telephoned to inform him that a bed on the transitional-care floor at the hospital was available. His mother could get physical therapy there and not have to move anywhere for a while.
He wasn’t sure what he said. He felt delirious—confused, relieved. The woman jabbered on through the bureaucratic switch-yards of Medicare. He wasn’t sure which of the social workers she was. Their names and voices had overlapped in his mind.
Reed didn’t know if it was night or day.
It didn’t seem like a nursing home. It was just another hospital floor, but the rooms in transitional care had decorative touches, such as plastic bouquets and colorful posters and tulip-bordered wallpaper. Reed knew his mother was too tired to notice, or she would have said something sarcastic.
Glad that she was no longer lashed to an I.V., he rolled her down the corridor in her recliner chair. “We’re flying too fast,” she protested.
“What’s going on in your head, Ma?” he said.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” she said.
She didn’t ask about his kids, and Reed didn’t mention them. Their indifference to their grandmother pained him. Dalton, who kept in touch by e-mail, had sent him pages and pages of Internet mumbo jumbo about nuclear doom. After receiving one particular nuclear-winter scenario, Reed shot back an e-mail: “Dalt, if I’m gonna glow, at least you’ll be able to find me when the lights go out.” Reed no longer mentioned his mother to either of his children, because they never inquired about her, even though they knew she was in the hospital. Reed would have admonished them for their neglect except that he knew he had done worse with his own grand-parents. Now that they had been dead for years, he felt wistful about them, wondering what they had known that he needed to know now.
In the lounge, which was equipped with a mega-TV, game tables, and a kitchen nook, Reed paused before the aquarium so that his mother could see the parade of yellow sunfish kissing the glass, but she was nodding sleepily. Parking her there, he stepped across the room to the window. He was on the seventh floor, so he had a broad view of the plant, with the plumes rising out of the gray area. The rest was green. Green from ear to ear, he thought. He felt bolted in place, with his mother behind him, this expanse before him, and Julia nowhere in sight. Even though he apparently had been spared, for now, the impossible job of caring for his mother, he felt anxious, suspended. His mother was here now, alive, but anything could happen. This was one of those moments of clarity that visited him from time to time, when he saw himself in context. Sometimes it was frightening.
14
At the food court in the mall, Reed bought a calzone smothered with tomato sauce. It was lunchtime on Saturday, and the place was crowded. He found a tiny table, with a wadded napkin and a smear of ketchup on it. A family sat down at the table next to him—a small girl and boy, parents. The children snatched at their burger bags, but the father firmly held them out of reach.
“You can’t have them till I get the prizes out,” he said. “I’m going to kill somebody if this doesn’t stop. Now sit down. Let me have those bags.”
Reed cringed. He could remember being in the same scene, when he had young kids.
The man’s temper had sulled the wife into silence, Reed noticed. She calmly laid out her napkin, her knife, her fork, and opened her own bag of food. Her husband rummaged in the children’s bags, removed the cookies and the plastic toys, and then handed the bags to the children. “You can have these if you eat all your hamburgers,” he said.
The children didn’t seem to notice their father’s murderous temper. “I wanted a ladybug, but I’ll get the tiger,” the little girl said to no one. “Do we get to stop at the slides?” the boy said.
Nobody answered. The man said, “Not one more peep out of you. I’m going to see some good behavior here or
He wasn’t sure what he said. He felt delirious—confused, relieved. The woman jabbered on through the bureaucratic switch-yards of Medicare. He wasn’t sure which of the social workers she was. Their names and voices had overlapped in his mind.
Reed didn’t know if it was night or day.
It didn’t seem like a nursing home. It was just another hospital floor, but the rooms in transitional care had decorative touches, such as plastic bouquets and colorful posters and tulip-bordered wallpaper. Reed knew his mother was too tired to notice, or she would have said something sarcastic.
Glad that she was no longer lashed to an I.V., he rolled her down the corridor in her recliner chair. “We’re flying too fast,” she protested.
“What’s going on in your head, Ma?” he said.
“You wouldn’t want to know,” she said.
She didn’t ask about his kids, and Reed didn’t mention them. Their indifference to their grandmother pained him. Dalton, who kept in touch by e-mail, had sent him pages and pages of Internet mumbo jumbo about nuclear doom. After receiving one particular nuclear-winter scenario, Reed shot back an e-mail: “Dalt, if I’m gonna glow, at least you’ll be able to find me when the lights go out.” Reed no longer mentioned his mother to either of his children, because they never inquired about her, even though they knew she was in the hospital. Reed would have admonished them for their neglect except that he knew he had done worse with his own grand-parents. Now that they had been dead for years, he felt wistful about them, wondering what they had known that he needed to know now.
In the lounge, which was equipped with a mega-TV, game tables, and a kitchen nook, Reed paused before the aquarium so that his mother could see the parade of yellow sunfish kissing the glass, but she was nodding sleepily. Parking her there, he stepped across the room to the window. He was on the seventh floor, so he had a broad view of the plant, with the plumes rising out of the gray area. The rest was green. Green from ear to ear, he thought. He felt bolted in place, with his mother behind him, this expanse before him, and Julia nowhere in sight. Even though he apparently had been spared, for now, the impossible job of caring for his mother, he felt anxious, suspended. His mother was here now, alive, but anything could happen. This was one of those moments of clarity that visited him from time to time, when he saw himself in context. Sometimes it was frightening.
14
At the food court in the mall, Reed bought a calzone smothered with tomato sauce. It was lunchtime on Saturday, and the place was crowded. He found a tiny table, with a wadded napkin and a smear of ketchup on it. A family sat down at the table next to him—a small girl and boy, parents. The children snatched at their burger bags, but the father firmly held them out of reach.
“You can’t have them till I get the prizes out,” he said. “I’m going to kill somebody if this doesn’t stop. Now sit down. Let me have those bags.”
Reed cringed. He could remember being in the same scene, when he had young kids.
The man’s temper had sulled the wife into silence, Reed noticed. She calmly laid out her napkin, her knife, her fork, and opened her own bag of food. Her husband rummaged in the children’s bags, removed the cookies and the plastic toys, and then handed the bags to the children. “You can have these if you eat all your hamburgers,” he said.
The children didn’t seem to notice their father’s murderous temper. “I wanted a ladybug, but I’ll get the tiger,” the little girl said to no one. “Do we get to stop at the slides?” the boy said.
Nobody answered. The man said, “Not one more peep out of you. I’m going to see some good behavior here or
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