to catch up.
“I’m just saying.”
“I didn’t just throw her in this nursing home without talking to a host of gerontologists, physicians, and other counselors, as well as seeing several other places. You’d know what a huge process it was if you’d been around.”
“Now who’s being a bitch? I’m just trying to have a discussion. Maybe we could move her back home now that I’m here, just until I find something better. Save some money.”
“This place is free, moneybags.” Tig wrenched open the car door.
“Why is it free again?”
“I don’t know why. Mom had it all taken care of and paid for years ago.”
“Don’t you think you should figure out why? And it’ll be free for how long?” Wendy walked to the passenger side, looking at Tig over the roof of the sedan.
“Listen, big sister,” Tig said icily. “You think because she remembers your name that means something? It means nothing! None of it means anything. The only thing that means anything anymore are the memories we have of Mom, and keeping her safe. Leave the finances to me. I’ll figure it out.”
Tig dumped herself into the front seat of the car and took a breath. She grasped the steering wheel and, white-knuckled, yanked it ferociously. The effort seemed to tap her stores and she sat breathlessly.
Wendy tapped on the window. “Tig. Unlock the door.”
A golf cart inched across the path just in front of the car. A nursing assistant in scrubs and a shrunken stub of a man sat in the front seat, unaware of the temper tantrum happening to their left.
Wendy knocked again on the window and pointed to the door handle. “Unlock the door.”
Tig popped the locks and Wendy quietly entered the car.
“I liked it better when I was the big sister.”
Tig said, “You can step up any time.”
“There’s not room at the top. You’d have to move over or step down.”
Tig started the car and the two women buckled their seat belts. She heard her sister sigh quietly. Wendy said, “She did say one thing that was odd, you know, besides treating you like you were the bellboy.”
“Yeah? What was that?”
“She said the daisies were from Daddy.”
• • •
In her mother’s old room at Tig’s house, cardboard boxes, black garbage bags, and plastic bins cinched the bedroom, with the only open space in the center of the room. Old manila files, scarves, and photographs lay on every horizontal plane. A twin bed with a seafoam green chenille bedspread occupied a windowless wall. “There’s hardly room for a person in here,” Wendy said, pulling on her tennis shoes.
“When Mom moved in, I didn’t store everything she owned. She loved to sit and sort through her files from the clinic. Sometimes she’d talk about her favorite animals. I thought it might stimulate her memories. Our school files are in here, along with her wedding pictures and old letters. We’ll make room for your stuff this week. The only thing I’ve got going on is practice for the show.”
“I saw a promo in the newspaper.”
“Jesus, I’m a nervous wreck about it.” Then, changing the topic, Tig said, “Did you call Phil? Tell him to send your stuff?”
“Did you call Pete?”
“The one who gets left doesn’t do the calling.”
“Did you learn that in counseling graduate school?”
“Yes, in the master class,” Tig said with a grunt, hefting a plastic bin and uncovering a ruddy stain on the carpet. She bent, ran her hand over the stiffened patch. “This is what finally convinced me to move Mom. I came home to several bloody handprints and wads of paper towels, starting in the kitchen and leading like a breadcrumb trail to Mom. I found her asleep here on the floor, a half-eaten apple in her wounded hand, and Thatcher pacing nervously. It was like a scene in a Hollywood slasher movie that ended in a nap and a snack for the victim.”
“God, poor Mom,” said Wendy. “She’d hate to know this was her life.”
“I know.” A glimmer of metal
“I’m just saying.”
“I didn’t just throw her in this nursing home without talking to a host of gerontologists, physicians, and other counselors, as well as seeing several other places. You’d know what a huge process it was if you’d been around.”
“Now who’s being a bitch? I’m just trying to have a discussion. Maybe we could move her back home now that I’m here, just until I find something better. Save some money.”
“This place is free, moneybags.” Tig wrenched open the car door.
“Why is it free again?”
“I don’t know why. Mom had it all taken care of and paid for years ago.”
“Don’t you think you should figure out why? And it’ll be free for how long?” Wendy walked to the passenger side, looking at Tig over the roof of the sedan.
“Listen, big sister,” Tig said icily. “You think because she remembers your name that means something? It means nothing! None of it means anything. The only thing that means anything anymore are the memories we have of Mom, and keeping her safe. Leave the finances to me. I’ll figure it out.”
Tig dumped herself into the front seat of the car and took a breath. She grasped the steering wheel and, white-knuckled, yanked it ferociously. The effort seemed to tap her stores and she sat breathlessly.
Wendy tapped on the window. “Tig. Unlock the door.”
A golf cart inched across the path just in front of the car. A nursing assistant in scrubs and a shrunken stub of a man sat in the front seat, unaware of the temper tantrum happening to their left.
Wendy knocked again on the window and pointed to the door handle. “Unlock the door.”
Tig popped the locks and Wendy quietly entered the car.
“I liked it better when I was the big sister.”
Tig said, “You can step up any time.”
“There’s not room at the top. You’d have to move over or step down.”
Tig started the car and the two women buckled their seat belts. She heard her sister sigh quietly. Wendy said, “She did say one thing that was odd, you know, besides treating you like you were the bellboy.”
“Yeah? What was that?”
“She said the daisies were from Daddy.”
• • •
In her mother’s old room at Tig’s house, cardboard boxes, black garbage bags, and plastic bins cinched the bedroom, with the only open space in the center of the room. Old manila files, scarves, and photographs lay on every horizontal plane. A twin bed with a seafoam green chenille bedspread occupied a windowless wall. “There’s hardly room for a person in here,” Wendy said, pulling on her tennis shoes.
“When Mom moved in, I didn’t store everything she owned. She loved to sit and sort through her files from the clinic. Sometimes she’d talk about her favorite animals. I thought it might stimulate her memories. Our school files are in here, along with her wedding pictures and old letters. We’ll make room for your stuff this week. The only thing I’ve got going on is practice for the show.”
“I saw a promo in the newspaper.”
“Jesus, I’m a nervous wreck about it.” Then, changing the topic, Tig said, “Did you call Phil? Tell him to send your stuff?”
“Did you call Pete?”
“The one who gets left doesn’t do the calling.”
“Did you learn that in counseling graduate school?”
“Yes, in the master class,” Tig said with a grunt, hefting a plastic bin and uncovering a ruddy stain on the carpet. She bent, ran her hand over the stiffened patch. “This is what finally convinced me to move Mom. I came home to several bloody handprints and wads of paper towels, starting in the kitchen and leading like a breadcrumb trail to Mom. I found her asleep here on the floor, a half-eaten apple in her wounded hand, and Thatcher pacing nervously. It was like a scene in a Hollywood slasher movie that ended in a nap and a snack for the victim.”
“God, poor Mom,” said Wendy. “She’d hate to know this was her life.”
“I know.” A glimmer of metal
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