Jessica saw her mother make a face. Lillian did not much like the grandchildren she had now, except for Sara, who was an adult and could carry on an intelligent conversation. She tolerated the younger ones, but had almost no patience for babies, whom she saw as disruptive and messy little creatures, always interrupting things.
Jessica had left her job at the bank over a month ago. Working full-time, running a house, and taking care of her boys while pregnant had just been too much for her. Since she’d been home, her number was first on Lillian’s speed dial. Even with Sara and Luke around, there was always some emergency.
But Emily was right, once the baby came she couldn’t just toss on a jacket and run over here every five minutes. It wasn’t realistic or fair to her own family.
Lillian straightened her spine. “You girls don’t want to help me, is that it? Well, who needs you? I can get along fine, don’t worry your pretty heads. Grocery stores deliver, you know. I can get anything I need by just picking up the phone—complete dinners, hot and ready to eat. I don’t need to burden you two, with your busy lives.”
Lillian had tossed down the guilt card. Jessica had been wondering how long it would take for that one to be pulled from her bag of tricks.
“Mother, that is not what we’re saying. We’ll still come by, as much as ever. We would just feel better if someone was here with you,” Jessica explained.
“You definitely need someone here, at least for some part of the day,” Emily continued. “There’s no use arguing about it anymore.”
“Oh, really?” Lillian tilted her head with interest. “How could that be? You make it sound as if I have no choice in the matter.”
Emily glanced at Jessica. Jessica knew what was coming and braced herself. Emily took the plunge. “We’ve tried to speak to you about this, Mother, several times. We had to move forward, for your own good. I spoke to an agency yesterday, and arrangements have been made. They’re sending someone over tomorrow.”
“Sending someone over?” Lillian’s pale blue eyes widened with shock. “Who is this someone?”
“We don’t know yet,” Jessica admitted. “It’s more of an interview.”
“But they’re good and reliable . . . and friendly,” Emily insisted. “I’ve found a terrific agency. They screen their aides carefully and train everyone they send out.”
“We thought you could meet a few candidates and decide,” Jessica piped up.
“Two or three, tops. They’re all highly recommended,” Emily assured her. “It shouldn’t take long to choose someone you like.”
Someone her mother liked? The baby in her belly would be in college by then, Jessica wanted to say.
Emily, of course, knew the odds. They had already covered this ground privately, debating over whether to choose someone for their mother or let her do the interviews. They both doubted their mother would find anyone acceptable, no matter how many people she interviewed, but the process would give her some sense of control. Which was vital, they both knew.
Lillian squinted at them. “You’ve ganged up on me. This was all planned. That’s why you left work today, Emily. To corner me here, with your sister. To ambush me.”
Jessica didn’t reply. It was true, they had planned this ambush and what they would say. And they both knew their mother would figure it out sooner or later.
Emily sat back and raised her chin. “We’re only thinking of you, of your well-being and safety. For goodness’ sake, you act as if we’re trying to punish you.”
“Mother, won’t you at least consider the idea?” Jessica leaned across the table to appeal. “Meet a few of the people from the agency?”
Lillian paused and took a long breath. “I’ll think about it, I suppose. If you both insist.” Then she looked at Emily. “I’m just warning you, don’t start sending people over here without my approval. I’m not agreeing yet to having a parade of strangers coming through this house.”
“It doesn’t need to be a parade, Mother,” Emily pointed out, “if you could simply settle on one quickly.”
“No need for sarcasm, Emily. This isn’t a town council meeting where everyone jumps when you snap your fingers,” Lillian retorted. “Why, just last week I read in the paper how some helpless old woman was robbed blind by one of these so-called certified, responsible companions. Robbed blind, I tell you. Is that what you want to happen to me?”
“Of course not, Mother,” Emily said. “The point is just the opposite. We want you to be safe.”
“We don’t want to worry about you,” Jessica repeated.
“Of course, that’s the intention. But you girls have always been so naive. You have no idea what really goes on in these situations. Or perhaps you just don’t want to face it.”
It was hard for Jessica to remain patient when her mother got this way. She was ready to give up and go home. She could see her sister struggling to hold on to her temper and hoped Emily wouldn’t blow up. That wouldn’t help at all. Lillian had a way of provoking them both, but especially Emily. Situations would build and build and then explode in some big drama, which played right into Lillian’s hands. Once they lost their temper, she could dismiss anything they said.
“Mother, the reality is this,” Emily said in a strained tone. “You can’t live completely on your own in this big house any longer. It’s not safe or even practical. We would be very irresponsible to let you. If you can’t abide having a housekeeper or part-time help here, then we’ll have to think of some other solution, which I am sure you would like even less.”
“Such as?” Lillian asked, looked genuinely alarmed.
“Such as selling the house and having you move in with one of us,” Emily proposed.
Oh, dear. Now she’d done it. Jessica looked over at her sister. Hadn’t they agreed to hold back on that ultimatum? But of course, their mother had pushed Emily to her limit. Who could blame her for putting all the cards on the table—even if they were cards that they both knew their mother would hate. Never mind that they both knew the “moving in with one of us” idea was also a disaster scenario.
Jessica saw her mother’s face go pale as paper. She half rose in her chair then dropped down again. “Sell this house? Not while I have breath in my body!” She clutched her chest, gasping for air.
“Oh, dear . . . get her pills, Emily. The case should be in her purse.” Jessica jumped up and put her arm around her mother’s thin shoulders. “Calm down, Mother. Just try to calm down and take deep, slow breaths.”
“I’m going to die in this house, I’ve always told you that,” her mother railed. “I’m going out feet first. Maybe today if I’m lucky . . .”
Emily ran back with the pill case. Jessica could see her sister’s hands shaking as she fumbled to open the zipper. “Which one do you need, Mother? Should I call the doctor?”
Lillian just moaned and closed her eyes. “I’m not at all well. . . .”
The phone rang, and Lillian’s eyes peeked open. “Should I get it?” Jessica asked her.
“Wait, see who it is. I don’t want to speak with anyone. I can’t talk . . . I can hardly breathe,” Lillian insisted, though Jessica noticed she seemed to be breathing—and talking—quite easily. Except for her very pale complexion, she didn’t seem nearly as bad as she had a few moments ago.
The women waited for the outgoing message and then heard the sound of a familiar voice. “Lily, are you there? Pick up the phone, for Pete’s sake.” A long, noisy sigh followed. “All right, take your time. Don’t break a hip. It’s only me.”
“Ezra. Give me the phone, please!” Her mother stretched out her arm, as if grasping for a lifeline. Jessica leaned over, picked up the receiver, and handed it to her.
“Ezra? I’m here,” Lillian greeted him. “Emily and Jessica are visiting. They’re plotting against me now. They’ve come to torment me. . . . Yes, that’s exactly what I said. . . .”
Lillian waited, listening.
Jessica tiptoed over to the sink carrying her coffee cup and waved for her sister to join her.
“She’s fine, thank heavens,” Emily whispered.
“What an actress,” Jessica whispered back. “She had me going for a minute there.”
“A miraculous recovery,” Emily quipped.
Lillian turned her head, her hand covering the phone. “You two, what are you whispering about back there? Giggling like schoolgirls. It’s very rude.”
“We were just wondering what we should fix you for dinner. It’s getting late,” Jessica replied. It
was
getting late. Time to give up and fight another day.
Lillian ended the call and placed the receiver on the table. “That was Ezra,” she announced. “His housekeeper, Mrs. Fallon, is making a roast chicken and if I can provide a few side dishes, he’ll bring it over tonight to share. So neither of you need to make me dinner. I’m sure that is some relief of your great burden.”
Plain old unseasoned roast chicken, her mother’s favorite. How did Ezra know? The question made Jessica smile.
“That’s very nice of him,” Emily said.
“We planned to watch a show on the History Channel tonight,” Lillian informed them. “Ezra prefers my television set, so he’s getting something out of the bargain.”
She stood up, adjusted her sweater around her shoulders, then took hold of her cane, which was propped against the back of the chair.
“I can make a vegetable and some potatoes for you,” Emily offered. She pulled open the refrigerator door, but Jessica saw her mother walk over and push Emily aside.
“I’m perfectly capable of boiling a few potatoes and a pot of string beans.”
That was her mother’s favorite cooking method. Boiling everything. Jessica was sure that if Emily made the food it would taste a whole lot better—and Emily was no cook, not by anybody’s definition.
But it was good for her mother to take an active role. They could trust her alone until Ezra arrived, Jessica thought. Though she would call later, to make sure her mother remembered to turn off the stove.
They both kissed their mother good-bye, a gesture she barely acknowledged.
“Good-bye, Mother. Have a good time,” Jessica said. “I’m glad you have some company tonight.”
“Oh, Ezra isn’t company,” she scoffed.
“He isn’t?” Emily challenged her. “What is he then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s . . . Ezra,” she replied, sounding annoyed by the question.
Outside at their cars they consoled each other.
“I nearly thought we had a nine-one-one call on our hands there for a minute,” Emily confided.
“Thank goodness for Dr. Elliot. Mother was instantly revived by the mere mention of roast chicken.”
Emily laughed. “Yes, she was, wasn’t she? We’ll have to remember that next time she fakes a collapse.”
“At least we got her to talk about the problem,” Jessica pointed out. “She did say she would consider the idea.”
“Oh, Jess, those were the words of a desperate woman. She would have said anything at that point. I don’t believe her for a minute.” Emily fished through her big purse and pulled out her car keys. “But I meant what I said,” she added. “If she won’t accept live-in help, then we’ll have to move her out of the house. Which won’t be any picnic either.”
Jessica could only picture her mother being carried out, kicking and screaming. “I hope she’ll see reason. I hope it won’t come to that.”
“I hope so, too,” Emily said.
DAVID SAT IN THE WAITING ROOM, HIS GAZE FIXED ON THE CLOSED door. Any moment now either George Henson or Gena Reyes would open that door and call him in. For the past few days, he had thought about asking for a new therapist.
When his father had dropped him off today at the front of the building, he still wasn’t sure what he would do. By the time he reached the check-in desk, he knew. He would stick with Gena, see how it went. She was tough, no question; a hard nosed bully when you got right down to it. But maybe he needed someone like her to get him moving again. The door to the treatment room opened, and George appeared. “Hey, David. Back for more fun and games?”
“That’s right. I can hardly wait,” David grunted as he lifted himself on the walker and made his way to the door.
George led him to a curtained cubicle where Gena was waiting, clipboard in hand. It was hard to tell if she was pleased to see him or surprised that he had not asked for a new assignment. He did want to show her something by coming back, he realized, maybe that he was tougher than she thought.
“Morning, David. Ready to dig in?” she asked evenly.
“Yes, ma’am, I am,” he answered, sounding all army. “I know you’re a slave driver, but maybe that’s a good thing. In my situation, I mean.”
She glanced at him, then set the clipboard on a side table. “Maybe. I guess we both have to wait and see.”
“Right,” he said, wondering if the word
optimistic
was even in her vocabulary.
“Okay, let’s start with some stretches. Lie back on the table, please.”
David did as he was told, suddenly remembering Reverend Ben’s story about his wife’s recovery. What was it he said? The first visit is hard. The second not much easier. And the third, even worse than the first?
It was better not to keep track, David decided, not to keep watching the mileage on the meter. All he knew for sure was that a long road stretched out ahead of him.
Gena and George worked him hard. They started off with stretches, then the weight machines for both his upper and lower body. Gena told him he needed to build strength—not necessarily bulk—for better balance and muscle control. With injuries to both legs, he would have to work doubly hard to get back in condition. Then they went to the exercise bike, where his bum foot had to be strapped in. It was a struggle just to pedal. David was ready to quit after the first three minutes, but Gena pushed him until he pedaled out of sheer anger.
He thought the workout was over at that point, but after a short rest, she had him back on the floor again for more stretches, then up on a treadmill. That was even harder than the bike. David slipped off twice, and George had to catch him and stick him back on. When it was finally over, George gave him a massage.