I close my hand. She has a living will and a do-not-resuscitate order. She has the casket and flowers and music picked out for her funeral. She has a right to die. I shove the pills in my pocket. Just not right now.
I join Lindsey and Mom in the dining room as if it is just any other lunch on any other day. It’s not for me. Everything is different. The halibut and jasmine rice taste like nothing in my mouth. The food sticks in my throat, and I reach for a heavy silver goblet and watch my mother as I take a drink of water. I watch her take little bites and chew longer than normal. She nods and smiles as Lindsey tells her the latest Frankie news. She swallows and raises a hand to her throat. I watch for her to choke, but she doesn’t.
“They ripped out my uterus,” she recites word for word the story I’ve heard all my life. She gets to the part where she almost bled to death giving birth to me and stops. I recognize the lowering of her brows. Her lapse in memory isn’t unusual and is no indication that she’s slipping any more than the last time.
“You had to have an emergency hysterectomy and couldn’t have more children,” I remind her. “You always wanted a son.” I can feel Mom’s pills in my pocket; my emotions are raw. I’m losing my mind again.
“You can have a boy.” Mom points her fork at me.
“Me? You know I’m not married.”
“Get married.” She returns her fork to her plate and scoops up some rice. “It’s not hard to get a husband. Especially a shitty husband.”
I must be getting used to Mom’s potty mouth, because it barely registers. “Maybe it’s not hard for you, Mom. You have a passionate nature.”
She nods. “And a healing touch.”
Yes, but as she’s pointed out, she can’t heal herself.
“But don’t go for prisoners. They ain’t right.”
I don’t know if Mom’s talking from experience, but it makes perfect cognitive sense to me.
“Thanks for the warning.” Lindsey chuckles.
I wipe at the red stain the pill coatings left on my palm. I need to talk to her. She needs to know what Mom is doing, but that conversation can wait until Mom takes her nap.
After lunch, Mom and I move to my office for a power planning session. I have to block the last hour from my mind or I’ll go crazy. Lindsey thinks she should be in on the baby shower plans, too, but we boot her out and close the door. I pull up an extra chair for Mom, and we sit at my desk so I can write everything down on a
yellow legal pad.
“Cocktail peanuts and those butter mints.” Mom taps a finger on the legal pad. “Diapers. Lots of damn diapers. Babies poop a lot.” Mom laughs, and I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.
I turn on my computer, and we cruise the internet looking for ideas. Mom wants me to write down everything she sees, but I draw the line at a bottle that looks like a boob. It might be just the three of us, but we begin to assemble quite the list.
“Diaper rash ointment,” Mom says, and I write down Boudreaux’s Butt Paste.
I add cake and flowers to the bottom of the legal pad, and my eye catches a shadow creeping beneath the door.
“Mom,” I whisper, and point. “Lindsey’s standing at the door trying to listen in.”
“Huh.” Mom looks but doesn’t bother to whisper. “That’s her?”
“Shh.” I put a finger to my lips. “Say ‘dunk tank.’?”
“Why?”
“Lindsey’s being snoopy, and so she deserves to get a little freaked out.”
“Dunk tank!” Mom’s looking forward to the party, and her excitement reassures me more than ever that it’s not time for her to die.
“Good idea,” I say just as loud. “And a Slip ’N Slide.”
“Oh, I like the Slip ’N Slide.”
Of course she does. “Cornhole. Who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned cornhole?” The shadow wavers and disappears.
“Me.” Mom’s lips purse, and she sits up straight. “I don’t like the cornhole.”