Mother, Can You Hear Me? Page 3

  But they know who they are. And they know how very grateful I am to each one of them. They are the lifeline—the touch of Grace—that keeps my mother active and me ready to tell their stories.

  Longing for an exciting weekend getaway? Well, I have one for you right here in Bessemer, Alabama. Replacing me as my mother’s caregiver for the weekend would prove to be inexpensive, enlightening, and truly unforgettable.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking.

  At times, my mother can be a bit challenging. All the better. Why waste a weekend lounging in a tropical paradise when you can have the chance to spend it with someone who will help build your character? My mother will certainly help you broaden your “inner landscapes” while allowing you to practice self-control and anger management. Here, you will have a golden opportunity to test your limits first hand and to answer all those nagging what-if questions about just how much you can tolerate before you consider shooting or strangling someone. Where else could you have such a learning experience?

  Lounging around in a tropical paradise might be fun, but it wouldn’t offer much in the way of interesting activities, so you might soon get bored. Anyone who replaces me can rest assured that boredom is not a concern. My mother will completely change your outlook on boredom. What you might once have considered tedious or mundane, such as weekend chores, running errands, watching TV or reading a book, will suddenly become something that you long for with an almost spiritual quality. Oh, yes. You’ll definitely be in touch with your spiritual side.

  For all you early risers, this weekend will offer quite a treat. Not only will you be able to get up by 6:00, but you will probably have been roaming around all night. But, who needs sleep when there’s so much exciting drama going on? Shortly after you rise, you’ll be able to spend one quiet moment of meditation before you hear the rattle of the wheels on Mother’s walker as she comes down the hall for breakfast. That will be your cue to begin the fascinating requirements of the day. Once you’ve poured the juice, given her the morning meds, and made a full breakfast, you are free for the rest of the morning…free to wash, dust, sweep, mop, change sheets. Take your pick from the myriad of choices available. And there’s certainly no need for a gym. You’ll get so much exercise that you’ll “feel the burn” by noon.

  Budding chefs will have an exciting opportunity to showcase their culinary skills. My mother will eat practically anything as long as it’s not too spicy, not too bland, not too hot, not too cold, or as she says, “not the way I’d have done it.” One word of caution, though. While my mother loves food (especially Frosted Flakes and chocolate cupcakes), she doesn’t really cotton to exotic dishes like Parmesan potatoes or fancy Italian pastas. She’s told me often enough, “If it looks like fried chicken, then by God, it ought to taste like fried chicken.” So, if the budding chef opted to prepare something out of the ordinary, he or she would have to be prepared for my mother’s usual response: “What on God’s green earth is this mess? You expect me to eat this? It’s not like my mother used to cook it.” But remember, this is a vacation, so perhaps you’d better keep the number to Pizza Hut on speed dial.

  And in a way, this actually would be a tropical vacation, of sorts. My mother is very cold natured. At random she will yell from her bedroom, “Do we have any heat in this house? What’s that thermostat set on, freeze?”

  I’ve learned that it’s best not to be logical by saying, “But, Mother, it’s 75 degrees outside.” I recommend a slightly subtler tactic. Turn up the heat just enough so that it kicks on and the heat gushes from the vent into her room. After a few minutes, you’ll swear that you’re in the tropics. Just wait a little while. Then, sneak down the hall and adjust the thermostat again. By that time, my mother will have warmed up and won’t notice what you’ve done. Granted, you might have to do this several times during the day and night, but it’s simple, and it works.

  And your prayer life will never be stronger. You will find yourself praying over every little thing, and I mean every little thing. You will be in almost constant contact with our Creator seeking his divine wisdom, his enduring love, and above all, his Grace and mercy. You will become a virtual prayer warrior!

  So, forget Cancun and all those other tropical paradises. A weekend with my mother will be inexpensive, enlightening, and most of all, absolutely unforgettable. Ah, yes. I can almost feel your excitement.

  When my children were young, they found a variety of ways to taunt each other. My daughter enjoyed tormenting her younger brother, not by hitting or yelling but by doing something that would stop him dead in his tracks. What sort of skill would have such an impact? The simple art of staring.

  Many times, I slammed on the brakes when my son would yell, “MOM! She’s doing it again. She’s staring at me!” By the time I looked into the rearview mirror to see into the back seat, I saw tears streaming down my son’s face, while my daughter had an almost angelic smile on hers.

  I’d almost forgotten about those instances until a few days ago when my mother yelled from den: “JOY! Get in here. She’s staring at me again!” I rushed down the hall. Who could be staring at my mother?

  Another simple answer: the dog. Yes, our precious, aging Pekingese named Wicket, otherwise known as “the little princess.” Wicket has her own special bed, her own special food, and her own special chair, and when my mother was in the nursing facility, Wicket decided that the worn blue recliner that is my mother’s favourite felt much more comfy than her usual overstuffed rocker. Unfortunately, Wicket’s preferences haven’t changed. And though there isn’t a human being alive who can best my mother, the tiny dog seems to have no trouble at all.

  Every morning when my mother comes into the den, she calls ahead while I’m cooking breakfast.

  “Where is she, Sister? Is she in my chair?”

  Nine times out of ten, the dog is snoozing on the cushion of that worn recliner.

  “She’s got my chair again, hasn’t she?” my mother will ask.

  When Wicket hears the rattle of the wheels of Mother’s walker, she looks up, snorts, then turns over and finds her cushy place again. She doesn’t offer to move.

  “Look at that. She knows good and well that’s my chair.”

  Not even Mother can intimidate her out of that chair. And she’s tried every trick she knows to do it. She’s sweet-talked her, bribed her with treats, yelled at her, all to no avail. Wicket can out-stubborn my mother any day of the week.

  Every afternoon, Wicket sits in front of the recliner and stares at my mother, an unwavering stare that says, “Get up. I want that chair.”

  “Joy,” my mother calls, “Can’t you do something? Just look at her. She won’t leave me alone.”

  And heaven forbid if my mother gets up to go to the bathroom. Wicket doesn’t even wait for her to get out of sight before she jumps up into the recliner and begins to scratch at the cushion to make her bed.

  “That little devil,” my mother says.

  This ritual goes on until evening. As soon as we’ve finished dinner and Wicket decides it’s time for mother to relinquish her claim to the recliner, she will walk to the TV tray that sits by the chair, nose around it for a minute, then use her little flat nose as a sort of mini-backhoe. She scoots the tray away from the chair, then sits and stares at my mother.

  “JOY! Come get this dog. She’s staring at me again!”

  When all else fails, Wicket will come running to find me. She will bark and run back into the den, jump into the chair next to mother’s, sit up very straight and stare at her. She will keep staring—at eye level since she’s in the other chair—until my mother sighs, cusses, and gathers her things to take back to the bedroom.

  Being outdone by the pooch does have one advantage. I’ve never seen my mother move faster than when she’s “gettin’ it” down the hall as fast as those wheels will turn to claim the chair while Wicket’s outside sunning herself. Mother strikes hard and fast and settles herself into place.

  And when Wicket co
mes bounding inside and runs over to the recliner, I’d swear I could see a rather malicious grin begin to take shape on that precious little face.

  When I was a child, we had an annual reunion of my grandmother’s children, always held at my Aunt Ida and Uncle Al’s grand, two-story showpiece of a house on Sixteenth Street in Bessemer. One of the most memorable of these festive gatherings took place when I was seven.

  The 1956 reunion began with spit-shining everything in sight, spending days in the kitchen preparing baked goods, and assembling fine china, silver, and crystal for setting three large mahogany dining tables, placed together so that they resembled a huge T. Folding chairs borrowed from the First Presbyterian Church provided extra seating for this grand ensemble.

  My Aunt Ida, all atwitter, wringing her hands as she darted from room to room, issued orders to the rest of us, including me and my brother. I was to set the tables, play hymns on the organ (it calmed my aunt’s nerves), and keep every last bit of dust out of the dining room. My four-year-old brother, Fred, had only two orders: stay out of the way and out of the mud.

  My grandmother’s seven children and their families filtered in one by one. Among them was Paschal (the Snake Watcher), now called Pat, who’d moved from the mountains of Tennessee to the higher ones of Utah. There, he married a timid Mormon woman, my Aunt Jane, whole-heartedly embraced the Mormon community, and later, fathered a son named Lewis.

  No father was ever prouder of a son. And though he was not red-haired and freckle-faced like his dad, there was no denying the resemblance otherwise. Even at four years old, Lewis walked like his dad, talked like him, and carried himself exactly as his devout father did. He could quote scripture as readily as any minister, wore a suit and tie just like his father’s, and rarely caused a commotion.

  The other members of the family would whisper, “Pat’s here. Watch your mouth, now. Don’t say anything to offend him.”

  We all knew to be on our best behaviour when Uncle Pat, Aunt Jane, and Lewis were around. So, with the table set, the food in its place, and manners polished, the lot of us took our seats at the grand tables for this reunion dinner.

  There was no question of who would say the blessing. That task, of course, fell to the little preacher himself.

  “Lewis, honey, would you say Grace for us?” my Aunt Ida asked.

  Lewis nodded, folded his hands, and began a long, sweet prayer thanking God for not only the food but for every blessing he could think of, including his new red bicycle.

  Hungry family members began to fidget. Stomachs growled.

  Finally, we heard Lewis say, “Amen.”

  As everyone looked up, ready to eat, Lewis smiled and added a footnote to his prayer. “And now, will you all please kiss my butt. Pass the potatoes,” he added sweetly.

  We sat in stunned silence until my brother elbowed me, and we both forgot our manners. We burst out laughing, aware that we had violated a cardinal rule of table etiquette.

  Suddenly, my mother, my grandmother, and my Aunt Ida, along with several others, left the table carrying plates that didn’t need to be refilled. Laughter pealed from the kitchen.

  Uncle Pat, Aunt Jane, and Lewis ate as if nothing had happened.

  I heard for years afterward that my family members had all said, “Well, if it had been one of Frollie’s (my mother’s nickname) kids, we wouldn’t have thought a thing about it. But Lewis?”

  Lewis grew up to have an illustrious career as a fighter pilot then later an instructor. He’s lived and flown all over the world, raised three successful children, and remained devoted to his father.

  Yet every time we see Lewis, my mother invariably says, “Lewis, do you remember the time when…”

  Lewis just shakes his head as he listens for the hundredth time about his racy blessing fifty years ago.

  “I was only four years old,” he insists, as if that will change the continued retelling of the tale. He swears that no matter what else he achieves in life, he will always be defined by a single incident that occurred when he was a little boy.

  Much to his dismay, he’s absolutely right.

  Even at her age (82), my mother still taunts Lewis every time she sees him. It is one of her most pleasant memories now. She laughs and laughs every time she tells that story.

  Lewis visited not long ago, and of course, my mother wasted no time in reminding him of his earlier transgressions. But Lewis just laughs at it now. God’s Grace has given my mother a pleasant memory which she delights in almost daily and my cousin Lewis the strength to hear it again and again and still be able to laugh.

  My mother was in the hospital for two weeks, and in that time, she lived simultaneously in two different worlds: the world of the present and the world I call her “reader” world, where she appears to have been transported into the time and place of a very good book.

  Yes, she has dementia. Yet, her behaviour convinces me that although this can be a harrowing disease, my mother is truly absorbed in her world, enjoying it most of the time, just the way we all do when we stumble upon a wonderful book. The story, the characters, the setting all become real to us, as real as if we were actually there as each drama unfolds.

  Each day when the doctor visited, he directed the same question to me. “How’s her state of mind? Is she still confused?”

  My mother smiled sweetly at him. “How are you?” she asked and nodded politely, as if he were someone she knew but couldn’t quite place. “Good,” she said. “Thanks for dropping by. And tell that dumb bunny at the desk that I don’t appreciate this parking space. I want to be up front where I can see the play.”

  The doctor jotted something on the chart and cut his eyes toward me. My mother, watching him like a hawk, said, “Did you hear me? When those boys told us to pull over and took Daddy’s car, they left me. How do they expect me to see the story from way back here?”

  “Mrs. Frawley, are you having any pain?” the doctor asked.

  My mother glanced at me. A wicked grin spread across her face.

  Oh, no, here it comes.

  “Well, just the pain in my hind end.”

  “Mother,” I interrupted. “Be nice.”

  “Just the pain in my rear from being stuck back here so I can’t see a thing that’s going on,” she said. “I’d like to find out what happened to that handsome man. Did you see those roses in his hand? My Lord, I’ll bet there were two dozen. Who’s he going to give them to? And did you see that suit? I’ll bet he’s a real charmer!”

  The doctor patted her on the leg. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tell the nurses if you need anything.”

  “Hey!” my mother called to him.

  He turned.

  “There’s no nurses around here,” she declared. “What do you think this is, a hospital?”

  “Yes,” the doc responded. “This is a hospital.”

  My mother cut her eyes toward me then cupped her hand over her mouth and whispered, “Crazy as a betsy bug, ain’t he?”

  The good doctor waved on his way out.

  Just then, one of the nurses walked in and took my mother’s hand.

  “Hey, darlin’,” the nurse said. “How are you this morning?”

  “Who was that kook who just left here?” my mother asked. “That idiot thinks he’s in the hospital. He didn’t even see the man with your roses. And he didn’t say one word about my new dress.”

  “Well, now isn’t that just like a man?” the nurse replied.

  The two of them laughed together as if they knew a special secret. Then my mother motioned for the nurse to come closer.

  “Don’t you worry, honey,” my mother said. “I’ll never tell him our secret. You’re so pretty. I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for a million dollars.”

  The nurse glanced at me, but I just shrugged. I didn’t have a clue.

  “I’d never tell anybody you used to be a prostitute and you just got out of jail.

  Cringe.

  “That’s just between
us girls. Nothin’ is gonna ruin our time at the dance. We’ll be the belles of the ball. And just think about all those roses we’re gonna get.”

  And then I understood, as if God’s angels whispered to me.

  My mother, an avid reader of romance novels, had transported herself. Handsome men in suits? Bouquets of roses? Dances? Who wouldn’t want her life re-imagined as a romance novel with mysterious new dramas unfolding every day?

  Sounds like a pretty good book to me, a timeless classic just like my mother.

  Like her sister before her, my mother is always on the move, always headed to the same place: home.

  She is aware that the house we are in is hers, but she still believes that there is another “home” where she is supposed to be. Her purse is always crammed full of objects that she doesn’t want to leave behind…a small glass vase, a framed photo of my step-dad, toothpaste, band-aids, and even a coffee cup. I routinely go through her purse, remove most of the items and put them back where they belong. She doesn’t seem to notice and enjoys filling up her purse every day with cherished items, different ones than those of the day before.

  “Oh, I don’t want to forget this one,” she’ll say as she stuffs a trinket into the handbag.

  Almost every day, she tells me the same story about yesterday’s “visit” to her home.

  “You know, Sister, those folks have the very same furniture as we do. Every room over there looks like this house. It’ll be good to get back home.”

  And every day I respond, “Mother, you are home. This is your home. You’ve lived here for almost thirty years.”

  She smiles and nods her head, as if she agrees with me and understands what I’ve said.

  But a few minutes later, she’ll say, “What time are we leaving in the morning to go home?”

  Sometimes, I make no response at all until she asks a similar question, “When should I get up in the morning so we can leave?”