Within Arm's Reach (7 page)

Ryan leans forward in his wheelchair, his pale eyebrows furrowed. I have caught his attention. “Is it a public school?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, apparently it’s quite a good one.”

“Public schools are fascist—doesn’t Meggy know that? Stalin went to a public school. They have rules there that squelch a child’s spirit. They tie them up with so many regulations that they have to sneak into bathrooms and smoke marijuana and wear black brassieres. Dana is a sensitive girl. Very sensitive. Meggy might as well put a gun to her head, don’t you think, Mother? The child should be in a Christian school. I’m going to have to call my sister and have a word with her. I have to do what I can for my nieces and nephew.”

“Yes, well,” I say, feeling as if I’m losing ground. “Lila is actually working in the hospital now. Isn’t that nice? She’s still in school, of course, but she learns by helping the doctors attend to real patients. I worry sometimes that she works too hard. She doesn’t pay attention to anything else.”

Ryan thinks about that for a moment. “Doctors make too much money,” he says. “That’s the problem, don’t you see? They get corrupted. Lila will be seduced by the money. Mark my words, she’ll forget that she set out to save lives.”

“I’m not sure why Lila set out to be a doctor,” I say, and then shake my head sharply. I am not myself today. I should have changed the subject or just nodded in agreement. I should not have argued.

Ryan is worked up now. He pats the framed picture of Jesus that he has hung on the side of his wheelchair. “Doctors have not been good to us, Mother. Remember when Daddy pushed Pat by mistake and he fell and Dr. O’Malley wasn’t able to set the bone in his arm correctly? And before that he couldn’t save my big sister, and I never even got to meet her. And doctors certainly have been no good to me. Trying to put me to sleep like you would a dog or a cat. But don’t worry, you guys”—he is talking to the birds now, his eyes upward—“I won’t let them touch you. No needles, no pills. No, no. I promise. I’ll take care of you.”

I am standing up now, my purse in my hand. “I must go, Ryan. Dinner is served early today. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” he says as he wheels after me to the door. “Drive carefully, Mother. I’ll pray for you.”

And I hear my youngest child pray as I make my way down the front steps of the apartment building. His voice wafts out behind me, making its way through chinks in the walls and the cracks in the windows of the seedy, run-down building he has lived in for nearly twenty years. Ryan has a beautiful voice, the voice of a senator, or a priest. It follows me down the front walk to my car, to the inside of my car, where I shut the door and there is no sound. And still I hear him. I hear every syllable.

Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come
thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And
lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

I look around me for neglected children, examples of injustice, specters from my past. I see only a barking dog a few houses down, a man cutting his lawn, a sprinkler watering an overturned garden. My body begins to unclench. I give a small practice smile, just to make sure I am still able to. My muscles oblige. Slowly I regain my even heartbeat, my balance, my sense of self.

“Amen,” I say, and start the car’s engine.

KELLY IS waiting for me when I get back to my room, which is a shame, because I don’t feel strong enough to fight with my oldest daughter. And it is clear, from the first sight of her, that she is here for a fight. But still, I’m happy to see her. I have been happy, in a new, thankful way, to see each of my children, since my car accident. I have struggled for a way to express my gratitude, to speak to them in a new way, but so far I haven’t found a successful method.

“I can’t believe you were out driving, Mother. Did you take the main roads?”

I set my purse down on the desk. “As opposed to what, Kelly? Driving on the sidewalks?”

Kelly is sitting in the corner of my room in an armchair. She is tapping her fingernails against the sloping arms. Her tone changes, and suddenly she is apologizing to me, though I can’t discern for what.

“Louis should have called me the moment he saw that you were in trouble,” she says. “At the very least he should have called when you reached the hospital. I could have been there in ten minutes.”

“There was no reason for you to be there,” I say. “I’m glad Louis didn’t call.”

“Well, pardon me for thinking I could have been of some help to my own mother.”

I shake my head. I am not interested in talking about the accident. It is behind me. I need to focus on the here and now to make sure I don’t drift away again. I want to stay myself. I want to appreciate this moment. And I want to make a confession of my own.

I say, “I think I’ve always been too focused on the past. I spent too much time dwelling on what I’d lost. I wasn’t always available for you and your brothers and sisters.”

There is a loud silence at my words. I hadn’t realized how extreme they would sound in the air, in this room. I have the sense that my furniture, the curtains, and even the photographs on the wall are surprised at me. I think, Why did I never speak like this before?

With a slight movement, Kelly tucks her body into the far corner of the big chair. “Mother, we really need to talk about your giving up driving.”

“Listen to me for one moment. I want to apologize to you—”

Kelly interrupts. Her sentences rush after one another. “You’re not making any sense, Mother. This is not the time to talk about
apologies
.” She says the word the way she would say
snakes,
as if it is something unpleasant and distasteful. “We have to pay attention to the subject at hand.”

“And what might that be?”

“You just had a car accident, remember?”

She seems to be waiting for me to respond, so I say, “Yes, I remember.”

“And just because you’re physically fine doesn’t mean you weren’t traumatized somehow. You aren’t safe on the road anymore.”

“I want to talk about the way I was with you when you were young.” Kelly does not return my gaze. Her eyes are focused somewhere slightly above my head. She scans the wall filled with family photos, documentation of her childhood. She seems to be searching for something familiar, something to rest her gaze on. Something that makes sense to her.

“Louis said you parked your car in the middle of the street. Why would you do that? You could have hurt another driver, or a pedestrian. I’ve spoken to Meggy and Theresa about this, and they agree that you should stop driving immediately.”

I am weary again. I don’t want to argue. “Soon.”

“Soon? What do you mean, soon?”

“I will stop driving soon. I have one more thing I need to take care of first. Now, if you don’t mind, Kelly, you’ve exhausted me and I’d like to take a nap.”

The conversation drags on for another tiresome minute or two while Kelly tries to confiscate the keys to my Lincoln. She apparently isn’t prepared to go so far as to snatch the keys out of my purse, so she leaves, but not before giving me her customary kiss on the cheek. I can see that the familiarity of the gesture calms her. It lets her put this disturbing visit back into some kind of order in her head.

I decide not to continue trying this approach with my children. Maybe speaking to them one by one isn’t the best way. I should think about Easter, and what I might say to them as a group. Individually, they will each think I am off my rocker. It will not occur to them that I am just being honest. Or maybe Kelly did recognize that and that was what scared her. I’m not sure any child really wants to know their parent, or vice versa. Maybe that knowledge and that truth are too much. I’m not sure. These are new thoughts for me, and I need to find a way through them. I am not accustomed to having new thoughts, and at seventy-nine am not at all thrilled to have to learn.

THE NEXT morning, I drive to early-morning Mass, and then from St. Francis’s to the girls’ house on Holly Court. I let myself in the back door with my key. I fill the kettle and place it on the stove. I sit in the sturdiest chair at the kitchen table and keep both feet on the floor. I am wearing my good tweed skirt with a pink blouse. I don’t mind waiting for Gracie to wake up.

Lila comes downstairs first. She is wearing her work outfit of thin blue pants and a matching top. She smiles to see me. “Feeling better, Gram? How did you get here?”

“I drove. And, as you can see, I’m fine.”

“I told Mom you were. But she said you’d decided not to drive anymore.”

“That’s not quite true. I want to thank you, Lila, for looking in on me in the hospital.”

Lila blushes at the very top of her cheeks. “Don’t be silly, Gram. I just sat with you for a few minutes. It’s not like I did anything.”

“Well, I appreciated what you did do. Is your sister here?”

Lila opens and leans into the refrigerator. Her voice travels over her shoulder with the frosty air. “You came over to see Gracie?”

“I want to talk to her, yes.”

Lila emerges with an apple and a container of yogurt. “I should tell you that I found an apartment over by St. Francis’s. I can’t move in for a few weeks, but I signed the lease and it’s all set.”

I nod my disappointment. “Well, if that makes you happy, Lila, then I’m glad for you.”

“It makes me happy,” Lila says, looking anything but happy. “I have to go to the hospital now, so I’ll see you later, Gram. Have a nice chat with Gracie.” In a blur of movement Lila kisses me on the cheek, then is out the back door and I am left alone.

I am struck by the similarity between my conversation with Kelly and this short one with Lila. Both mother and daughter like all conversations to go their way, with their topics, their themes, and their desired results. They are displeased when someone else takes control. I’m not quite sure what Lila was hoping for from me this morning, but it is clear that I didn’t provide it.

Still, I’m glad to have a few moments alone with my tea. I need the time to brace myself, because I have found that when I see Gracie now, I cannot help but remember back to when I carried my children, and to remember that time is not pleasant. My pregnancies got harder, and seemingly longer and more enveloping, as I went along. My first pregnancy was perfect. I was filled with energy, overjoyed that I was starting my family and that I had made Patrick so proud. At night I would have vivid dreams about the family I would raise, and about how I would be a more dependable, solid, presentable mother than my own mother was. I was tired when I was carrying Kelly, but still strong.

Pat was a big baby, however, and weighed heavily inside me. I went into labor early with him, during the same week we buried our firstborn. The delivery was long and exhausting. I was unable to focus and it seemed he would never come out. After Pat, the pregnancies were more work. They came one after another in an endless row. Like my labor with my first son, I wondered if they would ever end. The children took over my body. They filled up my small frame, and squeezed me out. I grew quieter, harder.

Although who I was became less noticeable as my children developed their own voices, it was always the case that when I did speak, they heard me loud and clear. I ran a tight ship. And underneath the imposed order, and the personalities my children were developing, and the relentless kicks of new life in my womb, I listened to the silence my first daughter left behind, and, later, to the silence of the twins. One boy and one girl who never drew a breath, never opened their eyes.

I was anxious during my pregnancy with the twins. I was busy taking care of Patrick and the children the entire time, and I slept so soundly at night that I never dreamed. I would wake up every morning with a gasp, flushed with panic. That sense of anxiety stuck with me after the birth. I was a wreck while I was carrying Ryan. Even though I had scorned my own mother for always hiding in a closet during thunderstorms, to my shame more than once during that pregnancy I found myself in the coat closet shaking and praying for
this
baby to be all right.

I never spoke of any of the children I had lost. It was dangerous to mention our little girl in front of my husband, but I wouldn’t have even if that weren’t the case. When Kelly or Pat or even Ryan asked about their brother or sisters, I pretended not to hear them. I sent them to their room. I told them to recheck their homework, straighten out their drawers, set the table, take out the garbage, dress the baby. I laid my quiet down all around them. Their father told them stories of Ireland and leprechauns and lads and lasses and green clovers and the blue sea, and I told them to speak only when spoken to. When they were disobedient, I punished them. When they were very bad, I threatened to send them to their father. I demanded their respect. I was, for the most part, a solid, dependable, and presentable mother. I did what I had to do, and I did it well.

But the lightness was gone. After the twins I did not lose anyone for decades, not until my parents, and then, later, Patrick. But I found motherhood to be a place where I was constantly poised for disaster, braced for loss. Every flaw and weakness in my children I tried to point out and destroy. I urged them to be strong, and tough, and cautious, and especially to be durable.

And I suppose that I was successful, as they have all reached adulthood. My grandchildren have reached adulthood, too, and with them I was able to refind my lightness. I have loved my oldest granddaughter purely, with no motive, until now. Now everything has changed. My heart groans when Gracie walks into the kitchen reading a letter.

“Good morning,” I say.

I spoke softly, but still Gracie jumps. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and stacks of letters make the pockets of her bathrobe bulge. “Gram, hi. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” I say. Then I let a cloud of silence sit down around us. I want Gracie to know that what is coming is important. Only when I see fear round the corners of her expression do I continue.