Traveling with Spirits (26 page)

*****

  Monica calls Duluth more frequently now. Each time, Mom sounds slightly vaguer. Is she imagining this?

  She’s less successful reaching Jeanne on Sunday morning. Always the answering machine. Jeanne doesn’t return the calls.

  She’s really worried, not sure what she’ll find when she rings on Wednesday.

  “Hello.”

  Such a little voice, as if she’s disappearing. Anti-depressants might help. That and more company.

  “Mom, I might cancel the trip with Eric. I could come up and see you.”

  “No, no, dear,” she regains full voice. “You need to relax. Truly, I’m fine. Jeannine made an appointment with that doctor you keep talking about.”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too, dear. I want my lass to be happy. You shouldn’t keep that young man wondering if you’re interested.”

  She loves sweet, quirky, flinty Eric. Does she love him enough?

  “You have my cell phone, Mom. And here’s the number of the B and B.”

  “You left them last week. They’re right here by the phone. Don’t worry so. Go off and have a fine time like young people should do in the spring!”

  Young. Spring. She hangs on to these words and the echoing lilt of Mom’s voice.

*****

  Eric looks fresh and energetic, positively handsome in a green cotton shirt under a v-necked yellow sweatshirt. She can tell by the loose-fitting jeans that he’s succeeded in jogging off the winter paunch.

  “Is my lady ready for
le weekend du printemps
?”

  “
Mais oui, Monsieur. Un moment
.”

  He insists on carrying her roller suitcase on his head.

  At the last moment she dashes back into the apartment for a blue and green quilt jacket.

: time to put away dull winter clothes.

  They cross the gurgling Mississippi, leaving Minnesota behind. Ripe green shimmers. Wildflowers ribbon the Wisconsin bluffs. Near Maiden Rock, they stop for a picnic lunch. Eric indulges her shopping in Stockholm; she finds pretty Amish hats for Mom and Jeanne.

  The bed and breakfast is a charming old prairie style house. They’re greeted warmly by the hosts, Gerd, from Norway, a big-boned woman with close cropped blonde hair and green-rimmed glasses, and her partner Pam, a short, black woman wearing cornrows and a contagious smile. Gerd and Pam escort them to the largest room, with a window overlooking this huge bulge in the Mississippi which everyone calls Lake Pepin.

  “Summer! Finally!” Eric declares over dinner at the Harbor View Restaurant.

  She takes his hand. Friday night at the Harbor View is always crowded and noisy and they’re lucky to get a table in the side room. “Yes, it’s been a long year for you with college politics and everything.”

  “I’m trying not to think about it. Two entire months before I contemplate another syllabus or attend a meeting.”

  “You deserve a break.”

  “You could also use some time off, Monie. Have you thought about my invitation to the cabin for a week or two next month?”

  “I think about it a lot. But the clinic is hectic these days and there’s Mom. How can I swing it all?”

  “You’ve said you’ve seen too many burned out docs screwing up from exhaustion.”

  “I’m not that far gone,” she says too defensively. He is being solicitous.

  “I’m taking preventive medicine. Plus the cabin is closer to Duluth.”

  “You have a point.”

  “How’s your mom this week?”

  “Fading away.”

  “But seventy-four is too young for that.”

  “She’s lonely, needs more stimulus, better medical care.”

  Eric watches her. “What can you do? Sounds like Jeanne—despite her drinking and such—is doing her best.”

  “She is devoted to Mom. Still, she’s at the bank all day. Mom’s alone and—”

  “Monica there’s no perfect solution. You’ve made the decision, hon. You need to stop obsessing.”

  “I never made any decision,” she sighs heavily. “I don’t think Mom did either!”

  The waiter arrives with their walleye and wild rice.

  She tries to regain composure. In a subdued tone, “Jeanne, well—it feels as if she’s hijacked Mom.”

  Eric studies his hands, salts the dinner, begins to eat.

  “OK, Mom said she wanted to go, that she always loved Lake Superior, but…”

  “Tell me, did you get them on the phone when I was jogging this afternoon?”

  “No, only Jeanne’s answering machine. They planned to take a shoreline drive. They both have phone numbers. Pam and Gerd seem conscientious. They’d give me a phone message right away?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She can’t abide his worried eyes. “Alright. I’ll let it go for tonight. I have a right to one weekend respite. And so do you.”

  “And a couple of weeks at the cabin?” he raises a thatch of eyebrow.

  “One week,” she smiles faintly.

  He raises his glass. “We’ve sprung the doctor from the asylum for a week.”

  She laughs, clinks her glass. Maybe Beata is right about Eric being the one. When he disconnects from college fixations, he’s a dear.

*****

  Lovely holiday, she reflects on the drive back to Minneapolis. Luscious sex, great meals, long walks, intense conversations. Ambling past pretty houses and well-groomed yards, licking ice cream cones. She hasn’t felt this relaxed in six months.

  All the way home they laugh.

  She shouldn’t invite him in because she has early clinic appointments tomorrow.

  His face is both wry and woeful.

  She can’t bear to end the weekend.

  They set her bags down in the bedroom.

  Before she knows it, Eric has pulled her onto the goose down comforter.

  She laughs. “Wait, we have to eat dinner. I need a shower.”

  He persists, kissing her forehead, nose, neck. Praising each body part in French, German and Italian. He hasn’t been this playful since those first nights two years ago.

  “Ummmm.”

  “Yes,” he’s unclasping her bra. “Ummm.”

  Reflexively, she glances at the answering machine, spots the blinking red light.

  “Eric, dear…” Gently, she disentangles herself. “Just let me check the messages. I’ll feel easier. I’ll be more present for you.”

  He rolls his brown eyes. “OK, Dr. Murphy, zap the distractions.”

  The first message: incomprehensible mumbling and weeping.

  She stiffens.

  Jeanne’s weeping.

  “3:30 p.m. today.”

  The next message: a Nordic accent, “Monica, your sister is trying to reach you.”

  “4:00 p.m. today.”

  She presses the speed dial to Jeanne’s.

  The phone rings and rings. No answer. She dials Mom’s new doctor.

  An answering service, “I understand this is urgent. Dr. Truman will call you as soon as he can.”

  Eric reaches for her hand and she draws back.

  “I don’t understand. Two calls here this afternoon. Jeanne had my cell.” She rummages in her purse. “Damn! Damn!” she shouts, “Damn! Damn! Damn!” She shows him the cold grey phone.

  He waits uneasily.

  “No bars. It was working yesterday morning. But I forgot to charge it in Pepin. I plug it in each night, here in this socket, each night.” She can’t stop rambling. “Each night except the most important one.”

  “Monica, we don’t know what’s happened. Everyone forgets to plug—”

  “Something terrible has happened. Didn’t you hear Jeanne wailing? The message from Gerd?” She shakes her fists. Not his fault. Her fault. Her fault.

  Eric watches cautiously.

  “Jeanne doesn’t phone unless she has to. God, maybe I should jump in the car and drive to Duluth now.”

  “You’re exhausted. At least wait until the doctor phones.” He takes her hand. “Monica, let’s make a pot of tea…have a glass of wine.”

  The syrah unleashes a litany of worries.

  Eric listens.

  Nothing he says calms her. She switches on the TV news.

  Another glass of wine. A Red Lion Pizza.

  The phone rings.

  “Dr. Murphy?”

  “Yes. Dr. Truman?”

  “No, Dr. Tremblay. I was on duty at the hospital. Do you have a friend there now?”

  She reaches for Eric’s hand and he squeezes hard. She feels as if she’s clutching air. As if she’s about to fall a very long distance.

  “What’s wrong?” The sound of her own vacant words unsettles her. “How is she? I can drive up now.”

  “I am so sorry, Dr. Murphy, but I have very bad news.”

  “Tell me.” Her steadiest voice.

  “I regret to say that your mother has died. Your sister Jeanne followed your mother’s living will directive and cancelled life support.”

  “How? Why? When?”

  “This is awkward. I don’t meddle in family affairs, yet if I knew that Mrs. Murphy had another daughter so close by, we would have waited.”

  “She tried to call,” she mumbles. “But when? What happened to Mom?”

  “Your mother suffered a severe stroke yesterday afternoon.”

  “Afternoon. Yesterday. Why didn’t someone call yesterday?”

  Dr. Tremblay stays on track. “We worked with her for hours. Your mother was unconscious. All her systems were down. We could have continued the life support, but your sister decided…”

  “I could have got there in a couple of hours. Well, three. I could have said good-bye.” Tears course down her cheeks.

  “I understand this, now, Dr. Murphy. But your sister had medical power of attorney. She didn’t mention…and of course I didn’t know about the drinking problem until later, when one of the nurses mentioned it.”

  She can’t hear him any longer. Because she’s screaming so loudly. Flooded with rage and shame and grief. Screaming as if she could bring back her mother, could heal her sister, could redirect the course of all their lives.

TWENTY-FOUR

June, 1999, Minnesota

  Jeanne pours a second cup of coffee in her small, neat kitchen.

  Monica tries to compose her thoughts two mornings after Mom’s death.

  “Father Dolan will say Mass,” she reports. Again.

  Jeanne nods. Again.

  Monica observes how soberly they talk, discussing the cremation and mass, planning where to scatter her ashes. They’re being practical. Civilized. Cold.

  She will not reproach Jeanne about Mom’s medical care. It’s too late.

  “The Altar Society ladies are notifying Mom’s friends at church,” she adds.

  Jeanne fixes herself another Alka Seltzer.

  Monica believes this is all her fault. If she’d been more adamant, maybe, or less adamant. No, this is a useless train of thought.

  Then she simply cannot hold back any longer. “Jeanne, there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

  “What doesn’t the doctor understand?”

  She concentrates. “After the stroke, well, that was Saturday afternoon. I was at the bed and breakfast. Why didn’t you try to reach me in Pepin?”

  “You said your cell phone was dead.”

  “At some point, yes. But why didn’t you call the B and B? Eric was jogging and I was sitting on the veranda reading.”

  “Thanks for the thorough report. I was busy with other matters. Under a lot of pressure. So I didn’t think of it, OK?”

  “You could have reached me. You didn’t cut off life support until Sunday morning. I could have made it to Duluth before—”

  “It was too late. Too late!” Jeanne screams. “She was already gone.” Tears stream down her swollen red cheeks. “What was the point? I called the B and B when it was all over. Once the hard work was done.”

  “But surely,” she slows down here to be reasonable, desperately wanting to comprehend. “I, I had a right to say good-bye. To see Mom at the end.” She wonders for the first time now if Jeanne really did try the cell phone.

  “You made it clear you were busy in Pepin, that you needed a complete break.”

  Oh, damn, damn, why, why didn’t she follow her instinct and visit Mom on the Friday? It’s possible that even at that stage, she would have noticed, could have done something. Yet, she wanted to believe Mom when she said she’d be fine, that Monica deserved a weekend with her “young man.” Imagine a holiday in Pepin in exchange for Mom’s life. Of course she shouldn’t think like this. But she’s so ashamed. She should have been there. To attend to Mom. To say farewell.

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Whatever. You weren’t there, OK? I can’t make important decisions based on what I imagine your wishes to—”

  “Imagine my wishes! What else would a person wish? You didn’t let me say good-bye.” She enunciates slowly as if precision will pierce her sister’s shell.

  “It’s over now,” she asserts resolutely.

  Over. Monica understands that for Jeanne this is a profound relief as well as a grievous loss. But she, herself, will always wonder if Mom knew she wasn’t there at the end.

  “We’ve lost our Mother, Jeanne,” she reaches for her sister’s hand. “It’s important to talk about that.”

  “There’s nothing left to say,” she glares. “Nothing left to do.”

  Monica is astounded by the blend of anger and satisfaction in her little sister’s face. The little sister who somehow has become a kind of enemy. No, she wants to scream, don’t vanish on me like Dad and Mom, We’re the only ones left. I need my sister back. But she remains silent because she knows that for now, Jeanne is at a precipice and she doesn’t want to be the one to push her over the edge, where she’d be gone forever.