Mother, Can You Hear Me? Read online

  If I’m in a calm state of mind, I’ll simply say, “Where are we going?”

  My mother’s prompt answer is always the same: “Well, we’re going back home.”

  At times, I’m so exasperated that when I hear the question for the hundredth time that day, I just want to scream. Sometimes, I want to cry. I get so tired of hearing it and trying to explain. I can’t seem to get it through my head that logic just doesn’t work.

  All the textbooks offer this simple fix: Play along with whatever the patient says.

  After the fiftieth question of the morning about our leaving time, I answered, “I think we’ll leave about ten. We can have breakfast first then be on our way home.”

  A smile, then silence from my mother.

  Until a few minutes later when she said, “Where are we going?”

  “Home,” I said.

  “But this is my home, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw the pan of bacon out the window, though it was pretty tempting there for a minute. How would I ever explain to the insurance company that it was an accident, and the pan simply slipped out of my hand and went flying through the window?

  I’ve done a lot of thinking about going home. I’m convinced that both my mother and my Aunt Ida (Lawrence) wanted to go back to the home they loved as young girls in Huntsville, a beautiful two-story house with fireplaces in the bedrooms, a nice kitchen, and a huge front porch. Magnolias and dogwoods blossomed in the front yard, protected all around by a white picket fence. My grandmother secured the house from the wealthy family who owned it in exchange for sewing and housekeeping. They lived there for several years, years filled with prosperity and, for the first time for this hardworking single parent and her children, fun and friends.

  Now, when my mother asks me when we’re going home, I try to remember how much she loved sitting at her mother’s feet by the fireplace in Huntsville, her mother stroking her hair and telling her stories about the family. She’d fall asleep most nights on the soft rug, feeling the warmth of the fire and the gentle touch of her mother’s hand on her small shoulders.

  It seems I cannot tell her we are going home, and I cannot tell her we aren’t. So, my strategy for dealing with this became very simple. When she would insist that we were going home, I would say, “Mother, tell me what it’s like there. I’ve forgotten.”

  Oh, the stories they do flow from her, and for a few minutes, she is content to tell me one tale after the other, all the while asking, “Don’t you remember, Sister?”

  I nod as if I do, and she continues the tale.

  Then, suddenly, she begins to cry, and for some reason, I can’t hold back my tears.

  “I miss my mama,” she says.

  Yes, I miss mine, too.

  And then, just as suddenly, she starts to chuckle.

  “Do you remember that time in the henhouse? Lordy, what a mess they made of Anna’s kitchen. I thought Papa would never get over it. They lost Hack a few years after that. Remember how sad we were? How I loved that boy. He’s my hero, ya know.”

  A big smile spread across her face.

  Grace.

  With all the talk about money these days, there are lessons to be learned, lessons which can prove to be quite beneficial, and in an odd way, comforting.

  I’m the first to admit that even though I’ve grown up in a family full of excellent cooks, I didn’t inherit either the love of or the skill for cooking. Oh, I try, and occasionally I surprise myself and others with an edible dish. My cooking skills have improved somewhat over the last year since I’ve become the full-time chef responsible for three meals a day for my mother whose hearty appetite makes filling her up a challenge. When there’s something specific she wants to eat, she doesn’t hesitate to tell me.

  “Let’s cook a pot roast tomorrow,” she said one evening, implying that the venture would be accomplished by more than one cook. “Let’s?” Since I’m the only cook in the house, there’s no “Let’s” involved.

  All right, I thought, a pot roast it is. I made a trip to Publix, got a roast, potatoes, carrots, onions, and mushrooms. I spent a good hour preparing the ingredients, slapped them into the crock pot, and left them all day.

  By suppertime (around 4:30 as anything later than that is apt to cause a catastrophic reaction), my mother was starved and ready to sample the fare.

  I portioned out the roast, sautéed the mushrooms, garnished with a little green onion and put the plate in front of her.

  “Ooh, that looks so good. I can hardly wait to taste it.”

  Eager for praise, I stood by while she took her first bite. But the smile on her face vanished when she took a second bite.

  “I can’t eat this crap,” she said and threw her fork onto the plate.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I asked.

  “It’s terrible. It doesn’t taste like Mama’s at all. Here,” she said and handed me the plate. “Take this. Maybe you ought to read some of those cookbooks over there. Just fix me a bowl of cereal.”

  A bowl of cereal? I took a deep breath, said a short prayer for kindness and patience (and ridding myself of thoughts of murder), and dutifully poured a bowl of Frosted Flakes.

  The next morning, Mother said, “Ooh, wouldn’t some chilli be good in this cold weather?”

  Chili? All day long in the kitchen? I relented, resigned myself to the preparation. After a full day’s worth of browning, mixing, stirring, and tasting, I dished up a bowl of chilli, topped it with cheddar cheese, made my mother’s favourite cheese toast, and tossed together a small salad.

  After the first bite, she wrinkled her nose, looked up at me and said, “What in the world is this mess? I thought you were going to make chilli. I had my mouth all set for it. Never mind, I’ll just eat the toast.”

  But when she asked for tuna salad the next day, I smiled. Tuna salad is one of my favourite foods. On a sandwich with tomato and dill pickle, it’s yummy. Within an hour, I finished the creation just in time for supper. With a side of lima beans, the meal was complete, the presentation stunning. I gazed at the plate and felt as if I’d earned a gold medal in the Olympics.

  “Tuna salad,” my mother said, the disappointment evident in her tone. “Oh. Have you ever thought about going to cooking school? You love school. You’ve got all those degrees. Why don’t you look into it?”

  At this point, dear reader, you might be asking yourself how I manage to maintain a semblance of sanity. The answer is really quite simple: money.

  When my mother asked the next day for some homemade lasagne, I said, “Sure, no problem.”

  I grabbed my purse, told my son to keep an eye on his Nanny, and made a short trip, not to the grocery store but to Bob Sykes.

  A few minutes and $15 later, I presented my son with a burger, my mother with a plate of ribs, sauce on the side, coleslaw, onion rings, and toast. She beamed and ate every bite, saying “Ooh, this is the best meal you’ve fixed in a long time.”

  See? In this case, money solved my problem. Of course, with the money I spend for take-out, I might not be able to afford that cooking school my mother keeps talking about. But then, we all must make sacrifices in these hard times.

  Santa Claus was good to everyone in our family this Christmas. Well, everyone except one member. We very nearly had a catastrophe on our hands because Santa seemed to forget the smallest one of us.

  She was good, very good, especially during the week before Christmas. She didn’t cause a single bit of trouble, did exactly as she was told, and even went to bed promptly at nine every night. As soon as the presents began to pile up under the tree, she went every day, just out of curiosity, to make sure they were all lined up perfectly. On the night before Christmas, she inspected the gifts one more time, being ever so careful not to disturb them, then went to bed early to wait for Santa to appear with her gifts.

  But even as good as she had been, Santa left her nothing, not a single gift under the tree.

  She waited at the door
early on Christmas morning just in case he’d forgotten and would return with her surprises. And when she didn’t see him, she paced the floor in front of the tree hoping that Santa had hidden her gifts in an unexpected place. So, she inspected every corner of the living room. She looked under the sofa, beside the end tables, and around the coffee table. Finally, she took to the tree again and nudged her way as far up under it as she could get. When she emerged, the look on her sad little face said, “Santa forgot about me.”

  Nothing we could do soothed her. She walked over to my brother and, with that pitifully sad face, watched as he opened his gifts. He finally looked at me and said, “Sister, isn’t there anything under the tree for her?”

  I shook my head. No, I’d forgotten.

  Then, she walked over to my sister-in-law and stared at her as she tore off the paper from two brightly coloured boxes. Nothing for her there, either.

  She moved on to my mother, whose lap was piled high with presents. She sat down at her feet and stared as my mother opened first one box then the other and then another.

  “Joy, look here,” Mother said. “Look how sad she looks. Are you sure she doesn’t have a gift under there?”

  I shook my head again. I could tell from the look on that little face that she’d almost decided never to speak to Santa Claus again.

  Finally, she walked over to my son. He opened his gifts as she watched, but the strain was too much for her. She bowed her little head and shuffled slowly off toward the den.

  “I think I know a secret,” my son said.

  She stopped and looked at him, head still down.

  He walked over to the tree, picked up a piece of multi-colored tissue paper, and rattled it a few times.

  “Look what I’ve found for you,” he said and handed her a yummy treat. She accepted her gift and snuggled up next to her brother.

  “See there, baby,” my mother said.

  She scowled at me briefly then turned her gaze back to my son and smiled. “I knew you’d save the day,” she said and winked at him.

  Thankfully, Santa had redeemed himself in the eyes of one very small and equally hopeful Pekingese named Wicket.

  Ah, how I’ve waited for the day when my mother could walk unassisted. Now that it has finally arrived, I realize that independence isn’t nearly as grand as I’d imagined.

  My mother, who’s been unable to care for herself for almost a year, has literally taken her first steps toward independence. She walked from the den into the kitchen without her walker. Granted, she did some “furniture walking,” the term therapists use when people hold on to pieces of furniture as they walk, but even that is a major accomplishment.

  When I watched her do it, I imagined not only her independence but mine, as well. Ah, now I can have more time to myself, go out occasionally, even plan a weekend trip. Oh yes, they were visions of grandeur.

  She stood in the kitchen, a big smile on her face, and looked around.

  “This is a nice kitchen, isn’t it?” She spoke as if she’d never seen the kitchen before.

  “It’s a wonderful kitchen, Mother. Remember last year when we remodelled it?”

  She looked a bit perplexed. “It’s always been this way. I used to cook Thanksgiving dinner in here.”

  I didn’t argue, even though I knew that we’d renovated last year when Mother ran her car through the garage wall and into the kitchen. She wasn’t hurt, but the kitchen required a total makeover.

  Suddenly, something caught her attention. “Where’d that ugly thing come from?” she asked pointing to the toaster. “You didn’t throw away my good one, did you?”

  “The old one was on its last legs, so I relieved it of duty. It’s out on the back porch.”

  “There wasn’t a thing wrong with that toaster,” she said and frowned. “I probably can’t even work that new fangled gadget.”

  I walked to the toaster. “It’s simple, Mother. Just put the bread in and wait for it to pop up. I’ve already set it to “dark” the way you like it. There’s even a slot for bagels, and a special setting for English muffins. You like those sometimes with your eggs in the morning, don’t you?”

  She just shook her head and grabbed onto the counter to turn around. She mumbled something I couldn’t quite understand.

  “Mother, I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?”

  “You threw out my toaster. After all these years, you threw it away. I loved that toaster.”

  I sighed.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked, ready to fire up the stove and start the bacon.

  “I’m starving,” my mother said, “but who could eat anything being so upset?”

  She balanced herself first on the island counter then on the two overstuffed chairs in the den. She plopped down in hers and pulled the tray table toward her. “I’m just too upset to eat.”

  “Won’t you at least have some coffee?”

  She shook her head and scowled at me.

  But after a few minutes, she relented, the new toaster forgotten…or so I thought. She had a lovely breakfast, her usual, of bacon, eggs, and toast, though she said the toast tasted funny. She thought it might be poisoned.

  Later that afternoon, as I was coming upstairs from the laundry room, I heard what sounded like someone rummaging through boxes. I ran up the stairs and into the den. Mother wasn’t in her chair. I saw movement on the back porch, so I rushed out there.

  She stood, her walker nowhere in sight, amidst a heap of discarded pots and pans, old dishes, and opened black garbage bags, the contents spilling out onto the floor.

  “Mother, what are you doing? You shouldn’t be out here. You could’ve fallen.”

  I could hardly believe all the mess on the porch. How had she managed to empty out so many boxes by herself?

  “Mother, can you hear me?” I stood in front of her. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I came out here for something,” she said. “I need to sit down, Sister.”

  “What were you looking for?” I asked and slid an empty lawn chair close to her.

  “Look!” she cried. “There it is on the shelf up there. Get it down.”

  I scanned the shelves until I saw it—the toaster, her old toaster. Thank heavens I’d given it a thorough cleaning before I put it out on the shelf.

  “Hurry,” she said. “I want some toast out of a real toaster.”

  Back inside, I found a few inches of empty countertop space and plugged in the old toaster. Then, I made Mother two slices smeared with lots of butter, just the way she’s always loved it.

  She ate one slice and grimaced. Then, she threw the toast back onto the plate.

  “What’s the matter, Mother? It’s just like you wanted it, isn’t it?”

  She screwed up her face.

  “It tastes like dog poo. Tomorrow I’m going to Wal-Mart to buy a new toaster. Will you take me?”

  “But, we have a new…”

  I didn’t finish the sentence.

  I could take her to Wal-Mart, get a wheelchair, roll her through the store, and let her pick out a toaster.

  After all, she’s independent now.

  I consider myself pretty good at solving mysteries. Pretty good, that is, until the mystery involves my mother.

  She stood in the doorway to the den leaning on her walker, a broad smile on her face. Dressed in one of her best outfits, a dark pink top and pants, her hair combed, she asked “Hey, who do I look like? Betcha’ can’t guess.”

  I rinsed off a dish, dried my hands, and surveyed the smear of bright red lipstick on her lips, the heavy foundation blotched around her face, the dark brushed eyebrows, the circles of fuchsia-coloured rouge on her cheeks. I gave her an A+ for the effort of putting on makeup with one hand. (Her bad arm that had miraculously healed itself in the nursing facility had returned to its former useless state.)

  “Come on,” she said. “Guess. Who do I look like?”

  I flipped through my mental rolodex trying to figure out who she wan
ted to look like. A movie star maybe? I knew she used to admire Loretta Young, so I made a guess.

  “I don’t know. Loretta Young?”

  “That old coot with the swingy dresses? Who’d want to look like her? Good Lord, my hind end would make her a Sunday face.”

  Well, so much for my admiration theory.

  My mother made her way to her favourite chair (our little dog can’t make the jump anymore, so there’s, sadly, no competition for the seat). “Come on, now. Guess,” she said as she inched her way onto the chair.

  I thought about her favourite movies, and it came to me. I smiled at my own cleverness.

  “Julia Roberts,” I said, knowing that she loves the movie “Pretty Woman” and watches it whenever it comes on TV. She’s seen it at least twenty times. She never tires of seeing Richard Gere, with a bouquet of roses in his hand, rescue Julia from that balcony.

  My mother looked at me and frowned.

  “You need your eyes checked,” she said.

  I walked over and sat across from her on the sofa. I was stumped.

  “Okay, then, tell me who you look like,” I said. “I can’t figure it out.”

  My mother just shook her head. A few seconds later, she burst out laughing and laughed so hard that tears ran down her face, clearing little paths through the heavy makeup.

  “Come on, Mother. Tell me. I can’t stand it anymore,” I said.

  But she was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk.

  I waited on the sofa for a few minutes until the laughter subsided. “Will you just give me a little hint?”

  She cut her eyes toward me, and a big grin spread across her face.

  “Whenever I got all dolled up to go out somewhere,” she said, “Mama would tell me that I looked like…” Then the laughter started again.

  Exasperated, I walked into the kitchen to start lunch. Mother was still laughing when she motioned me over.

  “Mama always said I looked like a Friday tart going to a Saturday shindig.”

  She was still laughing when I went back into the kitchen to finish lunch.