Mirror in the Sky

Chapter 3 - Breathe

Chapter 3 – Breathe

Mom sits on a bench in front of 16th century Venus and Mars by Botticelli, nude.

Having arrived in London the day before, incident free, I thought it would be nice to take Mom to the National Gallery. We had a lovely time, with Mom paying particular attention to the exhibition Durer's Journey: Travels of a Renaissance Artist.

But twenty minutes into our visit I had to use the loo, as the English call the toilets. I asked mom to come with me, but she waved me off, saying she's not a child. The urge to pee was so powerful that I had stood with my legs crossed. I quickly weighed my options and decided leaving her on the bench beside Botticelli was a medium to low risk compared to the high one of peeing my pants.

Three minutes and forty-five seconds. That's how long I was gone

I got back to find a uniformed guard speaking into a mic clipped to his shoulder, an expression on his face that said he completed his bingo card of strange sightings at the gallery.

Now, a group of unfortunate middle schoolers on a school field trip receive not only an art history lesson, but one on geriatric anatomy. Every eye in the room is on Mom and my neck feels hot and sweaty in an instant.

No. No. No. No.

My hands, nimble and quick as what I imagine surgeons to be, I take Mom's purple shirt — mental note: no more buttons — and slide each of her arms through the sleeves. She hasn't worn a bra for two decades.

Elderly breasts covered: check.

We're as lucky as a bouquet of four-leaf clovers her nether regions weren't on immediate display. The perturbed school teacher hustles her gawking and giggling students into the next exhibit room.

"Get up." I force Mom to stand and pull her pants up high enough that I hope she gets a moderate to severe wedgie.

"I'm letting things breathe Yoyo," Mom grunts.

With a litany of apologies to the guard, who escorts us out the front entrance, I bundle Mom down the stairs to the lion dominated fountains rearing in Trafalgar Square and plunk her on a patch of concrete.

Fury boils up my throat, begging to spew on Mom for humiliating us like that. But a cool breeze passes as I take a moment to calm my sharp breaths.

Losing her memory is not Mom's fault. She didn't ask to be taken to London and carted around an art gallery. Mom is my fault. I should have canceled the hike and then she'd be safe, at home with Craig and I in Bellevue.

I plop beside her and let out a gust of air from my lungs.

"Yoyo, I'm hungry," Mom says.

I check my watch, set to London time. Local time is two p.m., making it six a.m. in Bellevue and breakfast time in our bellies.

"I want ice cream," Mom says.

"Are you reverting to toddler years or something?" Irritation blooms a second time as it becomes a serious wonder at this point. I stand and pull my purse over my shoulder. "Let's get real food."

We walk toward Covent Garden, the lovely sun making me wish I brought my sunglasses from the hotel; we'd checked in earlier in the morning near St. Pancras station. Having only been to London once before, I still managed to book a hotel central to the tube and within walking distance of sights like Big Ben and the Thames.

I was excited for the two-day lag between arriving in Europe and meeting up with Astrid and Marnie. London is my dream city. A place of duality: young and old cobbled together. Church bells echo through interesting side streets like you're in a small town until you're viscerally reminded you're in a circus when you enter Piccadilly.