When Lauren wasn’t sleeping, she murmured softly, references to things in the past that Saskia didn’t recognize—“No, you said that”; “The bicycle isn’t there”; “Far, it’s far, it’s far.” Sometimes she repeated a phrase over and over, in Hindi or maybe Sanskrit. Saskia asked Bill, who said he had no idea. She couldn’t ask Jeeves, because Lauren didn’t have dial-up internet at the house (Saskia should be grateful there was a phone), so she steeled herself and called Amethyst, who recognized it right away from fragments Saskia had been able to make out: “Om asato ma sadgamaya. It’s a mantra.”
“What does it mean?”
“Lead me from unreality to reality. Lead me from darkness to light. Lead me from death to immortality. It’s so wonderful that she’s saying that.”
“Mm, thanks.”
“How are you doing, sweetheart?”
“I’m managing, thanks.”
The unreal days went on. Lauren’s long auburn hair, which had never turned gray, lay spread out on the pillow to either side of her large, handsome head. Saskia gently brushed it every morning, struggling with emotions that clashed painfully. For one thing, the hair made her think about the treatments that Lauren had refused. Saskia knew it wasn’t literally for the sake of her hair that Lauren had refused them, but hair was natural and healthy, while losing it was what happened to Hiroshima victims. Also, her hair was beautiful, and Saskia couldn’t help thinking that Lauren’s devotion to purity was rooted partly in vanity. At the same time, not having brushed Lauren’s hair in many years, Saskia was carried back to when she was twelve years old, when she considered it the greatest privilege to be allowed to do so. She had envied her mother’s hair—in truth, worshipped it—and it was only while brushing it, in the evening, in long meditative sessions, that she could occasionally get her mother to talk to her about anything personal. And here she was, all grown up, still envying the hair, still hoping that her mother might say something meaningful to her—about motherhood, about raising a daughter, about her own childhood, about dying, about anything. Anything except Thomas. Saskia had never called her “Mom.” Lauren hadn’t wanted it. She’d always said she wanted their relationship to be one of equals, which sounded supportive and wise when Saskia was ten, and like a self-deluding abdication of responsibility when Saskia was fifteen.
Every day, she looked more angelic. Her halo of brushed hair glowed in the sunlight coming through the living room windows. The September weather was heavenly. When Saskia sat next to her bed, she sometimes held her hand, which felt awkward, since they had hardly ever touched. Sometimes she talked to Lauren’s closed eyes about any quotidian thing that came into her head, the temperature outside, the goldenrod just beginning to flower, the rice Saskia burned that morning, the rat they couldn’t catch who was eating the soap at night. That felt awkward, too, but she persevered.
What does she remember now, these many years later? The last days blur together. At one point she said to Lauren, “I’m sorry I said all those angry things to you about the cancer treatments. It was none of my business.” At which she felt another spurt of anger: You never allowed yourself to be my business. At another point she said, “I feel like I want to call you ‘Mom’ now. Unless you complain, that’s what I’ll do.”
Bill, the goodhearted boob, though devastated, was helpful and attentive. He said to Saskia, “She always loved you.”
“You forgot to add, ‘in her own way.’”
“You know that, don’t you?”
“She’s dying. This isn’t about me, is it?”
Examine every hard impression, and test it by this rule: whether the impression has to do with the things which are up to us, or those which are not; and, if it has to do with the things that are not up to us, be ready to reply, “It is nothing to me.” (Saskia has found her Epictetus.)
She remembers one other thing. When Lauren wasn’t sleeping or looking forward to reality, she occasionally opened her eyes and said simple things like, “Thank you” (adjusted blanket) or “That’s nice” (damp hair stroked back from forehead). At rare intervals she seemed more lucid for a few seconds. Once she looked pointedly at various parts of the room, as if memorizing them. Then she looked at Saskia and held her gaze steadily, which she had done very seldom in her life. She said almost inaudibly, with a teaspoon of breath, “You’re a good girl, Saskia.” She used to say that when Saskia was twelve, helping care for the younger children, and Saskia would retort, “Woof.” Now, she wondered if Lauren might be seeing the child.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Saskia said. “Don’t worry.” Lauren smiled and closed her eyes.
In the case of everything that is loved with fond affection, remember to tell yourself what sort of thing it is, beginning with the least of things. If you are fond of a jug, say, “It is a jug that I am fond of”; then if it is broken, you will not be disturbed. If you kiss your child, or your wife, say to yourself that it is a human being that you are kissing; and then you will not be disturbed if either of them dies.
At the end of the first week of September the hospice nurse checked Lauren’s vitals and said they had better call in everyone who could make it. Melanie couldn’t come because she had just given birth, and Jo was in San Jose helping out. Quentin flew in from Boston, Austin and Shannon drove down from the farmhouse. Then Lauren hung on through the next three days, breathing long and deeply, hour after hour. It seemed as though she was relaxing herself with a meditative technique. The nurse said she had never seen anything quite like it at this stage. Quentin had to return to his job. The twins drove back to their place. The
