Wait Until Tomorrow (17 page)

A strong, vile odor lets me know that the woman has already messed her diaper. (They all wear diapers in the nursing home.) But I am unprepared for the stench as she lowers her diaper to her knees and drops clumsily onto the toilet seat. I am unprepared for the black tarry mess filling the cup of the diaper. I help her remove the soiled garment, deposit it in the trash can and quickly leave the room to get another diaper. I also have to stop my stomach from hurling up the vegetable lo mein I have just shared with my mom because the nursing home food is so bad she won't eat it. I suck in some air from my mother's room as she looks at me, wonderingly.

“Be right back,” I tell her and grab a diaper from her own bag. In the bathroom, the toilet is filled with black goo. I wonder how anyone can have that in their body and still be alive. But with my queasiness under control, I use wet paper towels to wipe between the soft jiggling buttocks of the old woman, trying to get the sticky black shit off her pale skin.

“You are such a kind person,” she says to me over and over. I don't know about that, but I do find that these small acts of kindness I get to perform add a certain dimension to my life that had not been there before.

 

On Sunday, Emmy and I go to see Mom. We take her outside to sit in the courtyard sun. Mom wants to go home. She is scheduled to stay until Thursday, which is as long as the insurance will pay for.

“How about Tuesday?” I ask her.

“That's fine.”

“I'll make the arrangements.”

On Tuesday, March 20, my mother's eighty-ninth birthday, I go to Harris Teeter to buy a cake and ice cream. A drunk woman in front of me is trying to buy a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice. Martha, the cashier, leans over and asks in her kindest voice, “Are you sure you want to get this now?”

The woman, a blond with disheveled hair, an expensive purse, and cute shoes, mumbles that she knows she has the money for it. Martha exhales in relief when it turns out the woman doesn't have a wallet. She pats her on the hand and says, “You can come back later, honey.”

The woman leaves, confused and disappointed. As I watch her wander away with her eyes cast downward, I feel a sense of my own remembered shame—the years when I took pills, drank
tequila, injected myself with almost anything I could cram into the barrel of a needle.

Martha turns her attention to me and says, “The Good Lord is watching out for that lady today. I sure didn't want to sell her any liquor.”

I nod, pay for my things, and tell Martha that today is my mother's birthday—that makes Martha smile.

When I go to pick up my mother, she's sitting up in her wheelchair, hair combed, lips sticked, and eyes bright. When my mother is happy, she radiates it. She's all packed and ready to go like a kid coming home from a dreadful summer camp. She's made friends, of course, and they hate to see her go.

“Your mama is one smart lady,” the woman from the room next door tells me. To my mother, “You be good, okay. Don't get in any trouble.”

When I get her home, Sylvia (who I finally realize was the “Suzy” she needed to call at the hospital) comes by. I had called her the night before and said we'd be having some cake and ice cream. She promised to spread the word. By seven o'clock the small living room is filled with my mother's friends, all eating Harris Teeter's finest red velvet cake with vanilla ice cream. Mom plays “Happy Birthday” on the black Steinway in a variety of styles from classical to boogie-woogie to a solemn “church” style, making everyone laugh. Then they tell church jokes. Mom tells one about the little girl who was making noise at church until her older sister told her to be quiet: “Can't you see people are trying to sleep?”

Then she tells a story. “During high school I was playing the organ—for money!—and conducting a choir, and was the accompanist for the New Haven Light Opera Guild. It could have been one of their rehearsal nights, and they served orange blossoms after the rehearsals. I just thought it was the best orange juice I
ever had and took two glasses, and promptly went to sleep. They had forgotten that I was just a child, really, and there were multiple abject apologies when my mother came to get me. However, it did not lead to a life of drinking,” she says.

Her friends laugh and tell stories of their own.

There aren't many night owls at her place, so by about the time the vernal equinox has passed at 8:37 p.m., most everyone has gone home. After Bill, Nancy, Art, and Mark straggle out, my mother looks at me and says, “I don't know when I've been so happy.”

I lean down and wrap my arms around her tiny frame.

“Goodnight, Mom,” I tell her. “I'll see you in the morning.”

SPRING AND SUMMER 2007

In spite of its painful beginning, a few small miracles occur in 2007. The first is that the marital intimacy I thought was dead and buried rolls the stone from the tomb and shows up in my doorway wearing her Easter Sunday frock. I'm not sure how it happens. For several years now, Hank's pals—you know them: Bill, Sean, and Rush—have been warning Hank from their cable news thrones about the commie in the house. Every couple of years I go to the polls and single-handedly corrupt America's youth, undermine the principles of liberty, and seek to force millionaires to give up their hard-earned money and hand it over to shiftless welfare mothers. And like all other traitorous Democrats, I am secretly hoping that every pregnant woman will run out and have an abortion even if she's eight and a half months along. But at some point, Hank turns off his television and decides that I may be a commie, but I'm his commie. Throughout the years of conflict we still maintained an affectionate relationship, but now we're spending time together again, and for the first time in years, I think that we might make it. We're laughing again. Dare I say, we're happy.

The other thing that happens is that my spiritual life takes a new direction. Early in the year a woman named Cheryl comes to me with a book she wants edited; it's about her experiences with a spiritual teacher called Sadhguru. The story is fascinating. All my
life I've wanted to meet an enlightened being and it looks like I might soon have my chance. But what really piques my interest is the story Cheryl tells me of Sadhguru's wife who simply chose to leave life behind. She wanted transcendence all the time and she made it happen. That's what I want—a key to unlock the door that keeps us here. I do not want to live as long as my mother has lived. The Etruscans believed that the perfect life lasts eighty-four years. That's long enough for me, I'm thinking. I mean, maybe with technology they'll be able to have us feeling like we're thirty when we're ninety, but I'm not counting on that. What I don't want is to wind up in one of those nursing homes in a fetal position unable to walk or read a book or laugh. So after I edit the book, I decide I'll take one of this man's workshops. I'll see if there's anything to this yoga practice he teaches.

 

But first we have a pressing issue. Emmy is a junior in high school, and college is looming ahead of us. The college search freaks me out. When do we start looking? Where? The college advisors warn that Emmy's top picks might not be achievable because of her inconsistent grades. She never could get the hang of that getthe-homework-in-on-time thing. Teachers couldn't get a handle on her:
Was she ADD? Did she harbor a buried genius that made periodic eruptions? Was she lazy?
Her photography teacher, however, knew. He said she was talented and smart and would eventually be fine.

One weekend, Emmy and I drive west to check out the colleges that are within a three-hour radius. The trip is fun. We sneak away from one college tour because it's so boring it makes us want to weep. After ruling out a couple of possibilities and keeping one option open, we are traveling back home under a bruised sky when my cell phone rings.

It's my mother.

“Where are you?” she wants to know.

“I'm on the road, Mom, with Emmy. We've just been to look at some colleges.”

“Then you won't be coming over tonight?”

“No, I'm almost two hours away, and I've been driving all day.”

Then she starts to cry.

After I hang up, Emmy is practically apoplectic.

“I'm the kid! You're my mother! Can't she even let us go look at colleges?”

I reach over and run a hand along her arm.

“I know, baby. I know. It's just that she's lonely.”

Emmy crosses her arms and stares out the window as Simon and Garfunkel sing us back home.

 

Like all the good middle-class folk, we go to the college fairs and that's where Emmy and I make a fabulous discovery. The University of North Carolina has a school of the arts with a drama program for high school seniors, and it's free for North Carolina residents.

A month later, Emmy and I sit nervously in a waiting area at the North Carolina School of the Arts with other parents and their teenage sons and daughters. For days Emmy has worked on her monologues with me and the drama teacher from Kaleidoscope. One of the monologues comes from the play
Proof
, and the other comes from my favorite,
Medea
. I played Medea myself when I was a teenager. I slid easily into the persona of that crazy, vengeful murderess, and even today I sometimes channel her when the need arises.

A beautiful woman with short dark brown hair and bright brown eyes sits across from us with an equally beautiful daughter. Something about the two of them radiates confidence and kindness.
So Emmy and I sit up a little straighter in an attempt to look a little sharper ourselves.

I try not to put any stock into anything at all today. We're just here with no expectations. Don't make any friendships, I'm telling myself. Don't picture Emmy strolling across campus. Emmy has adopted the same attitude. We refuse to admit that she wants this.

The brown-eyed woman and I strike up a casual conversation, but we can barely breathe. She's nervous, too. It hurts so much to see that our girls might not get something they really want. Emmy and the girl quickly learn they have a mutual friend from Emmy's school. Don't make friends, I'm thinking. We're just passing through.

Then it's Emmy's turn to go in. We've been here all day what with one meeting or another, nervously chatting with other parents and students, sizing up the competition. This is the final audition. Emmy is not quite the last one but almost. Will she make it? Will she spend her senior year of high school on a college campus, attending what is arguably the best arts school in the country? It depends on which Emmy goes in there—the knock-your-socksoff Emmy or the lose-your-backpack-and-total-your-mother's-car Emmy.

Fifteen minutes later and it's over. We won't know anything for a few weeks. Neither of us has much to say, but I have this sick feeling in my stomach like I've been on a small boat in ten-foot waves. My gut is saying “bad news.” I take Emmy to Greensboro to stay with a friend and to get a closer look at the state college there.

After I've dropped her off, I drive back to the Interstate for the hour-and-forty-minute drive home. The sick feeling has not gone away. It has only turned into a deeper feeling of dread. As I pull
into the seventy-mile-an-hour traffic, I have an epiphany. I realize I am not feeling sick because Emmy is not going to get into that school. I'm sick because I suddenly know that she will.

When she gets the acceptance letter a couple of weeks later, she screams so loudly that her friend a few houses down calls to find out what happened.

A woman at my Religious Science church who has just lost her mother tells me how lucky I am to still have mine. She's right. And yet, I am so unhappy. I have no life. I feel like I'm somehow back in prison. I pray to that ineffable something. I ask for guidance. I know there's got to be a way that I can be a good, loving daughter and yet still have something left over for myself. I keep looking for someone who might need a place to live and who might be willing to stay in my mother's extra bedroom in exchange for taking some of the load off my shoulders. There must be someone who needs a place to sleep and is not psychotic and wouldn't mind fixing scrambled eggs each morning.

When a longtime friend calls me one morning to complain because she's broken her wrist and has no one to help her, I simply respond, “This, too, shall pass.”

“I don't need platitudes,” she says angrily. I hang up the phone and decide to let go of this friendship of twenty-something years. I cannot add anyone or anything to this cart that I am toting. It's a year before that rift is repaired.

Help comes from places I'd never expect. Sylvia, who has been assisting Mother with her chorus at the Landings, was a nurse in her former life. She's one of those saints who loves to help others.
She's self-effacing and kind. She offers to take off my mother's compression socks at night and sometimes even puts them on for her in the mornings. Thank God I can sleep in once in a while!