The last time I saw my mother was a year and a half ago celebrating her 100th birthday. At her assisted living residence, I entered her room and found her asleep on her Lazy Boy chair. I gazed around the tiny room. A double window, curtains drawn, venetian blinds up, provided a view of the parking lot. Bolted to the wall, a tv played silently. Her single bed beside the window was crisply made up. There were two bureaus, a closet, and a bathroom. Brightly colored post-it messages were stuck everywhere: Remember to take your pills; Remember I love you.
Mom was slack jawed, her head askew, her thinning white hair tousled. She wore a baby blue blouse with starched collar, all the buttons buttoned, a single strand of pearls laced around her neck Her lower half was covered with a pale yellow blanket.
Rivulets of dark blue veins carved through the otherwise smooth veneer of her hands. Her face was still oddly young, smooth and taut.
I sat respectfully on a wood chair under the tv as if in church. Then I reminded myself I had a plane to catch.
I slid my chair over and laid my hand on hers. Her eyes opened and focused on me. She smiled.
“Hi, mom.”
“I love you so much,” she slurred.
“I love you too.”
“I am so glad I found you.” Her eyes implored.
“Me too,” not really knowing what we were talking about.
“I love you with all my heart.”
“Me too, mom.”
I stroked her hair. I got her ice cream and fed it to her, chocolate chip mint, her favorite.
We gazed into each others’ eyes.
“I’ve got to go,” I said.
“When will you be back?” she asked.
“Soon, mom, soon.”
A year, five months and one day later, I got the call.
My sister’s name appeared on my incoming call screen at 9:30 at night. It bothered me. God, why is she calling me so late? Probably more advice on how to raise my kids now that I’m a single parent. She’s the oldest sister. She offers me plenty of advice which sometimes comes across as browbeating. I stared at the incoming call and let it go.
She left no voicemail, and here she was again calling me at 7 in the morning while I’m getting the kids ready for school. She again left no voicemail.
I took the slice of ham. I cut it in half. I folded the half. I lay the piece on a quarter piece of sour dough bread. Repeat. I placed the half a sandwich into the lunch container with a container of Trader Joe’s banana yogurt and a Danimal’s Strawberry Explosion. I zipped up the sack and placed it next to my son’s backpack.
Then it hit me.
She’s dead.
I strode to my room and phoned my sister. She picked up.
I marched to my 12 year old’s room – my older son had already left. Laying on his bed, he worked his computer as he always does before school. I looked into his eyes, tried to smile, moved my mouth. “My mom died.” And collapsed into him, sobbing. He held me close.
I dried my eyes, stood up.
“Thanks. Sorry. It’s time to go to school.”