All the Dancing Birds (26 page)

I look down at my fingers. “Oh,” I say. I smile over the purple polish on my nails.

“And Bryan will be here for dinner tomorrow.”

“Good,” I say. I manage a smile.

“Your arms are cool, ma’am. I’ll run get you a sweater.”

My woman leaves me. I sit in my chair with John Milton the Cat warming my lap, while the afternoon chills my arms. When my woman returns, she finds me crying.

“Are you all right?” she asks. “You’re crying again.”

“My children,” I say. My lips tremble with sadness and regret. “They never come. Do I have children?”

“Yes, ma’am. You have two children. Bryan and Allison.” My woman tucks my arms into a light blue sweater with generous sleeves that make dressing me an easier task. “Are you hungry, ma’am?”

“No.” I notice my hands. “Look! I’m pretty.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re very pretty. Beautiful. Would you like to sit on the patio while I get a few things done inside?”

I nod my head and my woman wheels me outdoors. As always, we leave tire tracks and footprints on the carpet to mark our course, like breadcrumbs littered behind our path to help us find our way back. Jewell leaves me on the patio while she works on her chores. I’m little more than a narrow stillness along the course of a dwindling afternoon, quiet tears serving as evidence of a single repetitive thought‌—‌everyone has left me.

I’m alone, except for my little birds and even they have become a distant rattle of feathers in the trees. A westerly breeze stirs, causing the tree leaves to chatter among themselves like the birds they hide. Soon, I give up trying to understand my thoughts and let them simply stir in my skull like soup in a pot.

Chunky, liquidy soup.

I let my eyes close around unnamed observations; my head lolls toward my chest in sleep. The sadness of my inability to clutch onto the simple words is more than I can bear. Sleep is a simpler, sweeter way to pass the time.

Somewhere in my dozing, I open my eyes. The stillness of my body, my hands with their purple fingernails, my hollow-boned legs beneath a soft cotton quilt, my gnarled, sleeping head‌—‌all this must have given me the appearance of a tree. For when I look, a bird‌—‌a little brown-tipped bird with a small peeping mouth‌—‌is sitting on the arm of my wheelchair, calling welcome to his friends.

“Come,”
he calls. “
A perch for us. A lovely, birdie perch for us.”

One by one, birds come to pay their respects. Some dance for me in an impromptu recital in front of my chair. I’d like to clap for them, but my arms are frozen in place. Little brown sparrows come and go, dancing and flitting, chirping unabashedly into my ears, clicking their small beaks across my hands, my earlobes.

The afternoon stretches on, lengthening the shadows across the yard, cooling the day with its gathering delta breeze.

When, at last, my woman comes to fetch me for dinner, she finds me clear-eyed and smiling. I’m covered in little peeping, fluttering birds. I’m still and quiet as an old oak in the sun, except for my right foot, which softly taps to the rhythm of all the dancing birds.

Chapter Thirty

H
ere is how I fall asleep: like a leaf flung into the sky by a great wind, only to shudder to the ground far from the comfort of my small and tender branch.

It is always painful.

I am out where it is too great a reach for what is familiar, where dark, skittery things pull at my skin, where the moon burns my eyes. The unavailability of sleep pierces every night for those who are forgetful. I think it is our eventual ruin.

Death by forgetfulness is maddening.

Time slows until it feels as if each day lasts a year. The clock on my bedside table is a useless tchotchke; it’s been some time now since I’ve been able to decipher what it’s trying to tell me. Its glow serves as nothing more than a blue nightlight, illuminating my tossing and turning through the night.

I’m of little help to my woman now. It’s been some time since I’ve been able to assist in my bathroom care, my dressing, the transferring of my body from bed to wheelchair. Even keeping somewhat upright through each day is more than I can manage. I’m a ragdoll, nothing but flopping arms and legs in a useless collection of disorder.

Terrible clouds of dark sadness engulf me. My arms have forgotten themselves; my mouth is slack and spongy. I know I’ve turned into a hard case, but I’m stymied by my efforts to move, confused by my own flesh. Still, my woman hums over my body with melodies that feel like lullabies under my skin‌—‌sweet, gentle, warm, washcloth melodies.

I have a new living room chair now, a soft, green medical recliner that looks out over the front lawn. The chair is wide and adjustable, which gives my tender body opportunities to rest this way and that, turn a bit here and tilt a bit there. I lie on a puffy, white lamb’s wool hide, which is supposed to help keep my body from breaking down into pressure sores.

It’s like sitting on a warm, white cloud, except I’m not yet in the heavens.

Each morning, Jewell heaves me up from my bed and into my wheelchair. She then steers me to the living room and hauls me from the wheelchair to my lounger. Every evening brings a reverse course. It’s a tough slog for her and I’m sad for what I put her through.

We’re now in the midpoint between morning and evening, the quiet time when chores are done. Jewell pulls a chair next to me, careful to not jostle me. She no longer turns on the television. Its cacophony is more than I can bear these days. Instead, she plays old music, softly, until I’m soothed and rocking to its rhythms.
Porch music
, she calls it. It’s mostly acoustic guitar or fiddle, some Glenn Miller, a sampling of old Southern charm. The Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, The Cowboy Ramblers. Now and then, a soulful, hands-in-the-dirt Gospel hymn. She always sings along with the hymns; they lie across my body like soft blessings.

Today, my woman seems wistful. She has a blue hardcover book in her lap. The cover says,
America’s Greatest Poetry
. She opens to a random page, placing one gentle finger under the first line of word‌—‌something Ma would have called “Bible dipping.” She begins to read aloud. Although I can’t keep up with the words, I’m soothed by the meter and beat. She flips back and forth through the book, alighting now and then on something that catches her eye.

I close my eyes to better feel each selection.

After a while, my woman closes the book and just sits next to me, her soft hand caressing my arm. My skin is fragile, easily broken; her touch is whispery like feathers. She is silent, but her hand is like some faraway memory and I’m all the better for it. We begin to rock together as she rubs my arm. She hums to a Mother Maybelle Carter tune and I’m delighted, as much as there can be any delight left in this frail and broken mind I still miss so much.

I sleep.

Sometime later, when stripes of afternoon shadows fall across me like prison bars, I wake to find a young woman has replaced Jewell in the chair next to me. She is sitting upright, her hands clutching a little purse to her chest, her eyes watery green.

I can’t remember her name.

It makes no difference; my mouth is too stubborn to let words form anymore. Her name, I suspect, is too complicated with its syllables and all its myriad history. I know her, though. In the cells of my body, I know the woman who sits next to me with a purse grasped in her hands and a look of devastation on her face. I know this woman with her long blonde hair and her long-legged body.

I look at her like she’s the first person I’ve ever seen in my life and I’m fascinated by it all.

I’m sorry for my constant Alzheimer’s mask of indifference. Even my face has forgotten how to articulate feelings with its eyes, its expression.

We simply look at each other.

“Hi, Mom,” she says.

“Ahhhh,” I answer. My voice is a whisper; it’s the best I can do.

“I came to spend the evening with you,” she says. I can tell she is trying to keep the inflection of her words as bright as her clothing.

“Whooooo?” I ask. Again, my best.

“It’s me, Mom. It’s Allison, your daughter.”

“Alllliii‌—‌”

“Yes.”

“Ooooo. I lovvvv‌—‌”

“I love you too. I brought fingernail polish and I thought we could just be girlfriends tonight. Okay?” I watch Allison’s eyes fill.

“Hmmm.” I nod my head, trying so hard to articulate something important to my Allison. My beautiful pony.

In the background, Emmylou Harris sings:
I would rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham; I would hold my life in his saving grace. I would walk all the way from Boulder to Birmingham if I thought I could see, I could see your face.

I decide to let the music tell her what I want to say.

For the next hour, Allison holds my hands and paints color on my nails as well as my world. All the time, she chatters on much too quickly for me to follow. She doesn’t seem to care that I’m only able to smile with my mouth. She doesn’t notice it’s impossible for me to track her wildly traveling trains of thought.

All I know is that for one small moment, she is once more my La La La Girlfriend.

I’m glad she doesn’t see how much I struggle. But through the music, my beautiful Allison simply brushes color over everything, turning her head this way, holding her tongue to the corner of her mouth as she creates. Today, she paints me pink.

She paints me pink.

Chapter Thirty-One

S
omeone cups their hand gently under my chin and pulls my face up to meet theirs. It’s my woman. My Jewell. She tells me my children are coming and I need my face washed, my hair brushed, my red sweater snugged warmly around my shoulders.

I smile at the thought of my children seeing me brightly wrapped in red. Few things pleasure me now, but some events still have the power to enchant me. Wearing red for my children is one. My head dips toward my chest, but contentment nevertheless moves across the stoop of my shoulders.

I’m washed and brushed and sweater-wrapped in warmth. Then I’m transferred from bed to wheelchair to day lounge chair‌—‌I try to help lift my weight, but still, I hear my woman groan under the effort.

My poor woman!

My children arrive. I feel kisses, hands patting my shoulders, smoothing my hair. Words are murmured into my ears. I smile, but my head refuses to turn upward to greet them properly.

This head droop is recent and unremitting.

I seem to be stuck in the reflective pose of one who might be deep in prayer‌—‌hands folded, head bowed, my mouth silently moving as if small but important words were crossing the threshold of my lips.

I hear my woman offer cups of steaming coffee. I hear a man say,
that would be great.
I hear a woman say,
oh,
no thanks. I’m trying to stop. But I’ll take a cup of tea, thanks so much.
I hear the movement of fabric, the shuffle of shoes and then a spoon tinging inside a cup. I love my good and gracious ears for all they hear. I only wish I could convince my face to rise from its perch on my chest to join the conversation.

“I’m so glad you came over,” I hear Jewell say.

“Not a problem,” Bryan says. His voice sounds thin and worried.

“I wasn’t doing anything anyway,” Allison adds.

“Well, I’m going to get right to it,” Jewell says. “The way your mother is… she’s become fairly helpless. It’s getting too much for me now. It’s very hard to move her by myself… hard to take care of all her very specific needs.”

Allison sputters. “Jewell, you can’t… we
need
you.”

“What?” Jewell says. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what is it?” Bryan asks. “Do you need more money? A raise?”

“No. You’ve always been very generous. I’ve been with you… your mother… what? Five, nearly six years now?”

“Oh my God,” Allison nearly squeals, her voice rising like a siren. “You
are
leaving.”

Jewell begins again. “Please, wait… listen‌—‌”

“What is it we can we do to convince you to stay?” Dearest Bryan, always the negotiator.

“All I need… that is, what your mother needs is some extra help. I have no intention of leaving your mother. But it’s time to do for your mother what I can’t do alone, what I’m really not qualified to do. She needs stronger medication, something to help her sleep better through the night. She’s only swallowing a few spoonfuls of broth now. She doesn’t really communicate much, and you can see she’s not sitting well in her chair any longer. I think she may be suffering and she simply can’t tell me.”

“A night person, maybe?” Bryan mulls aloud over Jewell’s suggestion.

“She’s suffering?”
My dear sweet Allison
.

“To tell you the truth,” Jewell says. “I think we’re both suffering. Your mother needs constant care now. She’s quiet at the moment, but it’s not always like this. It’s amazing how such a small woman can have such a big voice in the middle of the night.”

“Why didn’t you talk to us sooner?” Bryan asks.

“I didn’t want to bother you until it was really necessary. But now ma’am needs round-the-clock care and that requires more than I can do alone.”

I imagine Bryan tapping his chin with his index finger. Thinking. “I wish you
had
said something sooner. We can certainly get a nurse or a qualified aide who can give her whatever she needs, someone starting tomorrow night.”

“Yes. Absolutely,” Allison says. “
Whatever
you need.”

I hear Jewell exhale, as if she’s been underwater a long time and is just now able to breathe again. “Bless you. Bless you. I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing to say,” Bryan says. “It’s a done deal. Would someone here for an eight-hour shift give you enough rest?”

“It would feel like heaven. Thank you so much.” Jewell tips her head to one side. “There’s one more thing, though‌—‌”

“Anything,” Bryan says. “We’re so clueless at this… anything you need. Anything at all.”

“Have you kids discussed the idea of hospice care? In my assessment of ma’am, I think she could easily qualify now. I’ve worked with hospice before and… well, they’re absolutely the very best at helping people like ma’am.”