warm water, and a washcloth.
Louise began to hum
the hills are alive
from
The Sound of Music
. She did that when she got nervous.
“Help me sit her up,” I said.
With some effort we propped our mother to a sitting position against the back of the couch, but her body was as floppy as a rag doll’s.
“Wake up, Mother,” Ruthie said, shaking Lilly’s shoulders.
I dipped the washcloth into the bowl and sponged my mother’s forehead.
“What’s going on here?” Lilly said, in a tiny, cracked voice. She shook her head and practically slapped me in the face as she stretched her arms.
“Why couldn’t you wake up?” Louise said. Sitting with her legs propped against her chest, she pulled her nightgown down from her knees to cover her bare feet. To save money, during the night Lilly kept our thermostat on low.
“Because I’m tired,” Lilly said, irritated. “Isn’t that allowed? I’m going upstairs to lie down. I’m not feeling well.”
Lilly hiked her knit dress to her hips, cradled her head against her shoulder, and shuffled up the stairs to her bedroom. “Don’t get into trouble,” she called behind her.
I sat on the couch and looked out the window again into the glacier sky. My eyes moved to the grass on the front lawn. It was covered, like a truth you knew was there, but didn’t want to see, with icy dew. I wanted to believe this was just a temporary thing, an accident. That Lilly would get up in a few hours and return to us as our mother, not the mysterious woman who went out at night as if she were expecting to bring back heaven. But I was wrong. That mother we had known seemed so far from us.
In the afternoon, when our mother woke up, I caught a glimpse of the old Lilly, the one who sat in our house and sighed or daydreamed by the window most of the day, and that gave me hope. After lunch we went out to the yard to play. Lilly was studying her crossword puzzles or staring out the window, watching. When she caught our eyes, she tapped her nails against the glass and gave a wave. Then we showed off for her: Louise was good at handstands, and Ruthie could turn three cartwheels in a row. Lilly liked to watch our gymnastics on the soft lawn.
It was quiet in the yard, and time went on and on. The day
nearly lasted forever. When the sky darkened and Lilly changed into her yellow robe, she opened the screen door and whistled for us to come in. Upstairs, Ruthie supervised while Louise and I washed our hair in the sink and scrubbed our ears, followed by the usual fight over who got to wear the prettiest nightgown. Lilly came upstairs with the bedtime snack, and we were quiet and good for her. We crawled into our cool beds and said our prayers. Lilly sat on the rocker and sang her tired song in the twilight.
But as Lilly continued going out, nearly every night of the week, the times we had our mother with us grew fewer and far between. The men that came and went swarmed together like bees, turning our house into a hive of seduction and betrayal. Lilly rarely treated them any differently from each other. I began to hate the way she primped and groomed for them; how much attention she paid to herself, as if she were a work of art.
Not only was she out most nights, but she slept in most of the morning, sometimes the entire afternoon, until around four-thirty, when we’d hear our mother’s bedroom door creak open. I dropped whatever I was doing and ran up the stairs, Louise at my heels.
“Hello, angels,” Lilly said, unaware that we were still in our nightgowns; that the entire Saturday had passed. “Should I make cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwiches, or grilled cheese?” she asked, as if this was all perfectly natural.
Not only did our mother forget about making our dinner or making sure we were up in time for school, she seemed to turn her back on God. My mother had neglected all the Jewish holidays once our father died. I remembered our Friday-night dinners at Aunt Rose’s before the Sabbath. The
Louise began to hum
the hills are alive
from
The Sound of Music
. She did that when she got nervous.
“Help me sit her up,” I said.
With some effort we propped our mother to a sitting position against the back of the couch, but her body was as floppy as a rag doll’s.
“Wake up, Mother,” Ruthie said, shaking Lilly’s shoulders.
I dipped the washcloth into the bowl and sponged my mother’s forehead.
“What’s going on here?” Lilly said, in a tiny, cracked voice. She shook her head and practically slapped me in the face as she stretched her arms.
“Why couldn’t you wake up?” Louise said. Sitting with her legs propped against her chest, she pulled her nightgown down from her knees to cover her bare feet. To save money, during the night Lilly kept our thermostat on low.
“Because I’m tired,” Lilly said, irritated. “Isn’t that allowed? I’m going upstairs to lie down. I’m not feeling well.”
Lilly hiked her knit dress to her hips, cradled her head against her shoulder, and shuffled up the stairs to her bedroom. “Don’t get into trouble,” she called behind her.
I sat on the couch and looked out the window again into the glacier sky. My eyes moved to the grass on the front lawn. It was covered, like a truth you knew was there, but didn’t want to see, with icy dew. I wanted to believe this was just a temporary thing, an accident. That Lilly would get up in a few hours and return to us as our mother, not the mysterious woman who went out at night as if she were expecting to bring back heaven. But I was wrong. That mother we had known seemed so far from us.
In the afternoon, when our mother woke up, I caught a glimpse of the old Lilly, the one who sat in our house and sighed or daydreamed by the window most of the day, and that gave me hope. After lunch we went out to the yard to play. Lilly was studying her crossword puzzles or staring out the window, watching. When she caught our eyes, she tapped her nails against the glass and gave a wave. Then we showed off for her: Louise was good at handstands, and Ruthie could turn three cartwheels in a row. Lilly liked to watch our gymnastics on the soft lawn.
It was quiet in the yard, and time went on and on. The day
nearly lasted forever. When the sky darkened and Lilly changed into her yellow robe, she opened the screen door and whistled for us to come in. Upstairs, Ruthie supervised while Louise and I washed our hair in the sink and scrubbed our ears, followed by the usual fight over who got to wear the prettiest nightgown. Lilly came upstairs with the bedtime snack, and we were quiet and good for her. We crawled into our cool beds and said our prayers. Lilly sat on the rocker and sang her tired song in the twilight.
But as Lilly continued going out, nearly every night of the week, the times we had our mother with us grew fewer and far between. The men that came and went swarmed together like bees, turning our house into a hive of seduction and betrayal. Lilly rarely treated them any differently from each other. I began to hate the way she primped and groomed for them; how much attention she paid to herself, as if she were a work of art.
Not only was she out most nights, but she slept in most of the morning, sometimes the entire afternoon, until around four-thirty, when we’d hear our mother’s bedroom door creak open. I dropped whatever I was doing and ran up the stairs, Louise at my heels.
“Hello, angels,” Lilly said, unaware that we were still in our nightgowns; that the entire Saturday had passed. “Should I make cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwiches, or grilled cheese?” she asked, as if this was all perfectly natural.
Not only did our mother forget about making our dinner or making sure we were up in time for school, she seemed to turn her back on God. My mother had neglected all the Jewish holidays once our father died. I remembered our Friday-night dinners at Aunt Rose’s before the Sabbath. The
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