nightgown, she shuffled across the room in what looked like Karl's slippers and plopped with a deep sigh into her favorite chair.
"Would you like something, Mom'?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I don't like thinking about my mother," she said softly. "It hurts. I wanted to go to the phone to call her this morning like I usually do before Shadows at Dawn. I actually lifted the receiver before I remembered she was gone."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "What can I do?" she cried.
"We could talk, Mom. Sometimes it feels better when you talk about what's bothering you," I said. My counselors always used that line on me when I was at the orphanages. There really was some truth to it, however.
Thelma stared at me a moment. "I can't," she said, shaking her head. "Every time I think about her, I start to cry. I can't. It's better not to think" She snapped up the television remote as if it were a bottle of pills promising relief.
She turned on the television set and flipped through the channels until she found a program she liked this time, she left the sound on, too. She began to react to what she was watching, smiling, laughing, looking concerned. I had begun to read again when I suddenly heard her say, "I dread going to the funeral tomorrow. Why do we have to have funerals?"
"It's our last chance to say good-bye," I said, even though I had never been to a funeral before and the very thought of going put almost as much apprehension in me.
"I don't want to say good-bye." She moaned. "I hate good-byes. I wish I could just sit here and watch it on television. That way, if it got too sad, I could turn it off, turn to something else."
"My psychologist at the orphanage always told me it's worse to avoid your problems, Mom. It's better to face them and deal with them," I said softly.
She stared at me a moment and then smiled "You're so smart," she said. "We're lucky to have you. I will have something to eat. Could you make me some scrambled eggs and toast?"
"Sure," I said, getting up quickly.
"And some coffee," she called as I started out. Then she turned back to her program.
Thelma remained there most of the day, getting up only to go to the bathroom. I made her lunch as well. She didn't talk unless she had a comment to make about something she was watching. The highlight of her day began when her first soap was on. After that, I might as well have gone to school. Karl called to see how she was and to tell me that he had someone taking care of Grandpa. I told him what Thelma was doing.
"Maybe she's better off," he said.
"I'm not doing much," I complained I wanted to add that he'd been right. I should have gone to school.
"You're there. That's something," he said. "She probably wouldn't eat anything otherwise."
He was right about that, but I still felt more like a maid than a daughter. I wanted to talk. I wanted to hear Thelma tell stories about her mother, about what it was like being her daughter, the things they had shared, their precious moments, all that she would miss. I wanted to feel that I was part of a family and not back in the orphanage with strangers.
When Thelma started to cry about what was happening to a character on her program, I got up and went to my room. How could she care so much more about make-believe people? Was it because it felt safer? The program ended, and you didn't have to think about them anymore? Was that it? But Thelma seemed to think about the characters constantly, not just when the show was on. I couldn't make any sense of it.
A little while later, the doorbell rang. It was Ashley and her mother again, only this time Bernie was with them.
"Hi," I said, smiling mostly for Bernie's benefit.
"How's she doing?" Mrs. Raymond asked.
"She's been watching television, trying not to think about it," I said.
"I don't blame her," Mrs. Raymond said.
"We brought all your homework," Ashley said. "And Bernie came along to help explain anything new."
"Thanks."
I stepped back, and everyone entered. Mrs. Raymond went to
"Would you like something, Mom'?" I asked.
She shook her head. "I don't like thinking about my mother," she said softly. "It hurts. I wanted to go to the phone to call her this morning like I usually do before Shadows at Dawn. I actually lifted the receiver before I remembered she was gone."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes. "What can I do?" she cried.
"We could talk, Mom. Sometimes it feels better when you talk about what's bothering you," I said. My counselors always used that line on me when I was at the orphanages. There really was some truth to it, however.
Thelma stared at me a moment. "I can't," she said, shaking her head. "Every time I think about her, I start to cry. I can't. It's better not to think" She snapped up the television remote as if it were a bottle of pills promising relief.
She turned on the television set and flipped through the channels until she found a program she liked this time, she left the sound on, too. She began to react to what she was watching, smiling, laughing, looking concerned. I had begun to read again when I suddenly heard her say, "I dread going to the funeral tomorrow. Why do we have to have funerals?"
"It's our last chance to say good-bye," I said, even though I had never been to a funeral before and the very thought of going put almost as much apprehension in me.
"I don't want to say good-bye." She moaned. "I hate good-byes. I wish I could just sit here and watch it on television. That way, if it got too sad, I could turn it off, turn to something else."
"My psychologist at the orphanage always told me it's worse to avoid your problems, Mom. It's better to face them and deal with them," I said softly.
She stared at me a moment and then smiled "You're so smart," she said. "We're lucky to have you. I will have something to eat. Could you make me some scrambled eggs and toast?"
"Sure," I said, getting up quickly.
"And some coffee," she called as I started out. Then she turned back to her program.
Thelma remained there most of the day, getting up only to go to the bathroom. I made her lunch as well. She didn't talk unless she had a comment to make about something she was watching. The highlight of her day began when her first soap was on. After that, I might as well have gone to school. Karl called to see how she was and to tell me that he had someone taking care of Grandpa. I told him what Thelma was doing.
"Maybe she's better off," he said.
"I'm not doing much," I complained I wanted to add that he'd been right. I should have gone to school.
"You're there. That's something," he said. "She probably wouldn't eat anything otherwise."
He was right about that, but I still felt more like a maid than a daughter. I wanted to talk. I wanted to hear Thelma tell stories about her mother, about what it was like being her daughter, the things they had shared, their precious moments, all that she would miss. I wanted to feel that I was part of a family and not back in the orphanage with strangers.
When Thelma started to cry about what was happening to a character on her program, I got up and went to my room. How could she care so much more about make-believe people? Was it because it felt safer? The program ended, and you didn't have to think about them anymore? Was that it? But Thelma seemed to think about the characters constantly, not just when the show was on. I couldn't make any sense of it.
A little while later, the doorbell rang. It was Ashley and her mother again, only this time Bernie was with them.
"Hi," I said, smiling mostly for Bernie's benefit.
"How's she doing?" Mrs. Raymond asked.
"She's been watching television, trying not to think about it," I said.
"I don't blame her," Mrs. Raymond said.
"We brought all your homework," Ashley said. "And Bernie came along to help explain anything new."
"Thanks."
I stepped back, and everyone entered. Mrs. Raymond went to
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