Turn of Mind

I took the little oak secretary desk, Mark the Stickley mission oak sofa and rocker. The rest, sold.

I swing my legs around, get up from the bed. My hands are clenched.

I’m having some trouble absorbing this, I say.

Yes. Mom, I’m sorry. I wasn’t going to tell you.

Then why did you?

Because I’m heartsick. Because you’ll forget. Because there’s no one else to tell.

Cry me a river, I say. I pull my nightgown over my head. Sit there in my underpants. Not caring.

Mom, please, don’t do this. Get dressed. She goes to the chest of drawers, starts pulling out clothes, hands me a bra, a dark blue T-shirt, a pair of jeans.

Don’t what? I drop the clothes, put my hands over my eyes, try to still the rising fury. No. Not at my girl. Hold steady.

Please don’t cry. We talked about this at length. You knew we had to do it. It was time. Please. I hate to see you cry. Look, I’m crying, too. She picks up the clothes, puts them on my lap. Here. Please. Get dressed. Please don’t cry.

I take my hands away from my face, show her my dry eyes. I’m not crying. One doesn’t cry over things like this. You get mad. You take action.

Fiona runs her fingers through her hair, rubs her eyes. I just don’t get you, Mom. You never crack. Not through any of this. Not through Dad’s death. Not even when Grandmother died.

That’s not true, I say.

Which wasn’t true? Dad or Grandmother?

What your father and I had was private. I grieved in my own way.

What about Grandmother? I was only nine, but I remember you coming home from Philadelphia. It was right before dinner. I was doing my homework at the kitchen table.

You know, I seem to recall this.

Yes. You came in, changed your clothes, sat down, and ate a huge meal. Roast chicken with mashed potatoes. Amanda had made it, and she and Peter came over and ate with us. Dad was off somewhere on one of his business trips. Mark was at football practice. And we sat and talked about nothing. Your recent surgeries.

Amanda’s wayward students. My math scores. And your mother had just died.

About which I could do nothing.

But it was your mother. Your mother! Wouldn’t you expect someone to grieve even a little bit?

Of course. Unless one were a monster.

But you didn’t.

You don’t know, I say. You just don’t know.

My voice is raised. A woman in lavender, a badge attached to her shirt, passes by the open door to my room, glances in, sees Fiona, hesitates, then passes on.

I was there, Mom. Unless you’re saying you got it all out on the two-hour flight between Philadelphia and O’Hare.

But I didn’t lose my mother that day.

I start getting dressed. It takes concentration. These are the pants. First one leg, then the other. This is the shirt. Three holes, the largest one for the head. Pull it down to the neck. There.

The day before then.

No. I had lost my mother years before.

I find my shoes. Slip-ons. I stand up, still holding on to the bed. I test the floor, find it steady, and stand up straight. Fully dressed. Where is my suitcase. The discharge nurse.

Here, fix your hair. She hands me a comb. You mean . . . ?

My mother was long gone by the time she died. Her mind had rotted out. She spent the last eight years of her life among strangers.

I walk around the bed, looking but not finding.

Oh. Yes, I see. Now I know what you’re talking about. Now I know.

No, I don’t think you do. I don’t think you could. Unless you’ve experienced it yourself.

Fiona gives a little half smile. And how do you experience it, Mom?

As termites eating away at my emotions. Nibbling at the edges at first, then going deeper until they destroy. Robbing me of my chance to say good-bye. You think, Tomorrow, or next week. You think you still have time.

But all the while the termites are doing their work, and before you know it, it’s no longer possible to feel the loss honestly or spontaneously. Most people start acting at that point. I’m not capable of that. Hence, no funeral. Hence, no tears.