30 Pieces of a Novel (46 page)

He says to Angela as he's leaving the apartment, “If she's up and alert this evening, call me, and I can shoot over, if I don't have something urgent to do with my family, and have a drink with her.” “She's not supposed to be drinking,” and he says, “One every other day won't hurt her, and the one I got her today she barely touched,” and she says, “I don't know what it'll do to her, but that's what the doctor and visiting nurse said.” “But she likes a drink every now and then, or did, and we can't just take everything away from her all at once. Cigarettes, booze, reading, because of her eye illness, different foods because of this cholesterol and that salt and the rest of it. If anything will kill her, that will,” and she says, “I'm only repeating what was told me. You're not there at every checkup and visit, but they always warn me about the same things.” “So, at her age we can be her doctors too. Lifting her spirits, letting her get away with some things she's not supposed to. Let's face it, the liquor makes her feel good. And to me, all that's important; there's little risk, and I'm sure it only makes her healthier rather than the reverse,” and she says, “I'm for that. But understand, you're the son, I only work for her, and you both pay me through the agency, so with most things I'm not going to stop you. But if the doctor asks, I got to tell the truth.” “Don't worry, and I'll call you later. I really didn't give her enough time today,” and she says, “She'll appreciate it. She always appreciates seeing you,” and he says, “And I like being with her. And it gives you a break, right? because your job can't be easy,” and she says, “That too.”

He calls around seven and Angela says, “She's still sleeping.” “You mean from when we got her down this afternoon?” and she says, “I've tried to get her up but she won't and I can't force her. She must have slept less than I thought last night and needs to make it up,” and he says, “I should probably make an appointment for her with her general doctor, long as I'm in town,” and she says, “He won't tell you anything newer than what he told me and your cousin a few weeks ago, because her health hasn't changed since.” “Let her sleep then, but we have to get her up and around and things tomorrow,” and she says, “We can always try. But you know she's not one for exercise or moving any faster than she can. She's stubborn, which I admire in her.” He calls an hour later and Angela says, “Still sleeping. Believe me, I've seen it before with old people; she's out for the night.” “I'm a little worried,” and she says, “Don't be. She's adjusted to her new pace, and she told me she hopes you get adjusted to it too.” “When she say that?” and she says, “Last week; but she's always saying it.”

He comes by around noon the next day. She's sitting up in bed in her nightgown, and he says, “Mom, you want to go out for lunch?” and she says, “Today I'm too tired to. I'll just have a bite here. I had a big breakfast,” and Angela says, “You ate practically nothing, Mrs. B, and only wanted me to put you back in bed.” “That's not so. I know I had a good breakfast—eggs, bacon, bread, and a glass of juice, unless it was an alcohol drink you were trying to feed me to get me to sleep,” and Angela says, “That sounds just like me.” Angela gives her a shower, gets her in clothes, they sit her in a chair in front of a table tray, and Angela puts a plate of food on it. She only nibbles on toast, sips some ginger ale, then says she's full and can't eat anything else. “Then let's go to the park,” he says. “You won't have to walk or do anything but rest in the wheelchair, and soon as you want to come home we'll leave,” and she says, “Anything you want, I don't care anymore,” and he gets her into the chair and wheels her to the park. She sleeps most of the way and continues to sleep when he stops to sit on a bench. He looks at her and tries remembering her face when she was thirty-five and forty and he was a boy. You need photographs for that, he thinks. He thinks that in thirty-five years, or even twenty-five, he'll probably be dead too. If one of his daughters wheels him to a park a few months before, he hopes he'll be capable of telling her he used to do this for his mother and before that for his dad. She could say, “I never knew your father, and how many years back was that with Grandma?” and he hopes he can figure it out and answer. If he can't, he can't. He's sure he'll be sleeping a lot then during the day. It'll be very restful for him in the park, and probably that's all he'll want.

VISITS
HIS
MOTHER
in the hospital. Goes to.
Sees
. “I'm afraid this could be it,” her general man said on the phone. “Today, tomorrow; she could go anytime. She's … what is she, ninety?” “One.” “Worse, then. Everything that could be wrong with her's wrong with her. Everything that counts, that is: heart, kidneys, lungs. There's nothing any medical staff can do for her except keep her comfortable and free of pain till she expires. Do you mind my being so blunt?” “And if I did? But no, I've told you.” “That's what I thought. Hope to see you over there, though she'll be in good hands if I miss you. You flying in today?”

Started with the hip. No, started long before that. She's been sick on and off the last fifteen years. In the hospital, out; in, out. Ambulance over, intensive care for a few days, regular room for a couple of weeks. “Why do they keep dragging me in here?” she's said. “There's nothing wrong with me. I'm old, so some days I'm weaker than others. They had a spare bed and some available machines; they saw a good chance to milk the insurance company and Medicare.” But with the hip they couldn't put a pin in because of her fragile health. Or they put one in and the body rejected it; he forgets. Lying in bed most of the time, sitting in a chair the other times, usually in pain, she deteriorated rapidly; didn't see the point in living like this, she said, whenever he visited her or phoned. Wouldn't eat, or couldn't; anyway, hardly ate and refused to move to a nursing home—“I've only what left, no time? And you'll have to swap me for every cent and brick we own, plus I heard they beat you black and blue if you pish in your pants, so it makes no sense for either of us, and who can stand being with all those groaning old people and their smells”—and around noon the woman who takes care of her weekdays called. She couldn't wake his mother. Ambulance was called, she went to the hospital in a coma, came out of it, will probably be in one by late tonight or early tomorrow, the resident for the intensive care unit says before Gould goes in. “But who can say? I'm always an optimist with my patients. They repeatedly surprise me, more times than I can remember, though mostly much younger ones. Save me the trouble of getting her chart; how old's your mom?” “Ninety-one.” “She looks amazing for someone her age. Almost no facial creases, neck still pretty good; she must've been the beauty in her family. You wouldn't know simply by looking at her she was in such terrible shape. So as for her walking out of here … what'd her internist tell you about it this time?” “That she's not.” “There's little chance, really no hope. I haven't told her this and she hasn't asked, but if you feel she wants to know and that she can absorb it, do what you think is best.” “It can't help her, right?” “Help, hurt, what are we talking about here? It should all be up to the patient if her comprehension's keen. Would you like to know in a similar situation and at her age?” “Yes, I think so. Or maybe I wouldn't care either way. Or I wouldn't want to know because I'd be afraid that with dying there'd be lots of pain or the news of it would disturb the only enjoyable thing left, my dreams.” “First of all, we've instantaneous drugs, so no pain. Or one wince by her or bounce on the monitor and we turn it up. But me, a doctor, I'd know without my kid telling me. If he started to say, ‘That's not true, Dad, you're going to be fine,' I'd say, ‘Bunk, pure bunk.'”

A nurse is taking his mother's temperature from under her arm. Does it in a few seconds with some new kind of thermometer, one he's never seen, and records it on a chart. She turns to hang the chart on the end of the bed and jumps. “My goodness, you scared me. You here for her.” and he says, “Yes, Mrs. Bookbinder; her son.” “Good, everyone alert here can use a few minutes of company. But please, no longer. Max of one visitor per patient at one time—ICU rules—and for a total for all visitors of ten minutes an hour. As should be obvious, we have so many—” and he says, “It's okay, I read the sign on the door, and no one else is coming. And I don't want to use up any more visiting minutes, but how is she?” and she says, “You spoke to the resident?” and he says, “Yeah, but you just took her temperature, maybe her pulse.” “Good, she's good. A strong woman for someone past ninety, remarkably strong. Bit of temperature just now, but I'm sure only because of the IV needle. Take it out, she'll be normal.” No need to ask what she means about strength. Strong enough to hold on another day, two, three at the most. IV's not coming out till they have to work on her to get her breathing again or she's dead. Something like that; he really doesn't know. And her pulse? he wants to ask, but she's with another patient now. He stands beside his mother and says, “Mom, it's me, how you doing, you awake?” Her eyes are closed, no lid movement. “Mom, can you hear me? It's Gould. You want to sleep? If you do, don't even bother opening your eyes. I'll be here a few minutes, then I have to leave. Hospital rules for this room—no more than ten minutes—but I'll be back before you know it.” Her eyes open slowly. “Yes,” she says, adjusting her eyes to the ceiling, then staring at it. He puts his head a few inches above her face. “Can you see this big ugly head over you? It's me, Gould, your son. How you feeling?” and kisses her forehead. “How I feel—don't get so close; move back,” and he does. “Can't you see? In the pink.” “Hey, you're okay, you look good, and your sense of humor's just perfect.” “I was a deadbeat before I met your dad.” “You're saying you had no sense of humor till you met Dad? That can't be true.” “Is that what I said? I don't want to lie. What did I say? I know I got wax in my ears but not that much.” “There, again, always good for a funny line.” “Who?” and he says, “You. You're funny, clever; you oughta go on the stage.” “I'll tell you … did you ask something?” “No.” “The last stage. When the curtain's pulled down. That's me, and no encores. And whatever anyone says, nobody gets them.” “And philosophically funny now; oh, you're too much.” “I'm too much? I'm cheap, I'm cheap, a heap of nothing, and I'm going to die here, I know. Well, I can't say I've been lucky, but it's my time.” “What're you talking? You're doing fine; doctor told me to tell you.” “I'm doing fine, take me home.” “That they won't let me do just yet. Once you come in—you know by now the procedures—they gotta do all their checks and tests on you before you can be released.” “If you wanted to take me, you could. You have my permission. Give me the dotted line.” “No, I swear, I can't do, and you need the rest.” “All I do is rest. How old am I?” “Maybe we're talking too much and you should be resting more, and I think my visiting time's up.” “Why, I told you; let them kick you out. They're not going to, and if they try, blame it on me. I haven't seen you for a long time. Now how old am I?” “How old do you think you are?” “That depends on how old you are. How old are you?” “Nearly sixty.” “You're an old man already, how'd it happen so fast? You were once such a young man. You were a baby once and I knew you then.” “Your baby, but don't get me started.” “Started where? You're too old to get started. Me, though, that's age. So how old am I? You'd have the information to know?” “You do know who you're talking to, right?” “Of course, I'm not stupid. You're my son. Your name I forget just now but I'll get it, give me time.” “Gould.” “That's right: Gould. Who'd we name you after? It's such an uncommon name, but it must have been from someone.” “You always said from no one, you just liked the name. And Dad used to say he went along with it because he knew he couldn't change your mind.” “That's what he said? When did he tell you that? Never to me. No, it was all my idea. You were named after … Dad wanted his father's name, but I put my foot down on that. I forget what his father's name was, but I knew it wasn't for a modern young man. Isaac. Or Julius. No, the last one was an old boyfriend of mine and the first one I don't know why I brought it up. Look at me: I can remember an old boyfriend's name from another century but not yours or my father-in-law's. Well, his I no doubt forgot because he was such an awful man.” “Abraham.” “Abraham. Abe Bookbinder. Who could name a child that, and the kind of man he was too? Father of men, I think it's supposed to mean. That's good for a one-day-old? How old am I?” “Just a second, Mom. Now that you started it, I would like to know who I was named after. It's interesting, finding out now.” “I'm not keeping it a secret. A man's first name, a woman's last? Or some other way, but it's not coming back to me.” “Did you get it out of a newspaper or from a book you read?” “I was always reading. As a girl, you saw a book more than my face. So books much more than newspapers, newspapers almost never. The daily news didn't interest me. My father said I would go blind. But I didn't wear glasses till I was sixty, or never needed them, I thought. Your father didn't mind, but he wasn't interested either.” “In choosing my name? In your reading books or that you didn't wear glasses or that you wore them later on? Because I know Dad was interested in newspapers. He read about three a day.” She closes her eyes, shakes her head, doesn't seem uncomfortable or in pain. “I'm sorry for pursuing this, Mom, but was it the industrialist Gould I was named after?” With her eyes closed: “Who's he and why industry?” “Good, you put that together. And he was in railroads, actually, and a speculator, though maybe industry too. Not the pianist Gould. That was much later, his fame, and he's only a few years older than me, or would be. Now I'm a few years older than he ever got.” “I don't know what you're talking about.” “Wasn't there a character in a well-known novel of around nineteen-ten or -twenty with the last name Gould?” “I can't read anymore. My eyes are all gone for that, even for the much larger print, so maybe my father was right—he'd like to know. Each letter would have to be a foot high for me to read, and what book has that? I'd have to be a giant with giant eyes. I'm too old, I can't grow. When you get this age, no matter what age you're too old. I'm never getting up again, I can see that. Never away from this bed, probably, not even to pee. Give me a drug, send me away, I've been bad, very bad, it's right I go.” “Why do you say that? You're absolutely wrong.” She opens her eyes. “Why, what did I say? I forget.” “You haven't been bad. You've been wonderful and generous all your life. And you could get out of here if you wanted to. I don't mean into your clothes and home this moment, but if you want to leave here, you will.” “I don't. Enough's enough, don't you think? How old am I? A hundred years old, two hundred? I bet I am, the way I feel.” “You're ninety … not even that. Still young, believe me—today? Almost ninety's nothing, or just starting to get there.” “Let me sleep,” and she shuts her eyes.