presses her lips together, as if she’s stewing on this.
“I think the best way to help Fran right now is to keep things very calm and peaceful around here. She needs rest. And stress is very draining. In fact, I think it’s toxic — for both of you.”
Mrs. Bishop has tears in her eyes now. “I’m just not good in this kind of situation. I’ve never been a patient woman, and I like to speak my mind.”
“You’re a strong person,” I tell her. “But I think you need to use your strength to build Fran up—not tear her down. Instead of focusing on the negative, focus on the positive. What can it hurt?”
She pulls a tissue out of her pocket, wiping her nose, and nods. “I know you’re right. That’s what Fran’s father used to say … before he passed.”
“I think you’re going to be fine.” I smile. “But feel free to call me if you need help. I’ll be at my mom’s house this afternoon, and I’ll keep my cell on. The number’s by the phone in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” She sniffs. “And I’m sorry for being so cranky with you, Erin. I think in some ways I’ve been jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“You seem like such a natural at caregiving, and yet you’re so young … and here I am,
Fran’s own mother,
and I’m bumbling around like a big-mouthed idiot.”
“It’s probably because you’re so worried about her. I don’t know how I’d feel if I were you … if I had a child who was ill like this.”
“I’m so afraid for her. It feels as if it’s eating me alive sometimes.”
“I wish you could do what I do.”
“What?”
Her eyes are desperate, like a drowning person reaching for a life preserver. “Tell me!”
“I try to give my worries and fears to God.” I sigh, knowing how often I fail. “It’s not that I’m always successful at it. But I keep trying, because I know that when I trust God with all that stuff, it takes the load off me and I can relax a little. Plus I’m a nicer person to be around. But, believe me, I’m still learning to do this too. I blow it all the time.”
She has a thoughtful look, as if she’s trying to absorb this, then nods. “That’s what I’ll try to do too.”
“Good.” I pat her on the back. “I’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow.”
“I swear, I will really try to do better,” she promises as I’m leaving. As I go, I pray she does.
Today is the first time that Mom and Jon have had Paige and me over for a meal. I can tell as soon as I’m in the house that Mom is a little nervous, like she wants everything to be picture perfect. I know how my mom is about meals — a perfectionist. It’s like she always wants her table to look like ascene from a food magazine. I know it’s pointless to attempt to convince her it doesn’t matter, that a lunch should be about the people and not the food, or that it’s okay if something is burnt or underdone.
“Smells good in here,” I say when I come into the kitchen.
“Thanks. It’s a new recipe.” She chuckles as I give her a sideways hug. “You’re not supposed to experiment with company. But you girls are family, so I guess it’s okay.”
“It looks interesting,” I say while I survey the ingredients spread over the island. “What are you making?”
“Moroccan,” she says as she chops something green. “Jon’s been wanting me to try it.” She points to an oddly shaped pot on the stove. “That’s a tangine,” she explains. “Kind of like a Moroccan slow cooker. We’re having chicken tangine.” She lists the ingredients, which are mostly spices.
“Exotic.” I sneak a carrot. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Not really.” She tosses the green stuff onto the carrots then wipes her hands. “Everything is pretty much ready to go; it’s just a matter of time.” She nods to the fridge. “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink and join Paige and Jon out by the pool? I’ll be along in a minute.”
I grab some orange soda water and go out to
“I think the best way to help Fran right now is to keep things very calm and peaceful around here. She needs rest. And stress is very draining. In fact, I think it’s toxic — for both of you.”
Mrs. Bishop has tears in her eyes now. “I’m just not good in this kind of situation. I’ve never been a patient woman, and I like to speak my mind.”
“You’re a strong person,” I tell her. “But I think you need to use your strength to build Fran up—not tear her down. Instead of focusing on the negative, focus on the positive. What can it hurt?”
She pulls a tissue out of her pocket, wiping her nose, and nods. “I know you’re right. That’s what Fran’s father used to say … before he passed.”
“I think you’re going to be fine.” I smile. “But feel free to call me if you need help. I’ll be at my mom’s house this afternoon, and I’ll keep my cell on. The number’s by the phone in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” She sniffs. “And I’m sorry for being so cranky with you, Erin. I think in some ways I’ve been jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“You seem like such a natural at caregiving, and yet you’re so young … and here I am,
Fran’s own mother,
and I’m bumbling around like a big-mouthed idiot.”
“It’s probably because you’re so worried about her. I don’t know how I’d feel if I were you … if I had a child who was ill like this.”
“I’m so afraid for her. It feels as if it’s eating me alive sometimes.”
“I wish you could do what I do.”
“What?”
Her eyes are desperate, like a drowning person reaching for a life preserver. “Tell me!”
“I try to give my worries and fears to God.” I sigh, knowing how often I fail. “It’s not that I’m always successful at it. But I keep trying, because I know that when I trust God with all that stuff, it takes the load off me and I can relax a little. Plus I’m a nicer person to be around. But, believe me, I’m still learning to do this too. I blow it all the time.”
She has a thoughtful look, as if she’s trying to absorb this, then nods. “That’s what I’ll try to do too.”
“Good.” I pat her on the back. “I’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow.”
“I swear, I will really try to do better,” she promises as I’m leaving. As I go, I pray she does.
Today is the first time that Mom and Jon have had Paige and me over for a meal. I can tell as soon as I’m in the house that Mom is a little nervous, like she wants everything to be picture perfect. I know how my mom is about meals — a perfectionist. It’s like she always wants her table to look like ascene from a food magazine. I know it’s pointless to attempt to convince her it doesn’t matter, that a lunch should be about the people and not the food, or that it’s okay if something is burnt or underdone.
“Smells good in here,” I say when I come into the kitchen.
“Thanks. It’s a new recipe.” She chuckles as I give her a sideways hug. “You’re not supposed to experiment with company. But you girls are family, so I guess it’s okay.”
“It looks interesting,” I say while I survey the ingredients spread over the island. “What are you making?”
“Moroccan,” she says as she chops something green. “Jon’s been wanting me to try it.” She points to an oddly shaped pot on the stove. “That’s a tangine,” she explains. “Kind of like a Moroccan slow cooker. We’re having chicken tangine.” She lists the ingredients, which are mostly spices.
“Exotic.” I sneak a carrot. “Anything I can do to help?”
“Not really.” She tosses the green stuff onto the carrots then wipes her hands. “Everything is pretty much ready to go; it’s just a matter of time.” She nods to the fridge. “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink and join Paige and Jon out by the pool? I’ll be along in a minute.”
I grab some orange soda water and go out to
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