there.”
“I wanted you,” he said through his tears, his hands clutching my coat. “I wanted my pretty mommy.”
He’d started calling me “pretty mommy” a few months prior. He was taking a bath and I was sitting on the toilet, chin in hands, preoccupied by my doubts about my marriage, my choices, my life.
“I don’t like it when you’re sad,” he said.
“I’m not sad. Don’t be silly.”
“When you’re sad, you’re not my pretty mommy.”
I looked down at my worn-out pants, the toenails that peeked out from the fuzzy border of my slippers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d painted them.
“There’s nothing pretty about Mommy,” I said.
Then my son carefully placed a small mound of crackling bubbles on my knee. “Now there is,” he said, and I almost cried.
I suggested that Charlie needed to make more of an effort with John. “If you’re concerned about the way he acts around you, then do things with him.”
“But he doesn’t want to do anything with me.”
“You have to take the lead.”
So off they’d go to the movies. Or they’d sit in the workroom together while Charlie repaired or built things. But there was always a forced quality to it, a sense of formality, as though the two of them had been dropped into a scene without knowing the dialogue.
John gave up baseball, but excelled at choir, with songs about the birth of Jesus and doves and God’s ever-watchful presence. It wasn’t such a terrible exchange, I’d reason, pulling myself up higher in the pew to get a better view of my son. It was better that John do something meaningful . I didn’t see where God could be found in a baseball diamond.
I’m not sure Charlie felt the same way.
I decide to pop into the Golden Sunset on my way home. I haven’t been by to see Mrs. Pender in a few weeks. Excuses are easy to come by whenever she’s involved, but the library called the other day. The last book I signed out for her is now overdue. She claims to enjoy mysteries, but I know she never reads any of them. It’s all about appearances with her.
The Golden Sunset Home for the Aged isn’t terrible, all things considered. I’ve been in places that looked more like asylums than nursing homes. But there isn’t much to choose from in Balsden and I’ve heard about waiting lists a mile long. I don’t know how true that is, but it worries me to think that when my time comes, I might not end up where I want.
Two years ago, a group of us from St. Paul’s volunteered to serve Christmas dinner to the Sunset residents. It got me out of going to Helen’s and listening to my niece and nephew natter on about their dull lives.
While passing a turkey platter, I heard a voice behind me.
“That you, Joyce Conrad?”
It took me a second to realize the name was mine. I hadn’t heard my maiden name in years and I felt a sudden tug of melancholy, as if someone had mentioned a friend I hadn’t missed until that moment. I turned around to see a tiny, elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair, covered in a blue terry-cloth bib. She was no bigger than the ornaments hanging from the Christmas tree in the corner. I searched for a familiar face underneath the wrinkles and almost dropped the platter when I discovered it.
“Mrs. Pender?” I whispered. It wasn’t possible. Not after all these years.
“This turkey is terrible.”
My doubts disappeared.
Since that holiday dinner, I’ve made a point of visiting her every now and then. I don’t enjoy our time together and more often than not, I’ll leave with a blinding headache. But she has no other visitors and deep down—deep, deep down—I think she looks forward to seeing me. She’d never admit it, though. She may be ninety-seven, but her edge is still razor sharp. Maybe that’s what’s kept her alive all these years.
Our visits typically consist of me sitting on the edge of her bed, fiddling with the straps of my purse and trying to look engaged while she runs through the
“I wanted you,” he said through his tears, his hands clutching my coat. “I wanted my pretty mommy.”
He’d started calling me “pretty mommy” a few months prior. He was taking a bath and I was sitting on the toilet, chin in hands, preoccupied by my doubts about my marriage, my choices, my life.
“I don’t like it when you’re sad,” he said.
“I’m not sad. Don’t be silly.”
“When you’re sad, you’re not my pretty mommy.”
I looked down at my worn-out pants, the toenails that peeked out from the fuzzy border of my slippers. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d painted them.
“There’s nothing pretty about Mommy,” I said.
Then my son carefully placed a small mound of crackling bubbles on my knee. “Now there is,” he said, and I almost cried.
I suggested that Charlie needed to make more of an effort with John. “If you’re concerned about the way he acts around you, then do things with him.”
“But he doesn’t want to do anything with me.”
“You have to take the lead.”
So off they’d go to the movies. Or they’d sit in the workroom together while Charlie repaired or built things. But there was always a forced quality to it, a sense of formality, as though the two of them had been dropped into a scene without knowing the dialogue.
John gave up baseball, but excelled at choir, with songs about the birth of Jesus and doves and God’s ever-watchful presence. It wasn’t such a terrible exchange, I’d reason, pulling myself up higher in the pew to get a better view of my son. It was better that John do something meaningful . I didn’t see where God could be found in a baseball diamond.
I’m not sure Charlie felt the same way.
I decide to pop into the Golden Sunset on my way home. I haven’t been by to see Mrs. Pender in a few weeks. Excuses are easy to come by whenever she’s involved, but the library called the other day. The last book I signed out for her is now overdue. She claims to enjoy mysteries, but I know she never reads any of them. It’s all about appearances with her.
The Golden Sunset Home for the Aged isn’t terrible, all things considered. I’ve been in places that looked more like asylums than nursing homes. But there isn’t much to choose from in Balsden and I’ve heard about waiting lists a mile long. I don’t know how true that is, but it worries me to think that when my time comes, I might not end up where I want.
Two years ago, a group of us from St. Paul’s volunteered to serve Christmas dinner to the Sunset residents. It got me out of going to Helen’s and listening to my niece and nephew natter on about their dull lives.
While passing a turkey platter, I heard a voice behind me.
“That you, Joyce Conrad?”
It took me a second to realize the name was mine. I hadn’t heard my maiden name in years and I felt a sudden tug of melancholy, as if someone had mentioned a friend I hadn’t missed until that moment. I turned around to see a tiny, elderly woman sitting in a wheelchair, covered in a blue terry-cloth bib. She was no bigger than the ornaments hanging from the Christmas tree in the corner. I searched for a familiar face underneath the wrinkles and almost dropped the platter when I discovered it.
“Mrs. Pender?” I whispered. It wasn’t possible. Not after all these years.
“This turkey is terrible.”
My doubts disappeared.
Since that holiday dinner, I’ve made a point of visiting her every now and then. I don’t enjoy our time together and more often than not, I’ll leave with a blinding headache. But she has no other visitors and deep down—deep, deep down—I think she looks forward to seeing me. She’d never admit it, though. She may be ninety-seven, but her edge is still razor sharp. Maybe that’s what’s kept her alive all these years.
Our visits typically consist of me sitting on the edge of her bed, fiddling with the straps of my purse and trying to look engaged while she runs through the
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