Few Kinds of Wrong (7 page)

“Don't touch me, you bitch,” she shouted at me, her words punctuated with spittle that ran down her chin and flew at me. Dad was on her in a flash, grabbing her hands and clasping them together as he yelled at Mom to get Nan's medicine and at me to get Maisie, the nurse who lived four doors down.

“What will I tell her?” I asked as I heard Mom running up the hall.

“Go get her,” he roared at me. It was the first time in my life he had raised his voice to me. The loudness startled me and I ran out of the house, as much to get away from the awfulness there as to get help to fix it.

On the way to Maisie's house, I tried to figure out what to say. Everything in my life with Mom and Dad had been about keeping up appearances to the outside world. When the business was struggling a few years earlier, Dad put a new coat of paint on the house. The time Mom told me she was leaving Dad and moved in with Nan Philpott, Dad got a station wagon just like Mom's and parked it in the driveway. No one knew that she was gone, at least not until she showed up again one day in the passenger side of Dad's car. Mom cooked supper that night, her absence never brought up, my questions going to sleep with me but never finding a way to be asked.

So I wondered how to put a good spin on telling Maisie that my dad currently had Nan pinned on his living room floor after she spit at us and cursed on me.

I knocked on Maisie's door, trying different sentences: “Nan is having a spell.” “Dad wants you to come because Nan is sick.” Before I decided on something, Maisie's husband Bill answered the door.

“Is Maisie here?” I asked, panting from the sprint to their house. “It's Nan.”

“Maisie,” Bill called out and I heard a thudding as she walked toward us. “It's her grandmother.”

Tall and broad, Maisie took up most of the doorway. No words passed my lips as Maisie slipped on beach sandals over her white socks and walked onto the steps.

“What is it?” Maisie asked as she marched up the street while I tried to keep up with her.

“It's Nan. She was all curled up and then she went wild. She hit Dad and called me a name.” My voice trembled as I spoke. Tears threatened to escape my eyes and I thought I had them under control until Maisie touched my arm and said, “Oh, sweetie, she didn't mean it.”

I nodded because I knew if I opened my mouth, the pain would come out.

An hour later Mom, Dad, Maisie, and I were sitting at the table drinking tea and Nan was asleep in her room.

“After supper she was up in her room and I heard her screaming,” Mom explained once she'd calmed down enough. “When I went up there she kept saying, ‘Get out.' She was pointing at her bureau. I didn't know what she was talking about first, but then I realized she must be talking to herself, her reflection in the mirror. And when I tried to explain she got so mad.” Mom turned to Dad. “Oh, Jack, I didn't know she was this bad. I don't know how she stayed on her own this long.”

Dad stared into his tea. He hadn't looked up from it since Mom placed it in front of him.

Maisie reached over and laid her hand on Mom's. “Nighttime is the worst,” Maisie said. “Sundown Syndrome, it's called. Moving somewhere new might have set it off so it might not always be as bad as this. First night might be the worst. But other nights could be hard.” She turned to Dad. “Maybe you could consider getting home care.”

Dad shook his head, still not moving his eyes from his cup. “We can do it. Like you said, it's just the first night. She'll be all right.”

Maisie stared at Dad. She opened her mouth twice to say something but didn't.

“I can't do this,” Mom said, before Maisie could decide on whatever she wanted to say. “I didn't know what I was getting into. I'll try with some help from home care but I don't think I can do this.”

“Maybe you can't, my love,” Maisie said. Her prophetic words would linger in the house, and I thought of them often when I helped Mom with Nan, especially at night.

After I leave Mom at the restaurant, I go straight to the seniors' home to visit Nan. I don't even make it to Nan's door, when a nurse, Carrie, runs up to me.

“Bad night,” she says, “and not a much better day.”

“Oh.” I don't want to ask. The details always seem worse than the summary. “So, best not to go in?”

She shakes her head.

But I want to see her. Just let me look at her.

“Maybe I could try.”

“Up to you. But she's not remembering much now. She might remember you. She thinks she got a baby in there with her today. It's the pillow, mind you, but she's after putting a towel around its bottom twice now, cleaning it with a facecloth first and asking us for baby powder.

“Then she's not aggressive?”

“No, no, not at all so far today. Now, last night. Well, last night was bad but today she's all about the baby.” Carrie lowers her voice, as if she's telling me some secret only she and I must know. “Says it's her boy, Jack.”

I decide to go in there. Most of the time I listen to the nurses. I don't go in when they tell me it's best not to. I know they're trying to protect me as well as her. They understand that I'll remember what happens with each visit, while her cruel, yet kind memory will let her lose it once I'm gone. But some days I don't listen. Some days I think I know better.

“Hello,” I say, knocking on Nan's door. “Mrs. Collins?”

“Yes?” She looks at me without a trace of recognition.

“I'm a volunteer here. Would you like a visit?” I know the routine.

“Oh my God, my dear. I needs a nap. That youngster won't let me sleep for two minutes. He's after soaking through six cloths today. I can't hardly keep up.”

“Well, I can help. I can watch him while you have a nap if you like.”

“You sure?”

I nod.

Nan touches my face as her eyes roam over it. “You're a pretty little thing. Do you have any of your own?”

“No,” I say softly.

“Best get going then, my love. You're getting up there, aren't
you?”

I nod and touch her hand, keeping it on my face perhaps a bit longer than she would have. I tell her to go ahead and take the nap. She lies on the bed, pulling the duvet over her rail-thin body. Her wide blue eyes stare at me from just over the top of the blanket. I pick up a pillow with a towel tied around one end for a diaper.

“His name is Jack,” she says, her eyes closing for a minute.

“Hi, Jack,” I say to the pillow, smiling at the white cotton with the words
Central Laundry
stamped on it, my father's name almost sticking in my throat.

I sit down in Nan's chair and start to rock, imagining a baby there, sure I'm only doing it for Nan. Just until she goes to sleep. I start to hum. The glider underneath moves me effortlessly as I hum and rock, hum and rock, hum and rock. Now this is my kind of kid, I think. No crying, no real poopy diapers, just serene rocking and humming. I am peaceful. No guilt over the argument with Mom, no sadness, just this make-believe baby, a sleepy Nan, and me.

It doesn't last long. A light knock on the door is followed by a nurse's face peeking in.

“God love her,” the nurse says, looking at Nan. “You calmed her down.” She smiles at me. “Your mom's here looking for you.”

“Tell her I can't let go of the baby. Nan will flip if she wakes up and the baby's not being looked after.”

“I'll stay here until you get back.”

I want to tell her that I don't want to talk to Mom. I think better of it and leave the room after handing the pillow gently to the nurse.

In the hallway, Mom is leaning against the wall opposite Nan's door, arms crossed and lips pursed.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“I know this is where you come when you're upset.”

“I'm not upset.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To see Nan.”

“Okay.” Mom steps across to me. “I didn't like the way we left things.”

“I know. I didn't either.”

We look at each other for what seems like a long time, the silence standing between us like a presence I can feel. Suddenly I hear screaming coming from Nan's room.

We run in, getting there before any of the nurses. Nan is trying to smack the nurse who is grappling with her. Mom and I join in and have Nan's arms before two other nurses come in and grab her, wrestling her down to her bed.

Carrie looks right at me. “You'd better leave,” she says in a voice that seems soft despite the force behind it.

I turn to leave immediately. I know what they are going to do and I don't want to see it. It's bad enough that I hear Nan screaming “no” and “stop.” I fight back the same tears I see Mom struggling against.

“Oh, Jennifer,” Mom says out in the hall. She turns and looks me straight in the eyes. “You don't understand.”

“She just had a rough night. She'll be okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice stronger than my emotions are.

“I don't mean her. I know she'll be … fine. I'm talking about the restaurant.”

“Mom—”

“I just want to be happy,” she says and looks away. “Just for once in my life,” she whispers.

“What?” I say. My voice echoes down the hall, the loudness of it startling me.

“I just want to be happy,” she repeats, her eyes wide.

“For once in your life? What's that supposed to mean? Does that mean you've never been happy? Not once in your entire life? So you were never happy with Dad?”

Or me?
The words sit on my tongue, burning it as I want to say them but can't. I remember the way she looked at me most of my life: with something other than love, something I never understood. I always assumed it was disappointment. I never liked the girly clothes she bought me, didn't play with the dolls she gave me, refused to join her in the conversations about womanly issues she always wanted to share with me.

“Your period is the beginning of a new part of your life,” she told me the day I got embarrassed by the red stain on my jeans. “Today you are a young woman. This is all about the blossoming of who you are.” Her smile was so bright, so hopeful. “Every month your body releases an egg and your uterus—”

“Ewwwww. No! No uterus. No period talk of any kind,” I screamed with my hands over my ears. “I don't want to be a young woman. No eggs. Ever.”

The way she looked at me in that moment, that face I took as disappointment, had been there every time she looked at me ever since.

“I'm sorry,” Mom says to me, as Nan's screaming gets louder when a nurse opens the door to her room. “I shouldn't have said that.”

“Well, you can't unsay it.”

“Of course, I was happy,” Mom says. “We had money and a good house.” She smiles as tears rim her eyes.

I can't find the words to ask what I want to. I can't even muster breathing very well. Nan is screaming in the background and I have a million questions and a thousand things I long to say, but none of it goes anywhere as I turn and walk away, hoping Mom won't follow me.

The elevator opens the instant I push the button. I rush inside, pressing the Close Door button repeatedly, but Mom is quick and gets in before the door shuts.

“I'm sorry,” she repeats.

I stare at the closed elevator door, willing the contraption to move faster so I can get out.

Mom gently grabs my shoulder, then stands in front of me. “Say something,” she says.

I shrug and look away. “I don't know what to say.”

“I'm not dating Petch. He hasn't asked me out. There is nothing there. I just want you to know that I intend to be happy. I'm not sure how, but I want to be happy.”

The door opens and I run out into the lobby, then outside, running to my car as Mom calls behind me. I'm inside the car when Mom catches up and knocks on my window.

“I'm sorry,” her muffled voice says through glass. I drive away. I don't ever want to stop the car again.

I arrive at the cemetery just before seven. The traffic on the way out Kenmount Road is slower than usual, people probably just going for a drive, trying to drag out the remnants of a wet Sunday. I sit in the car for a long time before I get out. There's a light drizzle now that makes everything look slick, but I'm pretty sure it would take a long time to make me feel wet.

I'm not sure what to say or do. Does Dad know about my fight with Mom, about her admitting to never being happy with him? Does he know about her unhappiness already? Was it all shown to him in one flashing moment after his death when all was revealed to him? And should I say anything or just ignore it, pretend it's not happening?

I decide that ignoring it is the best idea. No need to get into heart-to-hearts we didn't have while he was alive.

“Hi, Dad. I saw Nan today. She was having a rough day. She remembered you as a baby and was taking care of you. I wonder how it feels to hold a pillow and think it's really a baby. The brain is pretty cool to make that into something sweet for a bit.”

A car stops in the parking lot and two people with flowers get out. A man and a woman. I've seen the man here before many times, but the woman doesn't come here very often. At least not when I'm here. Out of the corner of my eye I watch them walk to a headstone with a metal sculpture tricycle next to it. The man takes her flowers, bends down and
places them on the grave. She remains standing, looking everywhere except at the grave.

The drizzle is heavier now and I put the hood up on my jacket. I pull it back a little so I can watch the woman without turning my head. I can't take my eyes off her.

“Me and Mom went to a book launch. Some book about someone around the bay a long time ago, fishing and stuff. I think the woman read about twenty minutes on a description of a boat and the lobster pots in it. And the lobsters they caught and about how they'd cook them. Made me feel envious of the lobsters. But Mom seemed into it. She said afterward that it was vivid imagery. More like all style, no substance to me. All icing, no cake, like Pop used to say.”