The Complete Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
again and maybe they can save you. If they can’t, I’ll make arrangements for the funeral and help set Dad up. But that’s it. I refuse to treat you like a baby! You’re a grown woman, you’re not senile and it’s your life. If you want to kill yourself, that’s up to you.’
I pause to let it sink in. She’s looking at me now.
‘Do you understand, Mom? There won’t be another word from me. It’s up to you; you take hold of your own life. I think you have more sense than you’ve shown so far. I think you really want to live but you enjoy pestering the life out of Dad and me. Eat your lunch.’
After this it’s better. Now she has to prove she isn’t stupid. But her idea of what she can do without hurting herself is bizarre. I feel sorry for Dad because the whole guard duty falls on him. I shake my head in disbelief when she makes a bed or washes out undies, but I say nothing.
Marty calls most evenings and says she’ll come over to spell me if I want. I tell her it’s OK; I know how much Mom bugs her and almost everything about Marty annoys Mom. Mostly that she’s young and has her own life.
After two weeks, it’s time to take Mother back for a checkup. I call the doctor ahead of time and ask him to throw the fear of God into her because she’s too active.
He does a great scene but I can see Mother sitting inside herself resisting. He shows her the X-rays but she scarcely looks. He gets out the cardiograms, explains her blood chemistry, pulls out charts to show which part of her heart is affected. It’s not registering; she doesn’t want to know. Afterward, when I’m pushing Mom out to the parking lot in a wheelchair, she turns and looks back at me.
‘Jacky, I don’t think he’s a real doctor. I’m sure he’s not a heart specialist. Did you see that belt he was wearing and those tight pants? He’s another hippy. They let anybody get through medical school these days. He’s probably only a student anyhow, he can’t be thirty years old.’
I disappoint her and keep my mouth shut. All the way home she stays on the same themes, knocking Dr Coe and the Perpetual Hospital. Then she starts on the ‘nigger nurses’. She’s pulling out all stops.
I keep smiling, nodding like an imbecile and concentrate on the driving. Mother’s putting on the brake and clutching all the way. I swear next time I’ll slip a sack over her head and put her in the back seat.
At home, she begins telling Dad how she’s had a very light heart attack, so light in fact it’s doubtful she had one at all. She isn’t saying anything of what the doctor told us, only what she wanted to hear. I’ll give Dad a straight story later; I don’t want to start her crying again. Dad’s right, crying can’t be the best thing for a heart patient.
After lunch she’s at full steam.
‘Look how the paint on this house is peeling. The garden is going to pot, nobody’s weeding. The windows are filthy. We haven’t had any really balanced meals since I’ve been home. Dad isn’t taking his pills regularly, he doesn’t look well and he’s running around so much he’s going to have another stroke.’
Far as I know, he hasn’t had a first one.
I try to reassure her Dad’s doing fine and he’s getting good food. But nothing will do. Things are slipping away from her, and she’s in a minor panic; her very reason for living is being pulled out from under her.
The truth is Dad is getting away, gaining independence. He’ll go back, and in his new breezy way ask how she’s doing and what he can do. This bugs Mom, the roles have been reversed, so quickly, easily. He’s bringing her glasses of water, fixing her medicine, straightening her bed, regulating the electric blanket, giving her massages and trying, generally, to help her relax. Everything he does makes it worse. She’s caught in an unplanned double bind.
Dad’s cooking is improving, too. It isn’t serious cuisine, but then there’s never been anything resembling good cooking going on in this house. Dad’s opening cans of soup and making sandwiches in the toaster. He makes a couple complete dinners without my assistance; nothing difficult – lamb chops with canned peas and mashed potatoes, or some steaks with canned string beans and defrosted French fries – but it’s good.
Sometimes Dad will go into the bedroom to see how Mom is and he’ll forget to take off his apron; this drives her up the wall. I almost begin to suspect he does it on purpose; that apron, like his aircraft-carrier cap, has become a badge of authority. And I know all this is almost worse for Mom than her overexertions, but I can’t think of any other way. I’ve got to leave sooner or later and Joan can’t do everything.
Joan’s concerned, but can’t see any way out either. Dad has to take over. It would be even worse having a professional nurse. Mother makes no bones about that; no strangers living in her house.
Well, this goes on another week. Dad’s getting better every day while Mom fumes and keeps overdoing herself. Dad’s seventy-third birthday is rolling around. We decide to have a quiet party for him, just the four of us; Joan, me, Dad and Mom. We don’t want Mother getting involved with the preparations, but we can’t keep her down. I’m baking the birthday cake and she’s convinced I’m going to burn the house down; wants me to buy a cake at Van de Kamp’s. She opens the oven door so often the damned cake falls. It’d drive anybody bats. I haul her back to bed at least ten times. She’s on the point of tears. Her lines are:
‘This might be the last birthday I’ll ever celebrate with my husband and you want to do it all. I know myself; I feel just fine; you can’t know how I feel …’ and so on.
Joan buys Dad a pair of blue striped flannel pajamas, also a button-down-the-front sweater from Mom. I buy him a new dark green aircraft-carrier hat. I want to give him a roller singing canary but there’s not one to be found anywhere; the Newcastle blight’s almost wiped out canaries in America.
Dad enjoys helping with the cake. We do it from scratch, no cake mix. He can’t believe you can make a cake with only flour, sugar, eggs, milk, butter and salt, with a little flavoring and baking powder. It’s terrible how far removed from the fun parts of life most men get. We bake another cake after the first falls, and put them on top of each other.
The party’s a big success. We cut the cake and it’s a bit compact but delicious. Dad blows out all the candles in one fell blow; seven big ones, and three little. He makes a thing about opening each present, shaking to see if it rattles, making wild guesses and insisting on untying every knot and preserving the wrapping paper. He folds the paper carefully before he’ll go on to the next present. He’s dragging out the pleasure.
‘Come on, Jack, open it; stop playing with the paper; we don’t have all day.’
Dad turns to Mom and smiles.
‘Oh, yes, we do, Bette; we have all day; today’s my day, all day.’
He says it nicely and he’s smiling but it’s the first time I’ve heard him come back in more than twenty years. Joan looks over and gives me one of her looks. Joan’s look is to close her mouth, with her eyes wide, so white shows all around the iris. While doing this she nods then tucks her head into her shoulders. It’s best translated as ‘Well, I’ll be damned!’
Because I couldn’t find a canary, I give Dad the Swiss army knife Billy gave me for my fiftieth birthday. I hope Billy doesn’t mind. There’s something fulfilling about owning a knife like that. This one has thirteen different blades and instruments, including a magnifying glass, an ivory toothpick, scissors, tweezers, a saw, two blades, two screwdrivers (regular and Phillips), a can opener, a bottle opener, a corkscrew and a leather punch. Dad’s fascinated and opens all the blades simultaneously. It bristles like a hedgehog. Mother comes on with the expected ‘simp’ remark, and the three of us laugh.
‘You’ll see, he’ll probably cut off his finger before the day’s out.’
She’s also worried about washing the flannel pajamas; they take so long to dry.
Later, Dad goes into the bathroom and comes out with