the man they date in high school?”
My mother smirks and says, “I did.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Will is nothing like your father.”
“That’s true.”
It’s the first time my dad has come up since I found the letter. I sneak a look at my mom and find she’s staring directly at me. “What?” I say.
“Nothing. Can’t I just look at you?”
“Mom, I need to ask you something.” She nods and I think back to seeing her fall to the floor, that moment when my first feeling was nothing more than a panicked scream in my head followed by a storm of possible actions to take, anything to keep her safe. In the midst of that I noticed something that swims back to the forefront of my mind only now that my mother is physically stable.
“Mom, why do you still wear your wedding ring?”
Her hand goes to her chest, then her eyes widen as she pats the space under her gown where the ring was hanging from a chain. “I have it,” I tell her. “The nurses gave it to me. It was getting in the way.”
She relaxes, then seems to shrink on the pillow. “If you’re just going to scold me for it, save your breath.”
“I was just asking.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Try me! is the retort that comes to mind, but I bite my lip. She’s so vulnerable in that flimsy cotton gown speckled with polka dots and her hair a tangled mass. “Why don’t you think I’d understand?”
She looks at me a long moment before answering, her eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to see something clearly. “You’ve never loved like I loved your father.”
“You think I’m so cold-hearted?”
“I don’t want to fight.”
I reach out for her hand, but she pulls it away, slowly, as if trying to sneak it out of my reach. I put my hands back in my lap. “I don’t want to fight, either; I just don’t understand what you can still feel for him. What he did was unforgivable.”
“It’s a memory,” she says, her voice raspy now. “Just a memento. Of better times.”
“So you’re not writing him anymore, then?”
She turns fully to face me and her cheeks are bright pink. “I knew this would get around to that. Do you have to cross-examine me?”
I flinch.
Mom is breathing hard and I shake my head, wishing I could roll back time, because she doesn’t need this now. There’s more I want to say, more I want to ask, but I can’t. Not now.
“I’m sorry—” I begin, but Beck comes through the door.
“Okay, I’ve got a tuna salad on rye and coffee, which I know you take black, but I grabbed creamer . . .”
He prattles on, organizing my lunch on the bedside table. I’m trying to catch my mother’s eye, but she’s turned away from me, toying with her hospital gown where her ring had been hanging.
“Maeve Geneva! What the hell is wrong with you!”
We look toward the door as Aunt Sally comes in, wearing her black Cher wig again. “Wasn’t anyone going to call me? Mailman Al drove all the way out to my trailer to tell me. He heard from Doreen, who . . .”
My mother waves her hand at Sally and shifts on the bed. “Yes, yes, I get it.”
I tell her, “We tried to call you but couldn’t get through. It just kept ringing.”
“Oh, right. I got a prank call and unplugged it from the wall so they wouldn’t call back. Guess I should fix that.” Sally stared into space for a moment. “Come to think of it, that call was a week ago. Anyway, sister dear, haven’t I told you that rock ’n’ roll lifestyle of yours would catch up with you?”
At this my mother grins, and I stand up to offer Sally my chair. I tell them I’m going to take my sandwich into the lounge to eat it, and Beck follows me out. We settle on opposite sides of a round fake wood-grain table.
Do you have to cross-examine me? Mom said, sounding so much like Marc. I’d blown up at him for throwing out terms he’d learned watching Boston Legal just to undermine me.
Marc followed that up with this gem: “Can’t you drop the lawyer
My mother smirks and says, “I did.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Will is nothing like your father.”
“That’s true.”
It’s the first time my dad has come up since I found the letter. I sneak a look at my mom and find she’s staring directly at me. “What?” I say.
“Nothing. Can’t I just look at you?”
“Mom, I need to ask you something.” She nods and I think back to seeing her fall to the floor, that moment when my first feeling was nothing more than a panicked scream in my head followed by a storm of possible actions to take, anything to keep her safe. In the midst of that I noticed something that swims back to the forefront of my mind only now that my mother is physically stable.
“Mom, why do you still wear your wedding ring?”
Her hand goes to her chest, then her eyes widen as she pats the space under her gown where the ring was hanging from a chain. “I have it,” I tell her. “The nurses gave it to me. It was getting in the way.”
She relaxes, then seems to shrink on the pillow. “If you’re just going to scold me for it, save your breath.”
“I was just asking.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
Try me! is the retort that comes to mind, but I bite my lip. She’s so vulnerable in that flimsy cotton gown speckled with polka dots and her hair a tangled mass. “Why don’t you think I’d understand?”
She looks at me a long moment before answering, her eyes narrowed slightly as if trying to see something clearly. “You’ve never loved like I loved your father.”
“You think I’m so cold-hearted?”
“I don’t want to fight.”
I reach out for her hand, but she pulls it away, slowly, as if trying to sneak it out of my reach. I put my hands back in my lap. “I don’t want to fight, either; I just don’t understand what you can still feel for him. What he did was unforgivable.”
“It’s a memory,” she says, her voice raspy now. “Just a memento. Of better times.”
“So you’re not writing him anymore, then?”
She turns fully to face me and her cheeks are bright pink. “I knew this would get around to that. Do you have to cross-examine me?”
I flinch.
Mom is breathing hard and I shake my head, wishing I could roll back time, because she doesn’t need this now. There’s more I want to say, more I want to ask, but I can’t. Not now.
“I’m sorry—” I begin, but Beck comes through the door.
“Okay, I’ve got a tuna salad on rye and coffee, which I know you take black, but I grabbed creamer . . .”
He prattles on, organizing my lunch on the bedside table. I’m trying to catch my mother’s eye, but she’s turned away from me, toying with her hospital gown where her ring had been hanging.
“Maeve Geneva! What the hell is wrong with you!”
We look toward the door as Aunt Sally comes in, wearing her black Cher wig again. “Wasn’t anyone going to call me? Mailman Al drove all the way out to my trailer to tell me. He heard from Doreen, who . . .”
My mother waves her hand at Sally and shifts on the bed. “Yes, yes, I get it.”
I tell her, “We tried to call you but couldn’t get through. It just kept ringing.”
“Oh, right. I got a prank call and unplugged it from the wall so they wouldn’t call back. Guess I should fix that.” Sally stared into space for a moment. “Come to think of it, that call was a week ago. Anyway, sister dear, haven’t I told you that rock ’n’ roll lifestyle of yours would catch up with you?”
At this my mother grins, and I stand up to offer Sally my chair. I tell them I’m going to take my sandwich into the lounge to eat it, and Beck follows me out. We settle on opposite sides of a round fake wood-grain table.
Do you have to cross-examine me? Mom said, sounding so much like Marc. I’d blown up at him for throwing out terms he’d learned watching Boston Legal just to undermine me.
Marc followed that up with this gem: “Can’t you drop the lawyer
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