Authors: Zondervan
Interrupted (4 page)
I looked up at the rose-painted sky. Shots of amber and gold lit up the pond, casting shadows through the speckled leaves of the apple trees.
A soft snore came from the tree. I looked up and saw Mama’s leg swaying back and forth — dangling from the branch.
Releasing a heavy breath, I pushed myself up, brushing dirt off my skirt. I bit my lip, staring at Mama.
How am I going to get her down?
I managed to clamber halfway up the tree and wrap my arms around her waist. Careful to keep her head from hitting any branches, I pulled her sleeping body out of the tree and laid it on the picnic blanket.
There was a nasty bump on the back of her head, so I ran back to the house and scooped ice cubes out of the icebox, wrapping them in an old rag. Kneeling by Mama’s side, I pressed the rag against her skull.
Oh, Mama, why? Why are you doing this to yourself?
Tears stung at my eyes. I whispered, “At least you fell asleep in our own backyard. I can’t imagine how I would have gotten you home from Mr. Ward’s house.” I smoothed a dark hair off her forehead.
“I love you,” I whispered. I cleared my throat. “Do you remember … do you remember when I was little and I used to draw you pictures, and they were absolutely awful but you used to tell me they were beautiful and hang them above the dining room table? Then we’d pretend we had guests over and you’d make them praise me too.”
A lump formed in my throat. I looked down at Mama and smiled, stroking her soft cheek. “They should have praised you instead.”
I pulled off my sweater and wrapped it around Mama’s thin shoulders. Then I curled up on the ground next to her, holding her hand against my cheek.
The June sky was so blue. I leaned against the sturdy tree trunk and stared up at it, fingering my apple. A flock of birds appeared on the horizon and called out to each other as they crossed over the yard. I wondered what it would be like to be a bird, wild and free.
What a delicious afternoon
. A smile spread across my face, warm and slow.
“When are we going to decorate for Christmas, Allie?”
I frowned and looked down, jerked back to reality. Mama was sitting below me on a blanket, a book in her lap. This one was full of pictures, since her eyes couldn’t focus on the words anymore.
“Mama, it’s still summer.”
Mama shook her head. “No it’s not, it’s Christmastime.” She squinted up at me.
I took another bite of my apple and rested my head up against the oak tree. My bare legs swung through the humid summer air. “Mama, if it were almost Christmas, wouldn’t we be wearing coats?”
Mama frowned for a minute, her clear blue eyes looking very troubled. “No.”
“Okay, then.” I munched my apple and looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were beginning to gather, threatening a storm. Perhaps I had better get Mama inside.
“We need to get out our Christmas album, Allie.”
I looked down. Mama was staring up at me with that stern look on her face.
I tried to decide which would be worse: having the neighbors think we were crazy or disappointing Mama. “Okay,” I sighed, swinging down from the tree.
I put in one of Mama’s old record albums and waltzed around the living room with her to “Silent Night.”
“Allie,” Mama moaned, “you’re stepping on my toes.”
“Sorry.” I played the male part, leading Mama around the room.
One-two-three, one-two-three
. Mama’s waist felt so thin and frail; I had to dig my fingers into her sides to hold on.
Where did all her flesh go?
“Ouch.” This time Mama stepped on my foot.
My head was getting dizzy as we spun around the room. Mama was staring at the walls behind me, paying no attention to her feet or her partner. I frowned, beginning to feel sulky.
“Do you think we’re finished now?” I asked as “Silent Night” turned into “Winter Wonderland.” I put my hand on my forehead and pushed back my bangs. Mama looked uncertain.
“Did we hear ‘Away in a Manger’?”
Three sharp knocks rapped on the door.
Mama’s face lit up as she moved toward the hall. “Oh, is that —?”
I dashed in front of her and smiled. “That’s for me,” I said, leading her back to the couch. “Stay right here until I get back.”
I opened the door to find our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, peering over my shoulder, her glasses sliding down her nose. “Why, hello, Allie.” She glanced toward the living room, her interest clearly piqued. “Is that Christmas music?”
I moved to block her view and plastered on my happiest face. “We like to get in the spirit early.”
Mrs. Peterson frowned, then she shrugged her shoulders. “I see,” she simpered. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to give you this present, Allie.” She handed me a finely wrapped parcel and looked pleased, reaching up to touch the top of her fancy department store hat.
My birthday was three weeks ago, Miss Prissy-Pants. At least Sam got the month right
. “Thank you.” I hugged the present to my chest and stared at her.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in?” Mrs. Peterson made a move toward the door.
I quickly stepped in front of her and softened my eyes. “Mama’s not feeling very well today,” I whispered, tipping my head forward. “Come back tomorrow.” I straightened and offered a grin. “But thank you for the gift.”
Mrs. Peterson’s shocked expression stayed frozen as I shut the door in her face. I locked it and made a face at the wood, feeling better already.
“Who was that?” Mama called from the living room.
“Mrs. Peterson. She just wanted to give me this birthday gift. It’s three weeks late, though.” I raised my eyes to the ceiling and put the gift on the mantle.
Mama shook her head. “No, it’s a Christmas gift.” She reached up to rub her neck, pulling at the collar of her flannel nightgown. She must have been heated up given the actual season.
I sighed. “Mama, it’s not Christmastime.”
Dr. Murphy didn’t tell me whether or not I could talk sense into her
.
“Yes, it is. Now open it.”
With her calm blue eyes fixed on me, I opened up Mrs. Peterson’s well-wrapped gift and grimaced. “Oh, great. A stuffed bear.”
To go with the other six identical bears I have from every birthday of mine Mrs. Peterson has ever witnessed
.
“How wonderful,” Mama said mechanically. “You should name him Bear.”
Wonderful
.
Mama crossed her arms and snuggled back in an armchair. She sighed. “I wish David was here.” She glanced up at me. “When do you think David will get here?”
My stomach ached. I turned around and placed the bear on the fireplace mantle so Mama wouldn’t see my face. “He’s not coming back, Mama. He left years ago, remember?”
Mama’s eyes filled with tears. “But he loves me. He told me he loves me.”
I leaned over and squeezed her hand. “Of course he loves you.” I rubbed her arm. “Now you sit here while I get us something to eat, okay?”
It was easier to let Mama think good things about my father than hint at the truth. I could still remember the day he left. It wasn’t dramatic, or even sad. A little bitter maybe, but at least they never screamed at each other. Though the only person they ever said I love you to was me, never each other — they both claimed they didn’t believe in true love. One day, he decided he didn’t love either of us, and told us he was going to leave. And that was it. No fireworks, no bullets, no fights. Mama didn’t even cry — at least not in front of me. I did, every night for a month. But neither of us ever talked about it. Ever.
Mama tolerated people and even liked some, but she never loved them. My father was a Christian, or at least he said he was, so now we hated Christians. “They’re hateful people,” Mama told me the day after he left. “They will make you feel loved — make you feel wanted. But they don’t mean any of it. Always remember, look out for yourself and don’t let your guard down. Don’t ever forget your roots or your common sense.”
Mama was still sitting at the table, staring at her hands. I bet she didn’t remember any of that anymore. I suggested she sit in the living room and listen to more Christmas music while I fixed supper. Green beans and chicken. Again.
At least I know how to make more than just sandwiches this year
, I thought as I set the table. Mrs. Peterson’s old cookbooks had been useful after all, and it was nice of her to give them to me.
But really, a fourteen-year-old can only do so much
.
I stood back to get a good look at the table. As an afterthought, I searched the cabinet for some candles to place in the center, and a little lace doily to set them on.
Nice
. I smiled, thinking about Christmas dinner.
“Mama!” I called, pulling off my apron and putting it back on the hook. No answer. “Mama, dinner’s …” I paused in the doorway of the living room. Mama was fast asleep on the couch, curled up in a little ball.
She’s barely ever awake lately
. I sighed and reached for the old green quilt to lay over her. My hand brushed her cheek as I pushed her hair off her face. It was ashy and hollow.
I turned to leave, peeking at her once more. Mama shivered and pulled the blanket closer. My heart tugged at the sight of my mother wrapped up like a defenseless babe.
“Oh well,” I whispered to Daphne, scooping her up in my arms. “I suppose it’s just you and me.”
I sat Daphne on Mama’s lap and stared at her in silence as some woman droned “We wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Lonely … sad … lost …
I turned off the lights in the kitchen and sat down in the dark. Mama’s empty plate was in front of me. I took a small bite of my green beans before pushing the food away and clearing the table instead.
I felt a funeral in my brain
,
And mourners, to and fro
,
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That sense was breaking through
.
— Emily Dickinson
A
llie?”
I lowered my book. Mama looked up at me with tired eyes. I jumped up from my seat and knelt on the floor beside the couch. “Yes?”
Mama reached out and took my hand in hers — her palms felt cool and clammy. She squeezed my hand and smiled faintly, her eyes crinkling like they used to. “I love you, my little miracle baby.” Her voice sounded breathless.
I smiled back. “And I love you too.”
Mama took a deep breath and leaned back. “This headache …” She paused and licked her lips, “This headache has really
made me tired. I … I wanted to know if you would read me another poem, Allie.”
“Of course.” I squeezed her palm, glad to hear her speaking my name. “What do you want to hear?”
Mama closed her eyes and sighed. “Dickinson. ‘The Heart Asks Pleasure First.’ ”
I was pleasantly surprised that she remembered the name of her favorite poem. That was progress, right?
“My heart wants to die,” Mama said softly.
My head jerked up. “What?”
She shook her head and looked away. I stared at her for a few more seconds in silence. It had never occurred to me that Mama might welcome the thought of death, since she didn’t believe in anything beyond that. Wouldn’t that cause you to fear the end?
The idea chilled me. I tried to put it out of my head as I crossed my legs and flipped through the volume of poetry in my lap, turning to Mama’s favorite.
“The heart asks pleasure first
,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor
,
The liberty to die.”
I shut the book and ran my hand over the worn cover. “Well, that was Emily Dickinson for you.”
The candlelight flickered across Mama’s sleeping face.
I sighed and laid the book down in my lap.
“I hope you enjoyed it, Mama. Dickinson is your favorite.” I fingered the fraying spine of the slim book of poems. I flipped through the dog-eared pages, held it close to smell the fading scent of Mama. “Do you remember reading this to me, Mama?” My voice faded to a whisper as I let my fingers slide off the cover. “Do you remember?”
Mama rolled on her side and mumbled something in her sleep. The moment was over; she was lost again. I kissed her cheek and sat back down.
“Why are you so tired all the time?” I whispered. My chest ached looking at her. “I miss talking with you.”
I rocked back and forth and looked out the window. Rain trickled down the glass. I followed the dribble of water with my finger.
Funny how much raindrops look like tears
.
Footsteps pounded on the front porch. I started, my book falling out of my lap. I reached down to pick it up and held it close as I inched my way to the front door, where footsteps had been replaced by loud raps on the door. I glanced out the window. A figure dressed in a dark slicker was standing out front with a large bag in his hand.
There had to be something I could use as a weapon. Why did we have to have such a prissy, safe living room? Finally, I grabbed Mama’s big black umbrella.
Holding the umbrella out in front of me, I inched my way toward the door.
Deep breaths, Allie. You can do this. Deep breaths
.
My hand hovered over the doorknob for a brief moment before I flung the door open and screamed, waving around my umbrella.
A boy shouted and fell down the steps.
“Sam?” I dropped the umbrella and rushed from the door. “I’m so sorry. Sam? Are you okay?’
He groaned and held his leg. “Allie!”
“I’m so, so sorry!” I knelt on the muddy ground next to him, the rain pouring down my head. “Oh my goodness, Sam, I didn’t mean to …” I trailed off, my cheeks reddening, although I’m sure he couldn’t see them in the dark. “I thought you were a criminal.”
“Do I look like a criminal?” Sam rolled his eyes. “Didn’t your mother tell you I was coming? We telephoned her.”
“No, I …” I wrung my hands, flustered. “No, I guess not.”
Sam held up a paper bag. “My mom thought I might send you all some eggs.” Liquid oozed out of the bottom of the bag, and it wasn’t from the rain. “Only now they’re broken.”
I sat on the ground and groaned. I could feel the rain and mud soaking through my skirt. “I’m so, so sorry.”
A smile twitched on Sam’s face. “You said that.”
“I know, but I still am.” I buried my head in my wet hands, feeling mortified.
Sam laughed outright and pulled me up. Well, sort of— since, at fourteen years, I was still taller than him. “Aw, shake it off.” He handed me the dripping bag and grinned. “Here are your eggs.” He tipped his hat. “Good night.”
“Wait.”
Sam turned around. My stomach squirmed at the thought of what I was about to do.
“You might as well come in and dry off. At least until the rain stops a little.” I straightened my shoulders. “As payment. For the … egg mush.” I held up the bag and smiled.
Sam pulled off his muddy boots and followed me inside. I wrung out his jacket and hat while he made his way to the living room.
I tipped over a boot and gawked at the amount of water that poured out. It was really pouring out there. I shook my head and placed the boots on a mat, reaching for his hat.
“Is this Christmas music?” Sam called from the living room.
“Yep.” Gosh, the hat had almost as much water as the boots.
“What’s your mom—Uh, Allie? Allie! Allie, come here! Your mom’s —”
I raced into the living room and screamed.
Mama was strewn on the floor, her head on the hardwood and her legs still sliding off the couch.
“Mama!” I shrieked, trying to run to her. My knees began to feel like putty. I groaned, watching the room spin around me. Without a word, my knees gave and I collapsed on the floor.
You see, Mama was sick. Very sick.
I’d first taken her to Dr. Murphy the summer before, when Mama began to misplace things and forget where she was. She was so mad that for a whole week afterward she wouldn’t speak to me. But I never told her what the doctor said once the door was closed and we were alone.
Dr. Murphy told me I was to take care of Mama. For however much time she had left.
He claimed I was too old to be lied to, and that I needed to face things as they were and make her last days as comfortable as possible. Because no matter what I did, she would get worse.
Mama was dying.
Dr. Murphy said that Mama showed all the symptoms of brain cancer. Possibly even a tumor. The specifics of the sickness were fuzzy — it varied from patient to patient, so I needed to be prepared for anything.
I’d wanted to take Mama to a special hospital so she could get better. I’d even crawled under the bed and ripped out the seams of the mattress, grabbing the envelope of money I’d seen Mama hide the summer before. I counted it twice, but it still wasn’t enough. Only fifty dollars.
Dr. Murphy told me that without treatment Mama would decline quickly until I would have to feed her and dress her and take care of her. He’d seen it happen dozens of times before. And, at some time or another, they always died.
My job was to make her happy — to keep her with us. He said as long as Mama could remember she’d be fine. But she couldn’t remember.
“Allie?” a voice asked gently. “Allie, wake up. Wake up, Allie.”
Lights all around me. Blurry. Dancing.
I moaned and put my hand on my brow. A giant knot was formed on my forehead. So that’s what was causing the pain.
I opened my eyes a little wider and then squinted.
Where in the world—
“Allie? Oh, she’s awake!”
Dr. Murphy was standing above me, the familiar, doctorish smell of aftershave and metal lingering in the air. Dr. Murphy’s
gray eyes twinkled as he gave my hand a little squeeze. “That a girl. Wake on up, Allie.”
I tried to sit up, but the pressure in my head pulled me back down to the pillow.
“Whoa, whoa.” Dr. Murphy tightened his grip on my hand. “Steady. Steady.”
I looked around. I was in the hospital, in one of those little patient beds. All around me were nurses scribbling on pads of paper. There were other patients in the beds around me, moaning or vomiting, watching me.
I glanced at the doctor and grabbed his coat. “Why am I here? What happened?”
“Ah,” Dr. Murphy looked around and nodded his white head. “Momentary confusion and memory loss. It’s quite common with mild concussions.”
One of the nurses nodded and scribbled something on her notepad.
Dr. Murphy turned back to me and squeezed my hand. “You fell down,” he said in a loud voice. “On the floor. Remember?”
What is all this about?
I tried to sit up again, a sudden thought piercing through my head. “Where’s Mama?”
Dr. Murphy touched my wrist. “She’s all right. For now.” He glanced at his notepad, which he quickly whipped out of my sight. “She had a bump on the head.” He glanced up at me, his eyes probing. “Alcyone … do you know of anything your mother could have been doing that may have caused her to fall off the couch? We talked about this sickness. Is there anything — any medicines, any treatments that you’ve been giving her that we haven’t prescribed?”
I shook my head, my hands clammy. “No, sir.”
Dr. Murphy sighed and pulled off his spectacles. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. “Alcyone, we think your mother may have been suffering a lack of memory and took some pills we prescribed for her to use years ago. That may have accounted for her unconsciousness and fall.” His voice grew soft. “Her health is deteriorating. Surely you must know that.”
I looked around the doctor’s office. The nurses frowned, their eyes sad. I clamped my hands together and took a deep breath. I didn’t need their sympathy. They could keep it and waste it on all the puppies and babies in the world, for all I cared. Mama was strong and so was I. She would survive a hundred more Christmases.
“What do you need me to do, doctor?” My voice shook a little.
Coward
. I hated myself for feeling so afraid.
Dr. Murphy sighed and avoided my eyes. “There’s nothing else you can do. It’s just a matter of time.” He took a deep breath. “I’d like … I’d like to put her in a facility. Where she can get help.”
My throat constricted. “No.” My voice sounded panicky and distant, even to my own ears. “No, please. Let me stay with her.”
He glanced at me, and I could tell he was fighting back his sympathy for me.
Everything in me ached at the thought of Mama dying in a distant hospital, surrounded by strange faces. My desperation must have shown in my face, because Dr. Murphy’s shoulders fell and he shook his head.
“If you desire, though, I can arrange for her to die at home. With nurses working around the clock, of course.”
“Thank you,” I breathed. “I’ll take good care of her.”
“Very well.” Dr. Murphy paused a moment and squeezed my hand. “I’m so sorry, Alcyone.”
And then he left and I was alone. Again.
I pressed Mama’s hand against my cheek. “Mama? Mama, can you hear me?”
I dropped her wrist and pushed away from the bedside, trying to look cheerful. I crossed the room to the window. Dark curtains had been pulled.
Darn nurses
.
I could hear Mama’s labored breaths from the bedside. “Of course you don’t want to get up in this dreary room,” I said out loud. “What was it you said? ‘Waking up in the dark is never a pleasant feeling.’ You said that just the other day. Remember?”
I turned. Mama’s eyes were shut, her chest heaving up and down. My eyes smarted. “I wish I could catch you the sun,” I whispered. I spun around and flung the curtains open. Blessed light flooded into the room. “See, Mama? It’s not so dark anymore.”
I ran to the fireplace and grabbed the box of matches. I scampered across the room, lighting every lamp and candle in sight. Within seconds, the room was covered in a warm glow of light.
“Allie?” she whispered. Her voice was dull and shallow.
I rushed to her side and grabbed her ashy hand. “Yes, Mama?”
“Allie … I want …” She clutched me tighter than I thought she was capable of doing. “I think … I was …” She breathed in and turned her head to the side, gasping for air.
I knelt by Mama’s bedside and stroked her cheek. The lamplight illuminated the new injury on her forehead. I brushed my finger across her face, stroking the scar.
God help her
. The thought came unbidden. And yet I meant it. With all my heart, I begged God to help her.
Fix her. Heal her. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just please. Please don’t take her from me
.
Her skin grew cool and clammy as her breathing lessened.
No
. My heart sank.
No, no, no
.
I turned away. “I know!” I said with false brightness. “I’ll …” I struggled to choke out the words. “I’ll play you a song on the piano. I’ve been practicing for your … birthday.”
I walked over to the old piano and lifted the lid. I slid into the seat and began the cheeriest song I knew. Song after song, I played, my fingers stumbling as tears threatened to burst.
Mama had stopped breathing. I knew it, but I shoved it deep inside my chest, refusing to believe it.
My fingers began to slow as I neared the third chorus of “Turkish March.” And then my shoulders fell with a bang as my arms hit the piano and I burst into tears, an unfathomable ache pulling at my heart.
August 14, 1939
Mama, I wish you’d come back. It
feels like
all the happy things in the world have died except for me. And I’m still here and living without them. My heart hurts,
and my head hurts, and I wish that you were here to rub it.
Tears stung at my eyes. I stopped to hold my hand up to my mouth, fighting them back. It felt like everyone in Tennessee was waiting outside for me to start the funeral. “Such a tragedy,” I’d heard them say. “For such a young, healthy woman to have that happen to her. It must have been such a burden on the girl to have a crazy mother. At least she’s in a better place now.”