The Moment Before

Chapter Twenty-Five

TWENTY-FIVE

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Dad is awake and spooning anemic custard into his mouth when Mom and I return Sunday morning. He’s shaved, or been shaved, and he looks pretty much like himself. The wires are still coming out of him like Frankenstein, but his cheeks are rosy and he smiles around his spoon when we arrive.

            “Little Bird,” he says. “Your old man’s turned into an old man, looks like.”

            The peaks on the heart monitor are little Mt. Hood after little Mt. Hood. I figure joking is probably on the yes list. “If you think I’m pushing your wheelchair, forget it.”

            Mom leans over his bedrail and gives him a juicy kiss, and he says, “Uh-oh, we’re gonna get kicked out of here if you can’t behave.”

            We’re in there a few minutes more, making small talk, and then in comes the nurse, so we’re asked to leave. It’s check this, check that, bed pan, and meds. “Why don’t you give us a half hour or so. Go get something from the cafeteria,” the nurse suggests. “It’s Mother’s Day, after all. They have some strawberry crepes I hear.”

            Mother’s Day. I completely spaced it. And I spend the next several minutes, as we’re negotiating the various wings of St. Vincent’s, apologizing. If Mom’s upset, she doesn’t show it. “No worries. Really, the last thing we need to do right now is add some obligatory Hallmark event to our schedules. You just being here, with me and your dad, is Mother’s Day gift enough.”

            And then, after we’re sitting in some orange plastic chairs with plates of semi-cooked pancakes in front of us, she stirs her cup of hospital coffee and says, “Anyways, Mother’s Day, so soon after losing a child, is like an entire country rubbing salt in your eyes. Never-the-less, we do need to pay a visit to your grandmother.”

            My heart takes this in two ways. First, there’s the sorrow for Mom, any mom, who gets slapped across the face with constant reminders that her baby is dead. But the other way my heart hears this is a different kind of sorrow. The pity kind of sorrow. The, What am I, chopped liver? sorrow. I’m your baby, too, Mom. Can you even look at me?

            I, too, am stirring and sipping crappy coffee. Lukewarm watery brown elixir. All around us are visitors. Some happy and balloon-carrying, no doubt headed to the birth wing to sneak peeks at the newborns in their lives. Some heavy-hearted, tired-eyed. Whoever they’re here for is not doing well.

            There are nurses and doctors and other hospital workers peppered about on the orange chairs. Expressions range from grim to jubilant. Bad news:Good news.

Cheer up, I think. Get Cheery. Keep Cheering. Cheer. All those variations of an uplifting word.

            Mom reaches for my arm and pats it. “I’m hoping that we can just move forward from here on out. Clean, fresh slate.”

            Now would be the time to ask Mom. But I can’t form the words. What would I say? Mom, I know you’ve been cheating on Dad. Or maybe, Mom, does that mean you’re going to break it off with whoever you’ve been seeing? Instead of anything like a confrontation, I smile and nod and agree. “That’d be great.”