Chapter Forty
ANN MARIE
Chicago, 2009
I want to be able to say my mom isn’t going down without a fight, but that’s not quite the case. I’m finding her chemo pills all over the house, which I’ve chastised her about constantly, but she claims she doesn’t want any more poison in her body. She continues to order spirituality books on Amazon and jewelry on QVC, but she refuses to take her medication. Every time I look at her sitting on my couch in her heels and baubles, I liken it to the scene in Titanic where the aristocrats were sipping brandy and refusing to wear their life vests as the ship went down.
The hardest part about my journey with her is that she can’t tell me how she’s feeling. Her tumor has cut the current that sends the thoughts in her head out through her mouth, and it’s incredibly frustrating for both of us. Her sisters and cousins are e-mailing me and calling daily, begging to come see her, but she keeps refusing company. Finally, my aunts Margaret and Colleen booked tickets once they heard my father had been allowed to come, and they’re due to arrive in a few weeks. Once I told her they were coming hell or high water, Mom’s been working on forcing out a few words. Ironically, the only one she can easily say is great. It’s become her mantra and a testament to her unflappable spirit.
How are you, Mom? Great!
How about a glass of water? Great!
Would you like to watch a SpongeBob marathon with Jimmy? Great!
Is it OK if Snoopy poops in your tub? Great!
Between the boys and me, it’s our new favorite pastime, trying to come up with the most outrageous questions for her to answer: Great!
“After I drop the boys at school and Luke at Mrs. Stern’s, I have to head downtown to see Stewart Fishman and the gang. Despite evidence to the contrary, it looks as though pigs can fly, and I might actually get some closure on the divorce today,” I tell her. “Fingers crossed. He says he has some papers for me to sign before he heads to court.”
Mom places her hands in the prayer position. “Great.” She nods.
“I would love for you come with me. Stewart promised me a free hour if I show up with you in person.”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, he knows you can’t talk. It will be fun. You’re dressed and ready to go. Let’s put these home-shopping purchases to good use.”
My mom is a proud woman and forces an awkward smile, something else the tumor is sabotaging.
“I’ll tell him you send your love.”
“Traffic was miserable, and now I have only an hour before I have to get back on the highway and head home,” I say to Stewart as he walks into the conference room.
He takes a seat at the head of the table and sets down a mug of coffee. “I was very sorry to get the e-mail about your mom.”
I fold my hands in my lap. “I was sorry to have to send it.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Great!” I say, and he looks at me like I’m nuts. “I’m kidding.” I rub my eyes. “It’s literally the only word she can say, and I couldn’t help myself.”
“What’s the only word?”
“‘Great.’ Her brain won’t allow anything else to pass through her vocal cords.”
He shakes his head and makes that face that people make. Especially those who knew her in her prime. Furrowed brow, pursed lips, and sad eyes.
“She sends her love,” I add. “And I’ve learned a little bit about what happened to me when I was young. I didn’t know when we first met . . . which I think was obvious.”
He nods. “Yes.”
“Thank you for lying and trying to make it seem like you’d made a mistake, but you’re a horrible actor, and I knew there was more to the story.”
“I was surprised you didn’t know anything, but it wasn’t my story to tell. Also, there’s a little thing called attorney-client privilege barring me from discussing details of her case with you or anyone else.” He takes a deep breath, and his expression goes from sad to serious. “You and I were brought together for a reason.”
“I see that now.”
“I wasn’t able to help your mother as quickly and effectively as I wanted to, and now I can make it up to her by helping you.”
I smile. “Let’s see that redemption reflected in the bill.”
Thomas is spraying Windex on his computer screen when I walk out of the conference room and into the reception area. “You’re looking at a free woman,” I say.
He stops what he’s doing to applaud me.
“Thank you.”
“It’s about time,” he says. “I’m going to miss you around here.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones who bring me coffee.”
For months, I’ve imagined walking out of the attorney’s office a free woman, and I expected to feel more elated than deflated. I take my phone out of my purse and stare at it for a good long minute before texting Todd.
I’ve anticipated this day for a long time and debated what to say to you. I’m sorry we had to end up like this, and I’m sorry for my part. I hope our mutual love for the boys will allow us to be civil to each other from here on out.
Thanks to the godsend that is my neighbor Jen Engel, all my boys are home from their after-school activities, and Luke from Mrs. Stern’s, with bags of McDonald’s in front of them. Mom is sitting on the couch, fully dressed, just as she’s been since the morning, with Snoopy at her feet. I kiss the top of her head.
“I’m divorced,” I whisper in her ear so the boys don’t hear.
She looks up at me with a goofy excuse for a grin.
“Stewart Fishman wants you to know that he took good care of me because of his admiration for you.”
She raises her brows.
“It’s true,” I say.
Once the sun sets and the kids are bathed and brushed, I find Mom and Snoopy in front of the small kitchen TV. “The boys are in bed, so I’m going to go up and read in my room.”
She turns her neck a little and nods.
“You OK?” I ask.
“Great!”
“Love you,” I say and head to my room. “Can you close the front door before you come up?” We have a Plexiglas storm door that’s always closed, but I like to leave the main wooden door open throughout the day to let the light in.
She nods.
About forty minutes later, I hear a loud clunk, clunk, clunk on the stairs, followed by Snoopy barking.
“Mom!” I jump out of bed, run through the hall, and find her crumpled up at the bottom of the staircase with the dog pacing by her side. “Oh my God!” I race to her, hands trembling, not wanting to move her until I know she’s all right. “Please, Mom, look at me. Are you OK?”
Mom looks into my eyes, and I can tell she’s severely humbled by what just happened. She gets herself to an upright position, but she’s defeated.
“It’s those damn shoes!” I point at her feet. Camel-colored suede pumps with a wedge heel. “Starting today, there is a strict no-shoes-in-the-house policy.”
She rubs her lower back.
“Can I take a look?”
She shakes her head.
“Please don’t be stubborn.” We look into each other’s eyes, and I see she’s crying. “I need to know if you are hurt,” I say. “Touch the spot on your body if there’s any pain.”
She shakes her head again and lifts her hand to point out the storm door.
I turn my head and look outside. “It’s a full moon,” I say quietly.
We both have a good cry as my foyer glows from the moonlight. “I think that means your daughter knows best.”
She wipes her cheek.
“No more goddamned heels in the house.”
Once she’s in bed, I go to my room and e-mail Dr. Scott.
Hi, Scott,
Hope all is well with you and your daughter. My mom fell tonight on the stairs. She seems to be OK. I had her move her arms and legs and fingers, and she said there was no pain. She’ll probably just wake up with a nasty bruise, but it was really scary. Mostly because I saw her get emotional for the first time. Up until now, she’s been trying to stay positive and keep her chin up for the boys and me, but tonight I saw her inner struggle, and it killed me.
Sorry to unload on you at such a late hour! But when I got in bed just now, you were the only person I wanted to talk to. Good thing for you I only have your e-mail and not your phone number.
Take care,
—AM
A minute later, he e-mails me back.
Now you have both. 312-555-5668. Call me.
He picks up on the first ring. “Hi.” His voice is tired but polite.
“It’s your very favorite non-patient.”
“How are you?”
“Grateful that you don’t sleep at night, either.”
“So, your mom had a fall?”
“She insists on wearing heels wherever she goes, which isn’t very far. So she wears them all day around the house and to walk the dog and whatnot.” I pause. “I thought I was going to find her dead body when I heard her tumbling down the stairs.”
He makes a breathy noise. “Most people don’t die from falling down a few stairs. Especially cancer patients.”
I laugh, but I want to sob. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Deal with injuries and illness and cancer patients all day long. I can barely get through a phone call when one of her family members asks for an update.”
Scott clears his throat. “I lost my mom to cancer when I was in college. I switched from prelaw to premed after she passed during my sophomore year.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I like to think I have some insight into what you and other people are going through.”
My eyes tear up, but I don’t want him to know I’m crying. “Can I ask about your ex-wife?” Curiosity gets the best of me.
“She and I split up about three years ago. I got a call in the middle of the night from a woman who said her husband was sleeping with my wife.”
“Holy shit,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“I’d tell you about my marriage, but I’m actually feeling relaxed at the moment and don’t want to get all riled up.”
“I can appreciate that. Another time, maybe.”
I roll onto my side and pull the covers up, wishing I didn’t feel better listening to other people’s problems. “Thanks for taking my call and for opening up to me. Maybe one day we can get together and lighten the conversation,” I offer.
“I would like that.”
We say our goodbyes, and I hang up with a smile on my face. I place my cell phone on my nightstand and pick up one of Mom’s journals that I’d put there last night.
One day I’ll go through them in order, but for now I like to surprise myself with little nuggets of her story. Our story. I turn to the middle of the book.
May 4, 1974
To think George has been in on this all along! My hand is shaking. I prayed and prayed for this day to come, and now that it’s finally here, I’m more frightened than ever. I need to get out of this apartment and don’t have time to write, but I wanted to jot something down quickly.
I pray this is not my last journal entry, but if it is, I want my daughter to know that I’m a fighter and I fought for her and loved her more than I have ever loved anyone or anything in my life. I thank God for her every day. Please keep us safe on the remainder of this journey. I hope one day she can forgive me for this.
I close the book and hug it tightly against my chest. She is a fighter, and she always has been, and in my mind, there was nothing to forgive.