Please Talk about Me When I'm Gone

Mothers and Sons (Fiction)

(2001)

Against all probability, it seems to have gotten even hotter outside. As he walks out to the car, his eyes take several seconds to adjust to the glare of the sun. His body, numbed by the cold air inside, now comes alive and quickens under the moving waves of heat.

He drives down familiar roads, sufficiently distracted by unfamiliar thoughts that he almost fails to notice the figure standing in the middle of the intersection. He reaches for his horn, more instinct than anger, then realizes it's an elderly woman. He slowly pulls up next to her, rolls down his window, and speaks.

"Hi. Is everything okay? Are you all right?"

The woman, either unconcerned by or oblivious to the fact that she's stopped in front of oncoming traffic, shrugs.

"Can I help you? Would you like a ride home?"

She looks at him hesitantly, then smiles, equal parts relief and gratitude. "Yes, thank you...that would be nice."

He jumps out of the car and opens the door for her.

"I live in the Fellowship House," she says, easing into her seat. "It's only a mile or so away..."

"Sure, that's no problem," he replies, dumbfounded that the woman has walked anywhere at all in this weather.

"This heat, I think we might break some records today," she says. "It's already above ninety, and that's without the humidity."

He turns the radio off and drives slowly down the road. After a minute or two of uncomfortable silence, he says the first thing that comes into his mind. "People die in this weather, you know. It happens all the time, and then you read about it in the newspapers."

The woman says nothing at first. "Well, you're so young. God bless your youth, I'll tell you."

Again unable to catch himself, he says, "I guess you never appreciate what you have until it's gone." Silently he curses his stupidity.

The woman nods. "I know what you mean and it's true."

He laughs nervously. He's aware of his own vitality, making her frailty seem so foreign, so frightening.

You never appreciate what you have until it's gone.

He starts, unsure if he's spoken aloud. The woman gives no indication either way, smiling at him with a maternal expression that suggests a lifetime of concerns and troubles, interests and solicitudes. Their eyes meet. The woman possesses a dignity that belies her infirmity. She's on her own but she's not helpless.

I am still alive, the eyes tell him.

He feels a peculiar compulsion to confide in her, as thought it might somehow make amends for the disparity that so glaringly divides them. As he flounders for appropriate words, the woman speaks of the one thing he realizes (too late) he doesn't want to hear.

"The people at the Fellowship House are very nice. They take good care of us there."

He says nothing, uncomfortable with the silence that now fills the car. His head feels heavy and he envisions the environment this woman lives in, the stifling conditions that confine her, giving regimented meaning to her identical days.

"You remind me of my son," the woman says after a while.

He smiles politely.

"Although he's older...how old are you?"

He lies.

"Yes, he's older, but he's still very handsome. And he has a wonderful wife."

He nods, making a concerted effort to keep his eyes on the road.

"I'm very proud of him, as I'm sure your parents are of you."

He nods again, watching the yellow lines flash past his tires. He can sense the woman watching him.

"My husband passed away two years ago," she says.

"I'm very sorry to hear that."

"And my son sold our house. He wanted to put me in this place, the Fellowship House, after my husband died. I told him I'd rather stay in my own house..."

He looks over quickly and it occurs to him that he may be the first person outside the cautiously constructed world of doctors, orderlies, and senior citizens to whom this woman has spoken in a long time.

"...but he said this was the best thing," she continues. "So we sold the house."

He listens helplessly and wishes he hadn't offered the woman a ride. And then he feels guilty. He wipes the single drop of sweat that flashes across his forehead, smiling and nodding although he doesn't hear what the woman is saying. He tries to suppress a surge of unease unlike anything he's ever experienced. He hears, or rather senses, that the woman continues to speak, and he's vaguely aware that he also is talking, but he doesn't know what he's saying. He attempts with great difficulty to concentrate on the road and speak at the same time. His movements are torpid and his mind, which has been racing, slows to the point that it seems-for a moment-that the woman is speaking clearly and quickly, that she's the much younger one. He forces himself to keep his eyes directly on the road; he's desperately afraid to look at the woman so he looks up, ahead, and sees the top of the Fellowship House through the trees. In that moment the disorienting sense of recognition falls away and relief surges through his clear mind.

"...so I came here, alone," the woman continues.

Almost alone, he thinks.

"My son said as soon as they bought the new house and settled in he would come and get me."

He pulls up in front of the tall brick building and stops the car.

"That was two years ago," the woman says quietly.

She starts to reach for the door and then speaks, almost to herself.

"Do you think he's ever going to come?"

He meets her gaze and blinks as another drop of sweat falls into his eye.

"Of course he is," he says, and tries another smile. The woman seems to sense his effort.

"Thank you for the ride," she says and slowly lets herself out of the car.

He watches the woman walk through the revolving door without looking back.

He drives off quickly, feeling sick and eager to escape. As he reaches down to turn on the radio he catches a glimpse of his face in the mirror and abruptly looks away.

He understands that the woman has been telling him about himself.