I have removed the selections from my novel for the time being. I have left my short story here though.

Cups by Elaina M. Avalos

I wrote this short story long before my Grandma was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It's based on my experiences working with the elderly -- both those with dementia and Alzheimer's. I apologize for any formatting issues. I've had a hard time getting Blogger to cooperate.

Cups

By Elaina M. Avalos

“I’m elbow deep in your Grandmother’s shit right now, Claire. We’ll have to discuss this another time.”
“Mom, I can’t wait to talk about this until later. I need to know now. Can’t you just pay for my share of the trip and I’ll pay you back later?”

           “Claire, go away. As you can see we’re a little busy. And unless you want Mee Maw and me to interrupt your next trip to the throne, get out. Now. Before -”

“But -”

“If you say another word the answer is no. Now act like the adult you’re supposed to be and leave us alone.”

“Oh me,” Mama replies. She rolls her eyes. “I’m deaf in one ear and that child’s whiny voice makes me feel like puking.”

“It does, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” Mama was quiet a moment and then spoke again. “What’s her name?”

I stopped wiping her backside, close my eyes and said for the three millionth time that day, “Claire. Her name is Claire.”

“Is she the neighbor’s daughter? She’s a mess. Whomever her parents are, well, I’ll just be delicate about it and say that they did a rotten job.” Mama gripped her walker a little harder. She spoke again, “You done back there yet? You’d think I’d be good and cleaned up by now. What’s taking you so long?”

Because you old hag, trying to clean the rear side of a wrinkly old woman is akin to long and slow torture. Go ahead. Try it. See if you can do a better job. “Just a moment, Mama, we’re almost done.

“Why do you insist on calling me Mama? My only daughter is in California. She’s a dear. She gave me the sweetest, cutest grandbabies ever. I do miss her.”

“Of course you do.” Too bad she can’t get off her ever expanding rear end and visit you and help me out for a few days. “Okay, well, we’re done now. Are you strong enough to use the walker to get to the wheelchair? Or would you like me to bring the chair to you?”

“I’ve been standing too long. Bring that chair here.”

I stepped away from mama and then rolled off the latex gloves covering my hands. I dropped the gloves into the wastebasket next to the toilet.

The soiled contents of life lay there in a heap. I’ve developed a sick fascination with watching things drop to the wastebasket. I stare at whatever crap is gathered there and feel an odd satisfaction. When things are quiet I try to analyze what it is about the trash thing that catches my attention. The only thing I can figure is that it is the only evidence that anyone in the house is actually living.

I walk out to the hallway to get Mama’s wheelchair and can hear my daughter in the family room talking to Frank. She just finished The Basic School. Next step, Pensacola. She’s going to be a Marine pilot like her daddy. Just two weeks and she’ll be out of my hair. Thank. God. You’d think she was five when she comes home to visit.

I assume, of course, she’s hitting Frank up for the cash she wants to go to Vegas but she’s not. She’s talking about me. “Daddy. You’ve got to do something. She needs counseling or meds. She just cursed at me. Mom! Mom cursed. Mee Maw, I’m used to. But Mom? You’ve got to do something.”

“Your mother doesn’t need counseling or meds. She’s strong. She’ll get through.”

Frank is right. Like my son Ben always says, it’s all good. Things are great. Just great. Fabulous.

I wheel Mama’s chair to her. She’s frozen in time waiting for my return. Her housecoat is stuffed into the gait belt cinched around her waist. She’s a sight. Not a pretty one.

“Okay. Turn around. You can schooch yourself back into the wheelchair.”

“Claire, Darling. Is that you?”
“No. It’s Ellen.”
“Well, I want Claire. I won’t sit down until Claire comes.”

“Okay,” my voice, I’ve decided, sounds like what the writer of Proverbs thirteen must have meant about hope deferred. “Mee Maw, I’m here. Let’s get into your wheelchair now.”

“Oh, Claire! I’m so glad you’re here to help. That nurse they’ve hired is lazy. She just left me standing here while the summer breeze blows up my ass. We ought to see about finding someone new.”

“Will do, Mee Maw.” As the words Mee Maw leave my lips, an unbridled, hidden anger seeps out of me. It’s what I would call a hiss. “Will do. I’ll fire her today.”

###

I’m fine. Really. No, it’s great. I feel like gold. I’m really happy. In fact, just the other day, I was telling the girls at church that this is exactly how I envisioned spending these years. Like this. Only better.

Things are so good that the easy way I used to pray or relate to God is so hard it’s almost physically painful now. I think shoving bamboo shoots under my fingernails would feel better.

I don’t doubt He exists.

I doubt that He’s listening to me.

When the family decided that Mama couldn’t be on her own anymore everyone assumed I’d be the one to care for her. “You’re a nurse,” my sister Anne said. As if it was a dirty word. Like that somehow meant that they didn’t have to ask if I wanted or even could do it. Or that I knew how to deal with someone with Alzheimer’s disease. I’ve spent my career in the NICU. I knew the basics about the disease. But it’s not like I had the time to keep abreast of the latest in other specialties. I barely had time to keep up with my own job.

Alzheimer’s expertise or not, Elsie Hart moved into 1724 Sycamore Street. Everything worked like clockwork until a year ago. That day something snapped. I felt it in my soul. It was like one of those tree limbs we have in our yard after a hurricane.

After Floyd blew through coastal Carolina, we had a limb, not a branch that stuck deep into the ground straight up. The force of the wind, too much for the Live Oak, sent it flying through the air like it was a Sidewinder missile on the Harrier Frank used to fly. I know because I watched it happen from the kitchen window. Even with the freight train like sound of the wind, I could hear the sick crack of the limb. It’s hard to believe that something so strong could be tossed around like it’s a floppy rag doll.

But that’s what that day was like for me. I heard and then felt, my life separating from its foundation. But I’m not stuck in the ground.

I’m floating.

As a child, the sensation of floating was like chocolate chip cookies and milk or a box of Boston Baked Beans from the drugstore. A treat. It was a yummy revelry in being carefree. I loved to float in the pond in the front yard. I was always so smug on my back in the murky, warm water. Mama use to tell me that my long red braids looked like bunny ears the way they stood up on end as I lay there, the sun painting freckles on my face. Smug because as the youngest of seven children, while my siblings and father worked their summers away, I floated and swam while Mama swam laps beside me.

We were two peas in a pod. I was my mother’s delight. She said it was because I had red hair like Daddy’s. That and because when she thought she was going through “the change” she was in fact, pregnant with me. I loved those long days. Surrounded by the overwhelming beauty and strength of my mother. She encapsulated me. Floating in the water, even at that young age, left me with the impression of what it might feel like to be floating in her womb. Floating but attached.

Those summer days gave me my best friend. Elsie Hart wasn’t just my mother. I may have been seven but she became my confidant. There was no one in the world like my Mama. No one could make me laugh like a wild hog, snorting myself into total embarrassment. No one could make my insides feel like sunshine. Golden, warm and revealed. No one had the power, not even Daddy, to make me feel safe, pretty, smart and important.

Held together. Connected.

Even as an adult when Frank and I moved around I didn’t lose this connectedness to my mother. Our gypsy lifestyle, compliments of the U.S. government even took us overseas. But across the miles I still remained tethered to mama. She was my rock.

Don’t get me wrong. Elsie Jane Hart was never one of those domineering, nosey, controlling types. She didn’t intrude. Anywhere. She was humble, funny, kind and eternally patient. She’s not eternally anything anymore. Except maybe,

Eternally insufferable.

Eternally difficult.

Grouchy, mean, foul-mouthed are appropriate adjectives. Patient? No more.

When she first moved in there were some minor memory glitches but nothing like we’re experiencing now. Besides the Alzheimer’s, she brought with her a multitude of heavenly challenges. She was deaf in one ear and barely heard a thing in the other. She was legally blind and had become incontinent after back surgery which meant she also had little feeling in her feet and legs. She had high blood pressure and struggled to keep food down. This meant we had an enough Boost and Ensure around to keep a third-world country alive. She had difficulty breathing and carried with her everywhere she went, a portable oxygen tank.

I know I fussed a little before Mama moved in but that was more about my siblings making the assumption that she should live here more than anything. Truth be told, it made me happy to have her with us. She looked like a waify, shadow of the old Mama but she still had all the spirit and humor as she always had.

I needed the company. Frank has been flying for the airlines since he retired from the Corps. He’s gone for ten day to two week stretches at a time. The kids were, as always, in twenty different directions. None of them required my help. It felt good to be needed again. It felt like the old days when Frank would deploy and I did everything. Changed the oil. Paid the bills. Mowed the yard. I managed our world in a single bound. Superwoman.

When my mother moved in, I became Superwoman again. When Frank retired after thirty years in the service, I lost part of my identity. I wasn’t Captain Carter’s wife. The XO’s wife. The Commanding Officer’s wife. I wasn’t the woman who entertained for high-ranking officials at our home in D.C. or here at our colonial style house with the hardwood floors and expansive windows overlooking the river.

No more evening cocktail parties with candles and white lights twinkling while guests raised their long stem glasses in toast to me, the gracious and multi-talented toast. “And can you believe? On top of all this,” they’d say stretching an arm out as if they swept it across the room, “She works too! A nurse. She works with those preemie babies. Beautiful accomplished children and a successful husband. She’s amazing.”

I was no longer the nurse who worked when her kids were in school, the first volunteer for every Officer Wives Club charity event and the spouse chosen to organize the annual home tour every Christmas. When Frank retired, he continued on in his glory. Retired Colonel. Now an airline pilot. He grew more handsome with every year. I saw the women turn and watch as he passed by. It’s a real treat to walk with him, down an airport terminal, while he wears his uniform.

Me?

I had nothing left.

The spouses didn’t care to have me around anymore. There were other Colonel’s wives to suck up to. The children didn’t need me either. Ben went off to college a few weeks before Mama moved in. Brinson was starting grad school. Claire was graduating college and taking the next steps towards the career she’d dreamed about since she could talk. Not to mention that she was planning a wedding. She had a wedding planner. The wedding planner didn’t really care for Mom’s input.

No one needed me.

But Mama needed me. We had a ball. I took to caring for her like I did everything else in life. Perfectly executed. Beautifully done. I’d get her cozy in her wheelchair and we’d wheel through the mall or for strolls on the boardwalk by the marina. She made my two-mile, daily walk through the neighborhood with me. She in her wheelchair. Me in my Nikes. We’d walk through our neighborhood of perfect homes with perfect lawns and wave to the other retirees or the young soccer moms in their mini-vans heading to town or the base.

And like the old days of being the beautiful, perfect wife on the arm of my dashing hero husband, I looked good. I looked good all the while within arms distance from Mama. Like I was floating in the pond again with her by my side

And then the limb snapped.

The cradle crashed.

The cord was severed.

One morning a little over a year ago, four years after she’d moved in, I woke to her screams. I had the baby monitor on high so I’d be sure to hear her. I heard her all right. The sound of her voice pierced through my deep sleep. I woke up with an instant, burning fear and anxiety. I jumped out of bed, threw my robe on and ran down the stairs.

I flung my mother’s bedroom door open.

The limb started to fissure.

My Mama sat on the side of her bed staring at her reflection in the mirror over her dresser, just across from her bed. She pointed, yelling at her own reflection. She’d taken off her nightgown and Depends. Shit was everywhere. It covered the bed, her hands, face and hair.

“Mama! What’s wrong? What happened?”

“There’s a crazy person in my room. She’s staring at me. She won’t give me my cup. I don’t know how she got here.”

“There’s no one here. It’s just you and me. It’s okay.”

“Just you and me? How’s that supposed to help? I don’t know who the hell you are. Did you bring that woman here?” She asked pointing at her own reflection.

“Mama, it’s Ellen. I’m your daughter. And you’re looking at your own reflection in the mirror.” I said, ignorant.

“My daughter? My daughter?” She sounded disgusted. “I don’t have a daughter named Ellen. My only daughter is in California. Her name is Anne. She’s beautiful. Doesn’t have red hair,” she said pointing at my tangled Medusa mess. “And what do you mean that wretched woman is me? That’s the damn ugliest woman I’ve eve seen. I reckon you’re crazy.”

I stepped closer certain Mama would remember me when I was in front of her. The screaming started again. Her piercing cries for help made my ears ring. The smell of the shit, some of it already dried and caked to her skin, made me want to wretch. I reached a hand towards her. I wanted to comfort her. I hoped it would somehow help her to see it was me. Ellen. The favorite. Ellen. Her redheaded daughter that she used to tell people was the prettiest child in the world.

She yelled, “Don’t you touch me, you ugly little thing. Don’t you touch me! I’ll call the police. I’ll call the police. I’m calling now,” she said as she reached for a phone that wasn’t there. “Get away from me you pig.”

That’s the moment everything changed. I’ve tried to roll back time like I roll those fuzzy lint balls on the afghan in the den. That’s what I’d do with the last year if I could. I’d pick out the ugly little polyps in my memory and roll them into a ball. And then I’d dump them in the garbage with Mama’s Depends and my nasty rubber gloves.

###

I can hear Mama talking to Frank in the living room. I parked her next to him and prayed as I did so that he might actually pay attention and not tune her out as he so often does. I always hear women talk about how their husbands tune them out. They don’t know what they’re talking about unless they’ve lived with a pilot.

They have an uncanny ability to put things away, as Frank always says. You can’t be thinking about the fight you had with your wife when you’re flying a jet through the air that belongs to the American people. When we were first married I worried about those fights before he flew.

One time, while he was away for a six-week exercise in Yuma, we talked on the phone for a half hour, a true luxury. We fought about me pulling the kids out of public school and enrolling them at the new Catholic school “out in town” as we say around these parts. Then we argued about the new living room set I bought. It pissed Frank off that he wasn’t a part of the decision making process about these things.

My thinking? You’re there. I’m here. I’m in charge. He didn’t like that. But I digress. It was an ugly fight. I was mean. Nasty. And I worried about it for six days until he called again. I worried that my ugliness might have affected him on the job. Do you know what my husband said?

He said, “Baby, when I hung up the phone I had two hours of pre-flight before my first night flight of the exercise. Live fire. You know, blowing things up in the dead of night? I could’ve killed somebody out there. Do you really think I was thinking about you?”

So, there you go. This is why Frank can handle Mama’s presence here in the house so well. When she gets out of control, he wraps her up and sticks in her in this little compartment in his head and locks the key. When he’s ready, he brings her out again.

I wish I had compartments where I could stuff the ugly when I want to.

Mama is talking about me again.

“When is the maid serving dinner?”

“Now, Mama Hart you know we don’t have a maid. Ellen is working hard in there making you your favorite. Don’t fuss at her.”

“Yes, you’re right, Dwight. I’ve picked at her a bit today, haven’t I?”

“Yeah. You could say that. Would you like to watch some news before we go to the dining room?”

“No. I hate the news. I’d like to watch something worthwhile. Something that means something.”

“Oh, well, of course. Have at it then,” I watch, through the open door as my husband hands the remote to Mama. She snatches it from his hand and presses random buttons. First turning the volume up. Then turning on the close captioning. In French.

“Sugar, let me get that for you,” Frank says.

“Dwight, take your hands off. I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself.” She slaps Frank’s hand.

“Give it to me, Mama,” he said. He reaches for it again, grabbing hold of the top part of the remote. Mama stares at him. Fire burning in her eyes.

“You’ve always been a worthless man. You can’t even turn the television stations without my help. Go get my cup.”

“Why are you always talking about this cup? What are you talking about?”

In her distraction at Frank’s question, mama releases the remote and it falls into her lap. Frank grabs it, turns down the volume and then changes the channel to something other than news. Something that meant something. Whatever that was. You never can tell with Mama. He lands on ESPN.

“Now that’s more like it,” Mama says relieved. Frank laughs. “What are we doing next?” Mama asks.

“We’re having dinner. Ellen’s making your favorite. Spaghetti. Spaghetti with meatballs.”

“Why doesn’t anyone tell me these things? Why doesn’t anyone ask me what I want? Why doesn’t anyone consult me on these matters?”

“What do you mean? We have dinner every night at 6:30. It’s just dinner.”

“Yes, but, Dwight, I need my cup. And no one discussed this with me.”

“I don’t know what cup you want. And we’ve been telling you for an hour and a half what we were having for dinner and when we were having it.”

“I just wish someone would tell me these things. Don’t I deserve to know what’s happening?”

“Yeah, sure,” Frank looks up. He sees me standing here in the kitchen and rolls his eyes. Then he focuses in on the television. My husband has now put Elsie Hart into one of those nice, little compartments in his head. Time to tune her out.

“I just don’t understand why,” Mama said. “All I want is my cup. They don’t give you cups here. One time, I thought I had mine but someone took it from me before I could fill it up. Now it’s gone. I’m just warning you, Dwight, don’t forget to hold onto your cup.”

###

“I do not eat worms! What do you think I am, some kind of heathen? Do I look like some dark-skinned, wild thing?”

“Mama, don’t talk like that. That’s horrible. And it’s not worms. It’s spaghetti. Spaghetti with meatballs. Your favorite. I make it for you all of the time. We had it last week. It’s not worms,” I think my blood pressure is somewhere roughly in the neighborhood of two hundred over ninety-nine.

In about five minutes, my head and heart will spontaneously combust.

“Just eat the spaghetti,” Frank says no humor left in his voice: A voice that normally sounds like chocolate melting, warm and rich.

“I’m not eating little varmints. And I need my cup.”

“Worms are not varmints Mama. Your cup is right in front of you,” I say, gripping the side of the table, inches away from her plate. I stand above my mother, looking down on her.

“Well, whatever the hell they are, they’re moving. And I ain’t eatin’ them. Someone took my cup. They do that here.”

My knuckles are turning white and pasty because I’m clutching the edge of the table so hard. “You will eat them. You’ve hardly eaten a thing all day. I’ve spent hours making sauce and meatballs. And you’ll eat it. You’ll eat it if I have to shove the food down your throat. You must eat,”

I pick up the plate and maneuver myself in such a way that I can hold a forkful out towards mama’s face. “Here.” I stick a fork covered in spaghetti with a sizable piece of meatball, close to her mouth.

“I will not eat that,” Mama sounds like evil, evil in the body of an old woman. Her eyes narrow in. She purses her lips.

“You will.” I move the fork closer so that it grazes Mama’s lips.

She swipes at me, her right hand, the strongest, flies at the plate, sending it across the table and slamming into the bay window. Like a scene from a cartoon, spaghetti and sauce drip down in slow motion. I stand, frozen like traffic on the Beltway at six o’clock.

I watch as Mama leans forward, opens her mouth and bites down on my hand. I scream. She bites down harder. I reach and yank out the oxygen tubing that is in her nose, helping her breath and then squeeze her nostrils so she can’t breathe. It works. She releases my hand when she began to struggle for air.

I run from the dining room to the small hall bathroom. I turn on the cold water. The pain is intense. Blood begins to seep up through the teeth marks. I can hear Frank shuffling Mama across the kitchen to her wheelchair.

Maybe he’ll dump her in the river.

I cleanse the bite and then pat it dry. I need the Neosporin. I swing open the medicine cabinet door so hard it slams into the wall. “I know it’s in here somewhere,” I say staring into the cabinet.

I find myself fishing through the contents, looking for the small tube. The longer I look, the more the anxiety and anger rise. My face, feels hot. Burning. My fumbling becomes frantic as if my life depends on finding the little tube. My heart rate increases.

I grab a small roll of first aid tape and throw it into the sink. I listen to it clink as it hits the porcelain. I suck in a deep breath and pick up a package of gauze. This time, instead of throwing it to the sink below, I turn and throw it at the window to my left.

It thuds against the window. I suck in another breath and grab a handful of medicine cabinet stuff. Where does this stuff come from? I chuck the bottles and tubes across the room. The metal and plastic containers hit the glass of the frosted window.

That sounded like music.

Pretty.

I grab another handful from the second shelf. This time I have dozens of bobby pins, loose cotton balls, toothpaste and the antibiotic cream. I fling them up above my head. The bobby pins fall down like brown rain, tinkling when they hit the tile. The cotton balls fall like snow.

I watch the flakes of cottony fluff fall. One grazes my nose before sliding down my chest through my v-neck shirt, resting in between my breasts. I laugh. It sounds like the old me. Frank says my laugh is sweet and light like meringue.

Haven’t heard that in awhile.

I grab the rest of the contents of the shelf including a bottle of Chanel No. 5 Mama now refuses to wear after wearing it for as long as I can remember. I hold the bottle of perfume in my left hand and then chuck the contents of my right hand at the wall, near the window.

That doesn’t sound as pretty.

I look down at the bottle of perfume. I bought it two weeks ago. I tried to find something to please her. I just wanted Mama to smile again. I thought she’d remember. I brought it home in a pretty wrapped box and gave it to her.

She opened the box and said, “What’s this?”

“Perfume. It’s Chanel. You’re favorite.”

“This is crap. I wore it because Dwight bought it. I hate it.”

I look at the bottle in my hand. I turn and face the medicine chest again. I shut it and stare at my reflection. The strain of living with my mother is all over my face. Dark shadows sit underneath my eyes. With my high cheekbones and snow-white complexion, I now look lifeless. Ghostlike. Pallid. But the dark circles make me look like a ghost who plays in the NFL with their game day Eye Black. No longer the beauty in every room.

I feel dead. Anchored to nothing. Floating. In nothing.

I cock my arm back and hurl the bottle of perfume at the mirror. It cracks it and shatters the glass bottle. Amber droplets of perfume slide down the mirror. The scent that used to be Mama filled the bathroom.

“I don’t know what to do anymore. What do you want from me?” I scream. “What the hell do you want from me? How am I supposed to do this? Where are you? Your grace is sufficient? Right.”

I grip the edge of the porcelain pedestal sink, with both hands. I drop my head down between my shoulders. Tears drop from my eyes to the tile below. And then a deep sob rises up from somewhere near my shoes and found its way to my vocal chords. It’s primal sounding.

Tears pour down my face like the flow of the river after a summer storm. Fast. And constant. I scream in short, panicky bursts like a child throwing a tantrum and hyperventilating in the process. Somewhere in a dark corner of my mind I see a picture of myself floating in black nothingness.

I scream. For how long I don’t know. Hours? Or maybe it was two minutes. I can’t really tell anymore. I scream until I feel one of Frank’s massive hands on the small curve of my back. He put his other hand on my right hand and pries my fingers off the sink. He turns me towards him. The shock of his tender touch slaps me into silence.

“Baby. It’s okay.” He wraps his arms around me until all I can feel is his body and not my throbbing hand and raw throat. I bury my face in his April Fresh scented shirt. My nose is smashed against his chest. I grab the back of his shirt in fistfuls. The leftovers of my fit of sobbing produce themselves in the hiccupping motion of my body. Frank speaks again, just above a whisper, “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

Will I?

“I should’ve been paying more attention. I’m sorry, Ellen. I know this is hard. She drives me crazy after fifteen minutes. I don’t know how you’ve done this all day, every day. Over and over. I’m sorry I didn’t see this coming. Elle? Elle, I’m sorry. What can I do? What do you need me to do?” Frank pulls away from me and looks me in the eye. I look up at him.

“Elle?”

Yes?

“Elle, can you hear me? You’re not answering me. What’s wrong?” Frank touches my face now, his hand brushing across my cheek.

What’s wrong? I’ve gone mad. Maybe you can admit me to a psych hospital? Or rehab. I’m not an addict but maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I can go to some kind of bed and breakfast for people who are having mental breakdowns. I just need someplace quiet. Where people make my bed, empty the trash and cook my meals. Someplace where I don’t have to wipe an old lady's bottom and change urine soaked sheets.

Someplace where I don't have to convince my mother that spaghetti isn't worms and that I'm her daughter. Maybe someplace where there are beds with pink quilts with flowers, a wraparound porch, fresh baked bread and cinnamon rolls. And a lady with an apron and silvery white hair that feels like a big pillow when you hug her. She'd call me “Sugar” and “Honey Child.”

“Ellen! Snap out of it.” Frank’s voice booms with a tone he hasn’t used since he’d retired from the Corps. I know the tone. He’d used it with junior officers. Never at home. I’m scaring my husband.

Get a hold of yourself.

“What do you need? What can I do?” He asks again.

I finally answer my throat hurts from the screaming. “I don’t know.”

Frank brushes away a strand of hair that is stuck to a mixture of tears and mucus on my face. “Do you want me to take some time off? A leave of absence?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a few days?”

“Okay. I’ll take some time off.”

Can you recover from a nervous breakdown in a few days? Maybe I should’ve said a year.

“How’s your hand? Does it hurt? Did you clean it out yet?” Frank looks at me like I’m about to break into a million, crumbling pieces.

“Where’s Mama?”

“She’s fine. Claire walked in the door when you started throwing things around in here. She’s got Mama. Now, how about that hand? I’m not a nurse but I think I can help.” He smiles at me and touches my cheek again, wiping away a stray tear. He turns around and faces the medicine cabinet. “Now, where’s the Neosporin?”

I laugh. “Probably on the floor.”

“Right. Isn’t that where we’ve always kept it?”

###

Frank is taking more than a few days off. He’s going to be home for three months. Claire decided not to go to Vegas before moving to Pensacola. So she was around to help with some of the dirty work that Frank can’t bring himself to do. Not that I blame him, cleaning the rear side of your elderly mother-in-law is not high on most men’s lists of favorite things.

After Claire headed out, we hired someone to come in and help Frank during the day. Her name is Jennifer. I ran into her at the store a few weeks ago. She’s a sweet woman, a nurse, doing private duty to have more time for her kids. I’ve known her since she was about nineteen. Hard to believe that the young gal who was scared to death to come to spouses meetings, Bible studies and squadron family days, is this amazing, confident woman and caregiver. I’d actually forgotten that she was in the Bible Study I’d taught. Then again, it was ages ago.

Having help has given me some time.

Time to think.

Time not to think.

Time to sleep. Naps are lovely.

Every day since Frank told me he’d stay home for awhile, I drive to the little coffee place in town. Today I’m at my table in the corner where I have a perfect view of the water and the folks walking past the marina to the park. The owner, Taylor, put my name on my table. I’ve come in here for lattes for years. But it’s been rare occurrence that I could actually sit for awhile. I’ve been sitting a lot recently.

I walked in a few minutes ago and there was a tent shaped card on the table that said Ellen’s Spot. I cried. Taylor came over and gave me a hug. She should be a therapist. Or a hair stylist. Either way she’s a great listener. After she hugged me she said, “I know things are rough. I can see it all over your face. Just want you to know that you always have a quiet place here to get away to. That’s what they do,” she said pointing to the table of four men and one woman sitting towards the back of the room. “They come here everyday. They all lost their spouses in the same month and discovered it one day when they all stopped in for coffee. So it’s tradition now. They’ve got their names on their table too.”

I cried more when she walked away.

Then again, crying is my new thing. Since my little episode in the bathroom, I’ve been praying too. I’ve found the words to say for the first time in a year. It started that night, ironically. At least I said something to Him even if it was all anger.

Until I chucked that bottle of perfume at the mirror, most days the words I’d prayed would feel like jagged pieces of glass as they came out of my mouth. So I just stopped trying to get them out. I don’t say much. But I’m speaking to Him again. The thing is, I don’t see any answers. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how to pull it together. I guess I should look at the bright side. I’m not throwing things anymore or day dreaming about dumping Mama somewhere. Still cursing. I’m kind of enjoying that though after all these years of denying the urge.

I picked up a novel the other day from Taylor’s “leave a book, pick up a book” shelf. It’s about a young woman whose husband dies of cancer. It’s about her walk through an all encompassing and world rocking grief. It’s the kind of grief that makes you forget, or not care, that you haven’t brushed your teeth in a week. It makes you say things you’d never say under normal circumstances and drink yourself to sleep every night. It’s also wickedly funny.

I don’t think the author claims any particular faith. But it’s about the only comfort I can find right now. Somehow, even though the loss isn’t the same, I’ve been discovering that I’m grieving. I just didn’t know it. I guess I’ve just been in the selfish bitch, angry stage of grief for the last year. Because I’ll tell you what, now that I’m sitting here with the sun pouring in the through the window, listening to whatever random music Taylor’s cooked up today, one thing is clear. Something changed in me a year ago.

But like a CD with a scratch in it, I’m just replaying the same note over and over again. I either need to stick in a new CD or hit that handy little arrow that forwards me to the next song. Because I think I’ve decided this stage is getting old.

Picking up the book and opening it to where I left off, I let myself slide into Sophie’s shoes. Hurting through Sophie is a little safer than doing it on my own. “Ellen?” I look up to see Jennifer standing in front of me.

“Hi. Jennifer. Is it three already? I meant to be back at the house before you left. Frank alright?”

“He’ll be fine. I didn’t realize you were here. I just stopped in to get a smoothie. I don’t want to bother you but since you’re here. Do you have a second? Since I’ve been coming to help with Mrs. Hart I haven’t had much time to talk to you about personal things. Can I sit?”

“Sure. Of course you can. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Actually I’ve wanted to tell you for a few years, ever since we started having kids.”

“What’s that?” What in the world is she talking about?

“I obviously didn’t have kids when I went to the study. And being a newlywed I didn’t spend much time thinking about what it would be like to hit the rough spots, but everything you taught during that time has come back to me in such a huge way. Even though I couldn’t relate then, I can’t tell you how much it means to me now. I’m thinking about teaching on the same topics for a few women from Kevin’s squadron that are having a rough time with the upcoming deployment. Perfect timing. No better time than this to reorient priorities, you know?”

I nod my head. She continues, “Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. I learned a lot from it. I just didn’t realize it until the twins were born and Kevin started getting on my nerves.” We both laugh. “Thanks.” She squeezes my hand and smiles at me.

“You’re welcome.” This time she nods her head. “You ladies were a fun bunch. I’d forgotten about it until you mentioned it the other day. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Jennifer.”

“Well, I should run. The kids will be out of school in a few minutes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is. Thanks for the thanks.” She nods her head again.

I don’t remember the Bible study. I mean I do. I remember the girls. We met at the chapel in a musty room at the back of the building. The chaplain used it for a grief support group the night before. They’d leave their leftover sweets for us. I gained five pounds teaching that study. I just don’t remember anything I said. It was fifteen years ago after all. I guess I should’ve asked her.

###

“What’s your name again?” Mama has asked me this five times in the last hour.

“Ellen. Ellen Carter.”

“That’s a lovely name. Solid. Respectable. I like it,” Mama shakes her head yes. She’s affirming her own statement.

“Thank you. It’s my Mee Maw’s name.”

“How lovely of your parents to name you after her.”

“Yes, you’re right. Mee Maw was proud. When she heard that my parents were having me she laughed so hard she peed her pants. My Mama and Daddy were pretty old when I was conceived. I guess it tickled her to think that she’d be having a new granddaughter, a namesake, at her age. My Mama used to tell me the story on my birthday every year until about year ago or so. I don’t know why. Just tradition I guess.”

Mama is quiet for a moment. She looks down at her oatmeal. “When you make this next time it should be spoonable. And please don’t forget my cup.”

“What does spoonable mean?”

“You know, spoonable.” She says this as she lifts up her spoon and pretend dumps oatmeal off of the spoon in the bowl.

Runny? I think she wants it runny.

“Right. Okay, spoonable.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

###

“What are you up to?” Frank asks sitting down next to me on the couch. I love it when he does that. He plants himself so close to me our body’s sort of melt into each other. He’s going back to work in the morning. I’m going to miss him. Its been nice to have him home. Each day he’s been here I’ve taken one step, even if they are just Bill Murray “baby steps,” towards getting my shit together. Except for the cursing thing. Still haven’t made any effort on that front.

“I’m reading through some old Bible study notes. Last month, Jennifer thanked me for teaching the study. She said it has meant a lot to her. I didn’t remember what I said. I’ve been remembering a few bits and pieces. But I actually prayed I would find my notes. I found them this morning.”

“Really? Didn’t you teach that class twenty years ago?”

“Fifteen. Can’t believe I have the notes. Interesting reading.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Just interesting.”

“So what was it on? I think I remember something about the woman with the alabaster jar.”

“Great memory, Marine. I didn’t remember that until . . .” He interrupts me before I can continue.

“I like it when you call me Marine,” he says winking and then kissing my neck just below my ear. Then he winks again.

I roll my eyes. Then I wink back. We both laugh. We’ve been doing that more often lately. Laughing. And remembering the little things. For some reason, it turns Frank on when I call him Marine. Typical. Marines are weird. He knows that spot on my neck is dangerous territory. Dangerous and perfect. Nice to be able to remember the little things. He kisses me again.

“Okay, okay. I want to finish reading this stuff.”

“Right, right. Of course. So, what was the rest of the study about? You didn’t do the whole thing on the alabaster jar?”

“I called it, Consecrated.”

###

My Mama is mean. Most days. She still thinks spaghetti noodles are worms. And that Frank is my father. She thinks I’m her nurse and that she only has one daughter. Although, she did tell Anne when she visited a few months ago, that she needed to lose weight because she was, “gigantic.” I figure that’s a fair trade.

She still wets herself and doesn’t make it to the bathroom before having a bowel movement. I’ve been moving into a new stage. Forward, albeit slowly. Mama hasn’t. She’s moving backwards. Returning to what she was in the beginning. Helpless and in constant need. And since Jennifer had her fourth child recently, it’s back to the daily grind for me. Except this time, the constant needs of my Mama are opportunity.

Up until last month she still talked constantly about the stupid missing cup. I think Frank and I were certain the cup thing wouldn’t be resolved. We couldn’t figure it until one afternoon, nearing wit’s end, I turned on a CD of hymns. Mama, who’d been crying most of the day, fitful and angry, stopped. She closed her eyes as the words she’d known all of her life carried her back through time.

Let that grace now like a fetter,

Bind my wandering heart to Thee.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,

Prone to leave the God I love;

Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,

Seal it for They courts above.

She held up her hands and sang. Perfectly. I cried as I watched her worship. And then, when it was quiet, she said, “Church was lovely today, Ellen. Don’t you agree? I wonder why Pastor didn’t do communion? I bought those pretty communion cups for the church to use. And no one uses them anymore. I don’t understand. People have forgotten how important these things are to people like me.”

Communion. Mama wanted to take communion. After disposing of my guilt for not giving my precious Mama a regular opportunity for worship let alone communion, I decided that I’d do whatever I could to give her time to worship as she’s able.

We can’t take Mama to church. She’s too disruptive. So every Sunday morning we gather in the sunroom. If Frank is home, he joins us. Ben was here a few weeks ago with new girlfriend. Claire will be in town this weekend with her husband.

Like my daily battle to rise in the morning and serve someone other than myself, Mama almost seems to fight through the disease that has feasted on her brain, to remember this one thing.

Some weeks she can’t sing the words to the songs she sang the week before. Some Sundays she doesn’t want to hold her Bible. But she will always take communion.

This is what she’s capable of offering.

She is what I’m capable of offering.