn’t Rory whom he’d pointed to, but the man with a hand on Tommy.

From the bed she spoke up outwardly.

She said, “Thank you both for everything.”



* * *



—

Clay had hit thirteen back then, his second year of high school.

He was called into a counselor’s classroom, after Henry had just walked out; he was asked if he needed to talk. Dark days before Claudia Kirkby.

His name was Mr. Fuller.

Like her, he wasn’t a psychologist, but a teacher given the job, and a good guy, but why would Clay want to talk to him? He didn’t see the point.

“You know,” the teacher said. He was quite young, in a light blue shirt. A tie with a pattern of frogs, and Clay was thinking, Frogs? “Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone other than your family.”

“I’m okay.”

    “Okay, well, you know. I’m here.”

“Thanks. Do I just go back to math?”



* * *



—

There were hard times, of course, there were terrible times, like when we found her on the bathroom floor, like a tern who couldn’t make the trip.

There was Penny and our dad in the hallway, and the way he helped her along. He was an idiot like that, our father, for he’d look at us then and mouth it—he’d go Look at this gorgeous girl!—but so careful not to bruise her.

Bruises, scratches. Lesions.

Nothing was worth the risk.

They should have stopped at the piano, for a break and a cigarette.

But there are no breaks for dying, I guess, it’s relentless, and unrelenting. Stupid, I know, to put it like that, but by then you don’t really care. It’s dying at twice the rate.

There was forcing herself to have breakfast sometimes, to sit at the kitchen table; she never could master the cornflakes.

There was Henry once, out in the garage:

He was punching like hell at a rolled-up rug, then saw me and fell to the ground.

I stood there, helpless, hingeless.

Then walked and held out a hand.

It was a minute before he took it, and we walked back out to the yard.



* * *



—

Sometimes we all stayed in their room.

On the bed, or sprawled on the carpet.

We were boys and bodies, laid out for her.

We lay like prisoners of war.

And of course—it was ourselves we imitated later, on the day of the anniversary, when I read for a while from The Odyssey.

Only now it was Michael who read to us:

The sounds of the sea and Ithaca.

He stood by the bedroom window.



* * *



—

    At regular intervals, a nurse came by and checked on her. She surrendered her to morphine, and made work of checking her pulse.

Or did she concentrate like that to forget?

Or to ignore what she was here for, and who and what she was: The voice of letting go.



* * *



—

Our mother was certainly a marvel then, but a wonder of sad corruption.

She was a desert propped up on pillows.

Her lips so dry and arid.

Her body capsized in blankets.

Her hair was standing its ground.

Our father could read of the Achaeans, and the ships who were ready for launching.