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Another Wednesday
Leslie Gurowitz
It's Wednesday, and being a woman of routine, I don't see any reason to
alter my weekly schedule. I arrive just after she's finished her dinner,
peek into her room before I enter, try to determine what kind of night
it's going to be. An attendant has seated her in an armchair by the
window and she's staring outside. The fluorescent lights in the parking
lot cast an unflattering glow on her tired, lined face. I wonder if she
has watched me cross the parking lot from my car.
When I come into the room, she immediately turns away from whatever was
holding her attention. "Tell me, dear . . . are there soldiers by your
house?"
It clearly isn't going to be an easy visit. "No, Mom. Why, are there
soldiers here?"
She strains her neck to get a view out the window. "Well, none now, but
they were milling about earlier. You be careful going home."
"Okay, Mom." I take off my coat and place it and my bag on the bed.
"I was supposed to work tonight, but they wouldn't let me go. Is there a
new curfew?"
"No, I don't think so." I sit down on the edge of her bed, facing her.
"Tell me, where do you work?" I try to get an idea of where she is.
"Oh, I . . . " She pauses and runs her hands through her fine, white
hair. "Not too far from here. No, not far at all."
I smile at her, then reach over and take her hand in mine. She lets me
keep it for a while. I bear a strong resemblance to her, so looking at
her often makes me think of what my later years will hold. Her hand,
resting in mine, makes the image of my future seem so clear to me -
visible in the translucent skin, loose over her thin hands. She
interrupts my thoughts.
"So, where is everyone?"
"Everyone who?"
"Where are the girls? They're going to be late for dinner. Are they
upstairs? Call them, for me, would you?"
I am the girls, one of them, anyway, I think to myself but say nothing.
My sisters called me earlier in the day, one from Delaware and the other
from Massachusetts. They were surprised that I was going to visit Mom
tonight.
"You should take this one night off, don't you think?" one of them
suggested.
"It's Wednesday," I answered. "The night I always visit her."
Mom starts to get up from her chair. "Now, if you excuse me, Miss, I
have to get ready for work."
I've been carefully instructed on how to handle these situations. They
only time I'm supposed to argue or contradict her is when she thinks
that she has to go somewhere. The only place she ever worked was in Mr.
Miller's Haberdashery when she was a young girl. "No, not tonight," I
tell her. "The shop's closed tonight - Mr. Miller sent a boy to say so
this morning."
"Oh," she says, settling back into the chair. "Oh, too bad, too bad."
We sit in silence for a while. Sometimes I try to bring her up to date,
saying, ŒMa, it's me, it's Sarah. Can you tell me where you are?' Other
times I show her pictures of me and my sisters and all of our kids, but
I don't have the energy for that tonight. Most of the time it just
upsets her. She wrings her hands and tugs at her hair, trying to
remember. She knows she's forgotten something she once knew, and it
makes her very depressed.
She looks at me, her eyes glassy and sad. "I really should get ready for
work, I'm sorry, will you excuse me?"
I smile at her softly. She frowns at me and looks back out the window.
On her night stand is one of those pulp mysteries that I always hated
and she always adored. I pick it up, open it, and start reading aloud
from the large print where the marker is, recalling that no more than
two years ago, Mom was a regular figure at the flea market used-book
booth. She'd come in with a grocery bag full of paperbacks, and leave
with a new batch. That was before she slipped and broke her hip again.
Things got much worse after that.
I don't know if she's listening as I read. She keeps looking out the
window, but she's peaceful and that's really the best thing. All in all,
it isn't a bad visit, I tell myself.
After an hour has passed and my voice is tired from reading, I get a
drink of water from her bathroom and get ready to leave.
"What's today's date, Dear?" she asks when I stoop to give her a hug.
She asks this during her more lucid times.
"It's 2001, Mom. December 5, 2001. "
"Oh my," her eyes get wide and she smiles. "2001."
"Yes, I will see you later-"
"It was fifty-three years ago today that I had you," she tells me
suddenly, then looks back out the window.
It's amazing how quickly tears can find your eyes. My lips press hard
together and I sit back down on the bed.
"Thank you," I whisper, trying to smile.
She turns and looks at me curiously, and then smiles back.
© Leslie Gurowitz
Leslie Gurowitz lives in Newark, Delaware. This story was
written in memory of her Grandmother, Beatrice Kaplan, and inspired by
her mother, Vicki Pollack.
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