Every evening I come back to earth by visiting my mother and her smoking buddy, Jane. Some evenings Jane doesn't talk much, and Mom doesn't talk at all, so we have a pleasant ten-minute interlude staring into the distance. Well, they stare into the distance. They have a view of tall fir trees and sky beyond the roof of the facility. I have a view of two old ladies sitting in front of a wall of rhododendrons. It's hard to know what to stare at. I often don't know what to say. I do a lot of fidgeting.The other night I made the mistake of describing the hearings I'd witnessed of the Supreme Court nominee. Of course, neither old woman had any idea what I was talking about. I worked myself into quite a lather before I finally managed to zip it. Darn it. I need to unload my anxieties someplace else.
Mom and Jane could not care less what is going on in politics. They no longer vote. Their attention is riveted on what is happening in their own small world, the world of the retirement facility.
“Tonight is Amy's last day,” Jane reminded Mom tonight. Mom nodded. Amy was the nice part-time cook. I was sad to hear that Amy was leaving. She baked gluten-free cookies for Mom.
“I wonder if she is getting another job,” Jane mused. Mom shrugged her narrow shoulders. I looked at the front of her red fleece jacket, wondering if it ever got laundered. She loves the jacket for its deep pockets, plenty of room for her cigarette case. The front of the jacket is a minefield of pock marks, some just black circles and others outright holes, burned clear through the fleece. I wondered what I would do if one evening she dropped her cigarette and spontaneously combusted.
“Someone died two nights ago,” Jane said. She looked at me and mouthed, “Stroke.” Mom nodded. She had told me about it yesterday. We didn't know the woman who died. Neither one of us was terribly concerned about the dead person. After all, people go to retirement facilities to die. We both expressed sadness for the staff.
“The same night, another woman fell,” Jane said. “Blood everywhere.” My mother's eyes widened. She glanced at her cigarette and then at Jane's cigarette, comparing their smoking progress.
“They could get some serious rain this week in Arizona,” I said, thinking, what is the mildest topic possible? Right, the weather.
Both ladies looked at me in surprise. “Arizona!” Mom said.
“We can't get flooded here, can we?” Jane asked.
“No, we are on a hill,” I reassured her.
The glowing ember at the tip of Mom's cigarette fell onto the ground. She held out the now dead stub. Sometimes I take it, sometimes Jane takes it. Tonight I took it and chucked it into the big gourd-shaped receptacle for cigarette butts that must look absolutely gross inside. Mom got up and grabbed her walker. Time to head for the door. I trailed behind to pick up the pieces, if anything (or anyone) should happen to fall.
Amy met us at the front door and let us in. Behind us the sky was almost dark. No rain, but I could smell it on the air. I stood by as Amy hugged first Jane and then my mother. Amy towered over both shrunken women. Up close, she looked younger than I first thought.
“Come back and visit,” Jane said.
“Don't forget us,” I said to Amy as Mom turned away down the hall. Amy did not look sad to be leaving. I worked at a nursing home once. That was probably the hardest job in my life. (So far. I have a feeling Home Depot might be in my future.)
Back in her room, Mom parked her jacket on the visitor's chair. She stood by the bed, staring at the bed covers, which were pulled open, ready for her to go to bed later. Her blue fleece pajama bottoms lay on top. She pointed at her head.
“What do I do with this?” I wasn't sure if she meant the pajamas and bed covers or her head. I took a chance she meant the bed.
“Your bed is ready for you, when you are ready to go to sleep,” I said. “See the picture on the wall?” Last week I drew a series of cartoons showing her how to get ready for bed. First, brush your teeth. Take out hearing aids. Take off shoes and pants. Put on PJs. Sit on the bed. Put feet under covers. Pull covers up to chin. Sweet dreams. Layers are the problem. The quilt is covered by the wool blanket, which is covered by a sheet. Three layers! With the pajama bottoms on top. Too much for her brain.
“Ring your buzzer if you need help,” I said.
“Okay,” she replied.
