Authors: Elizabeth Amelia Barrington
"Umm
--" It took Margaret a moment to realize what Liz meant, but she quickly recovered. "Oh, he's fine. Ornery as ever."
There was a knock at the cottage door,
and I opened it to Dr. Rutherford. "Doctor, I'm concerned about my mother. She's slurring her words, and she seems very weak and tired."
Dr. Rutherford
answered quietly. "The morphine is causing her to slur her words, even though she is not taking nearly as much as she should. She insisted upon waiting until today to begin her morphine so that she would be more alert. Now, I'm going to set her up with a morphine drip. Your mother will not last long now. The main thing is to keep her comfortable."
From that moment on,
I stayed in Mom's room. A 24-hour nurse, named Monica, was provided to handle the morphine and all of Liz's medical needs. At night, the nurse slept in my bedroom next door. I pulled the green, wingback chair close to the bed and slept on the floor. My appetite almost disappeared. Margaret brought me juices and sodas. One day blurred into another day, and then the days and nights seemed to blend together into my mind. In my heart, I still hoped that Mom would recover, but the hope was being extinguished as hour after hour, Mom weakened. John often came into the room to sit with me a while and to try to coax me into drinking a small milkshake. Sometimes he was successful. At other times, I could drink nothing but water.
John enjoyed Portland so much that he
had purchased a home in the West Hills. He planned to move into his home as soon as his film was complete.
People from our
old Laurelhurst neighborhood and our church began to arrive to pay their respects. One after another, they trickled into the room, stopping to whisper something to Liz, often receiving a hand squeeze in return, sometimes even the offer of a hug. Liz had telephoned, visited, and written to encourage the sick, the elderly, and the lonely; she had cooked for them, and many remembered her kindnesses.
First thing each
morning, I cleaned Mom's teeth. Then, I washed and dried her body and changed her clothes. The days and nights continued to run together into one nightmarish twilight, until the first day dawned when Mom seemed to spend long hours in which she was unaware of her surroundings, rambling in her speech, and hallucinating.
Early
one morning, I began brushing Liz's teeth, as usual.
"Don't brus
h my teeth, please." Liz's voice was so soft it could barely be heard. She reached for my hand.
"Do you n
eed something?" I asked.
Her
eyes were tortured by weariness and pain. "I love you," she whispered.
"I love you, too."
And then, her face slowed to a stop. She was gone. I realized how foolish I had been to think I would feel better when her pain was over. This was much worse.
I rested my head on her body until I felt it begin to grow cold. I dimly remember
Margaret coming in to try to get me up.
Then,
Father Moore spoke into my ear. "I know this is a terrible thing, but your mother would not want you to grieve in this way. Let her go."
I
lifted my head and reluctantly disentangled myself, arose and sat in the chair.
###
Like the days leading up to Mom's death, the days following were also a blur. It seemed there were always people around me. People telling me to shower, helping me get dressed, driving me to the funeral Mass, to the graveside, and people at the reception. I cared nothing for any of them. I knew I had promised Mom that I would try to be happy, but even while I said the words I had known it would be impossible. The only blessing was that, with her passing, I no longer had to try to pretend. My appetite had never returned, and I spoke little.
I
no longer went to Mass, because I felt that God had turned his back on me by taking away my mother. Alone in my room, I often thought to herself, Maybe I wasn't taking good enough care for her, and that's why he took her away.
When
Father Moore came to talk to me, he seemed surprised and saddened by my attitude. "Vicky, God loves you and your mother. That hasn't changed."
"Well, he has a funny way of showing it.
" When I saw the stricken look on Father Moore's face, I apologized. "I'm sorry, that's just the way I feel. It seems as if he has turned away from me. When I try to pray, I feel dry and hollow."
"We all go through times like that
. But, it's important to continue to pray. It will pass."
"I don't know about that
. I feel bitter and lost. I need to go rest." I rose and then Father Moore rose.
I
walked him to the door. "Please pray for me."
"I will,"
he said.
###
Margaret and my friends had planned and executed the funeral reception to be held in Frank's home, while I lay in my bedroom, staring at nothing. On the day of the reception, they helped me shower and dress. During the crowded reception itself, I sat in Frank's huge living room, subjected to quiet stares and whispered comments.
I overheard someone behind me saying in hushed tones, "What's wrong with her? She looks so angry."
Everyone seemed to be afraid to approach me. Except Paul. "Why haven't you returned any of my calls? I've been frantic with worry. They said you've been in bed all this time."
I
sat without even giving Paul the flicker of a response and continued to stare at some fixed point across the room.
Paul's mouth dropped open, and his eyes narrowed
, "Oh--my God.”
He
took me by the arm and moved me out of the wingback chair and began walking me out of the house, smiling and nodding at everyone we passed along the way, as if nothing were wrong. We walked through the kitchen and out the side door and on into the cottage and he helped me onto the living room sofa. Then my shoes were removed, I was helped to lie down, and covered with a blanket.
When he brought a cup of something for me and asked me
to sit up and drink, I was too tired to respond.. He set down the cup and helped me sit up. Placing one arm around my shoulders, he coaxed me to drink until I drained the cup and again reclined. He sat across from me for a long while, until I slept.
Later I heard him speaking on the telephone in the kitchen.
"How long has she been like this?" There was a pause. I assumed he was talking to Margaret.
"She's resting on the sofa here at the cottage."
Paul's next call was to his father. I heard him apprising him of my situation and informing him he would be staying with me that night and the following day, so he would have to miss a day's work.
In the early morning,
I got up and stepped on something large on the floor. I squealed in alarm.
"Well, good morning to you, too." The large shape was Paul.
"Paul? Paul, what are
you
doing here?"
Paul
sat up on the floor below me and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, in an expression of fatigue.
"She speaks!
" In response to his attempt at humor, I waited for an answer.
"I
slept
here, hence the blankets and the pillow."
I
still felt confused. "I'm making coffee."
Paul grabbed his cell
from the coffee table and looked at it. "It's 4:30."
"That's when I wake up now
--if I'm lucky enough to sleep at all."
For a while, we
drank our coffee at the breakfast nook table in silence. "I wake up feeling okay, and then I remember that my mother is dead, and I feel like crap."
"Well, at least you're tal
king. They told me you've hardly spoken since--you know."
"I went somewhere deep inside myself
. Everyone wanted me to act as if nothing had happened. 'Go for a walk,' 'do this', 'do that.' Whatever! No one would let me mourn in my own way. They can't seem to get it through their heads that I lost my whole family. There's no one left except Mom's brother, Mr. Moneybags, who practically had a stroke all these years thinking she might ask him for help some day--which she never did."
"You're a little angry
, then?"
"Yes
. I'm a little put out, you might say."
"Okay."
We sat in companionable silence drinking multiple cups of fresh coffee until the morning light began to enter the room. Paul reached across the table to hold my hand at one point. I thought about how much I had loved him and it seemed to be a lifetime ago that I had thought such things were so important. Still, it felt good to have him here with me.
"Say, what do you think about going out for breakfast?"
Paul said.
"Not mu
ch. I'd sort of rather just stay here, if it's all the same to you."
"Well, it's not
'all the same to me.'" Paul moved the chair next to mine. He gently lifted my chin towards his face. I narrowed my eyes. Paul smiled and then narrowed his eyes to match mine. Involuntarily, I smiled, my first in a long time.
"I think it would do you a world of good to get away from this place for a while
. Away from the cottage, Frank's house, all of it. How long has it been?"
I
tried to think. "I'm not really sure--at least two months."
"How about starting with breakfast, brea
kfast away from here? Please? You can be as sad as you like. You don't even have to eat."
A
gainst my will, I chuckled. "Okay, just as long as I can be as sad as I like'"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The sound of an outside door closing woke Frank. He got out of bed and went to look out the window, from which he could see the cottage. He watched Vicky and Paul get into Paul's Jeep Wrangler and drive away. He looked at the clock. A little after 6:00 a.m. What are they up to?
Frank turned on a light by his bedside
, lit a cigarette and poured himself a drink. He wondered if they had spent the night together.
He muttered to himself,
"Why him and not me? This is the thanks I get for supporting her and her mother."
Feelings of jealousy and rage overpowered him. He got out of bed, grabbed a Chinese vase and threw it against the wall. The vase was priceless, from the Ming Dynasty, constructed somewhere around 1422. At that moment, Frank cared nothing for the vase's worth. He sat on the bed breathing hard.
There was a
loud knock at the door. "Mr. Armstrong, is everything okay?"
"Yes, and leave me
the hell alone!" he shouted.
Frank
began to pace back and forth across the large room, with his whiskey glass in one hand and his cigarette in the other. He stopped only to light a cigarette or refill his glass, his face a mask of fury. He tossed papers into the air and threw pillows. I would like to get my hands on that boyfriend--just once. Occasionally he went to the window overlooking the cottage to see if he could catch a glimpse of Vicky returning. At one point, as he sat on the end of his sofa, Frank gestured in such a wild way as he muttered and fumed that he knocked over the lamp on the end table. He heard another loud knock at the door.
"Frank, you've got to unlock this door! I simply insist
. What's going on in there?"
"All right, all right! Don't get your panties in a bunch!
" As if his legs were made of rubber, Frank slowly made his way to the door and unlocked it. The early morning whiskey on an empty stomach had hit him hard. Margaret came through the door and looked around the disheveled room and then at red-eyed Frank, her eyes wide with shock.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Paul drove downhill and slightly south, out of the West Hills and into Northwest Portland, stopping at a small café. While looking at the breakfast menu, I realized that I was ravenously hungry, for the first time in months. Still, I ordered a small breakfast of one egg and toast in order to reacquaint my stomach with the notion of solid food. Paul, who suffered under no such restriction, ordered a full breakfast of waffles, eggs, and bacon. Once the plates arrived, having been awake since before dawn, we earnestly set about the business of eating.
Finally, we
had finished their meals and settled down with our coffees.
I
looked around the restaurant. "What is the name of this place, again?"
"The Stepping Stone Café."
"Well, they certainly know their coffees. I thought it was going to be horrible, bitter stuff, like you find in some chain restaurants, but this is good. Thank you for getting me away from there. It feels good." Paul beamed with happiness and pride, as if he had discovered the cure for cancer.
"You know, it's going to take me a while to process my grief
. I think it is because I really thought the treatments were working, and then suddenly they weren't. Or, maybe it wouldn't have mattered." I looked out the window at the passing automobile traffic. A young couple walking a Collie passed by the window.
"She
's been my whole life for as long as I can remember. It feels as if there is a big hole inside me."
"That's only natural
. Regardless of the particular circumstances, it is always hard to lose a parent. I have a friend who hated his mother. At least he thought he did. She was abusive, and he was removed from her care and bounced around in one foster home after another when he was a kid. But when she died, he was very sad for a while."
Tears formed in
my eyes, and I grabbed some napkins from the dispenser on the table, wiped my face, and blew my nose.
Afte
r breakfast, Paul suggested we take a walk. Arm-in-arm we strolled along NW 24th, a tree-lined street of apartment buildings and homes, not particularly picturesque, but quiet. We walked in silence for a long way.
"Thank you for doing this
. It's good for me." I said.
"It's good for me
, too," Paul grinned wickedly.
I
punched him on his forearm. "Oh, you."
"Seriously, it's good for you to get away from that whole setting
. Have you given any thought to moving?"
I
glanced at Paul's concerned face and said,, "I haven't given thought to much of anything."
"Well, what I mean is
, weren't you working for Frank mostly because of your mother?"
"Yes
. But I withdrew from my classes at school and quit my work-study a month ago, so I could be with her. I have no income outside of the salary Frank gives me, and I am in no shape to go out and look for a job right now."
Paul stopped walking
. "Maybe I could help you find an apartment. I could give you a loan--just a loan between friends."
I
smiled and answered, "That's very sweet of you, but I would need a lot of money, because I won't be able to work for a little while. This has hit me hard. It would put a strain on you, and it might ruin our friendship, because I don't know when I could ever pay you back."
"I don't care about that
. Hey--you could come and live in my apartment."
"I'll think about it.
" We turned to walk back to the car.
We
decided to rent a movie at a Red Box machine. I wanted to rent
The Boy in the Striped Pajamas
, but Paul firmly vetoed it.
"It looks really inte
resting. As a matter of fact. It reminds me of Victor Frankl. But, I'm afraid it's going to be depressing. Might not be the best thing for you now. Maybe some other time we can watch it together."
Finally, after much
discussion and negotiation, we settled on
Midnight in Paris
and drove back to the cottage in Paul's Jeep. Paul walked over to the house to get a snack.
After spending some time in the
kitchen using the microwave, he walked into the living room with an enormous bowl of popcorn and two glasses of orange juice.
"How many packages of popcorn did you make?"
"Oh, a few. We need to fatten you up a little, girl. Now eat! You know you want to--you can't just have one popcorn kernel. It's impossible." He placed the large, plastic bowl of popcorn in my lap.
"Okay, okay
." I ate a few kernels and reached for more. "It
is
addictive."
"And, the really cool
thing about it is that you're
trying
to gain weight, so you can eat as
much
as you want!"
Paul went over
to the kitchen at Frank's house and came back with a turkey, mozzarella cheese, lettuce, and tomato sandwich slathered with mayonnaise, cut in half for us to share. We began to watch the movie, and I polished off my half of the sandwich. Both Paul and I were avid fans of Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams. I watched, transfixed, as the movie went back in time, each night, to the Paris of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, two writers I idolized.
"May I pause the movie for just a moment?" Paul asked.
"Sure."
"You look so bewitched that I want to know what you're thinking."
"You do realize, that is what the woman is supposed to ask, right?"
I
leaned toward Paul, and, in a high falsetto asked "What are you thinking right now, hum, sweetie pie? I have to know, or I'll just die right on the spot." I resumed my normal voice. "Etcetera, etcetera."
"Okay
, brat, be that as it may, I want to know what you're thinking."
I
thought for a moment. "Well, first of all, I love the clothes of the time. It's nice that everyone dresses in a less formal manner now, because it is not as expensive. But, on the other hand, even in nightspots, nowadays, you would never see the beautiful dresses the women wore back then. Plus, that really was a magical point in the history of Paris. Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Stein, Pound, and Joyce, all writing or destined to write literary masterpieces and all enjoying the wild atmosphere of Paris in the 1920's. I first found Hemingway's
For Whom the Bell Tolls
and Fitzgerald's
Tender is the Night
in my high school's library. We didn't study them in school. After I read everything of theirs I could get my hands on, then I read about their lives. They were fascinating people." Throughout all of my explanation, Paul had been listening, his eyes on my face.
"Now
," I said. "Can we
please
watch the rest of the movie?"
"All righ
t, all right." Paul turned the film back on.
After the movie was finished,
I yawned. "For some reason, I'm very tired."
Paul got up and walked toward his coat
. I said, "You don't have to leave right this very moment. That is, unless you really want to leave, then that's fine. I think a lot of it is that I'm not used to eating this much. I'm going to lie down for an hour or two."
"How about this?
I have a couple of errands to run, anyway. I can come back later this afternoon and see if you are awake."
"Here.
" I handed Paul the keys. "I don't like to leave the door unlocked when I'm asleep."
A couple of hours later, Paul let h
imself into the cottage while I sat up on the sofa in the living room drinking tea. He handed me my keys.
"Did you sleep or rest at all?"
"Yes. I slept for over an hour. I feel better." Paul took a seat beside me.
"You know, I was sitting here thinking that all we've been doing is talking about me and my situation. How are things going with you?" Vicky said.
"Well, actually, things are going well
for me. A year ago, I completed a six month internship for Hallgate Studios, in Los Angeles, and now they've offered me a job as an Assistant Producer. In spite of the title, a lot of it is gofer work, but if I do well, then there is room for advancement or at least a reference for a better studio job."
"That sounds great
. It's good isn't it?"
"Yes
--I guess it is. It's what I have been working for all these years in my film studies. It's just that now that the opportunity is here, it seems sort of overwhelming. I guess, deep down inside, I never really thought I would get a job related to film and would just, you know, work in my Dad's little painting business."
"What is it that overwhelms you?"
"First of all, the move. LA is a lot more expensive than Portland. Plus, the job itself. I would basically be on call 24/7. It would be a lot of pressure. Now that they've made the offer, I just don't know if I'm ready for some reason."
"When do you have to give them an answer?"
Paul laughed. "Tomorrow. I'm not sure what answer I'll give them. It would mean leaving in the summer--in June--after I graduate. Anyway, I know this doesn't matter to you, but now I'm hungry again. Mind if I order Chinese for us?"
"N
o, I love Chinese food."
After they had eaten, Paul joked, "Well, I'd better be leaving, because I don't have any money left."
I misunderstood. "Oh, do you need some money? I can repay you for everything."
"No,
no. I was just joking around. The real reason is that, now that you have some color back in your cheeks, you're so cute I'd like to ravish you. But, I don't think people in mourning are supposed to be ravished, so I'm leaving. You have to promise me that, from now on, you will answer your telephone, or at least reply to messages. Can you do that for me? 'Cause otherwise I'll worry myself into a frenzy."
"Yes
. I'll do that. And, thanks for everything. I do feel a little bit better."
Paul kissed my
forehead and left, locking and closing the door behind him.
The following morning, I again awoke at 4:30 a.m. The silence of the cottage seemed familiar and yet unnerving after having Paul over. I drank coffee and ate a little cold cereal. While sitting in the breakfast nook gazing out at the garden, I entered into a dreamlike state. Memories, unbidden, flooded into my mind's eye. I recalled my feelings of joy the first day Frank gave me the key to the cottage, particularly when the kind rays of the sun shining through the breakfast nook windows had blessed my shoulders. I thought of the day we moved into the cottage and the happy luncheon I had enjoyed with Mom and my friends. It was only months ago, but it seemed as if someone else had done all those things.
All my life, everyone had said I
was strong and resilient. One of my teachers told me I was a "go-getter." They had said I was gifted and would go far in life. Looking back now, it seemed as if I had unknowingly been moving toward the edge of a precipice, unmindful of the danger that lay ahead. I had simply been "whistling in the dark," hoping for the best against all odds, when tragedy lay in store for me.
All I
had ever wanted was to make life easier for Mom, and now she was gone. At least I was able to provide the best care for her during her illness. That's something. What would we have done without Frank? I tried to read, tried to listen to music, and flipped through television channels, but nothing seemed right.
Finally, at 9:00 a.m.
, I heard a knock at the door. It was Margaret. "Would you like to come over for breakfast?"
"Okay.
" I grabbed my coat to protect me against the morning chill and followed Margaret into the house.