Coupla' Days, Pt. II

The airport. 

Shiny, chalk white. 

Almost too white.

I feel like I am in a hospital waiting to be seen by a doctor. I don't like it one bit. 

And then I see her. Only what I’m seeing is not her; it can’t be her. 

It's a skeleton and I'm back in my room at the house on Chester Street. The skeleton moves slowly yet certainly and I know I will not be able to do a damn thing except lay there under the covers and wait until the vision fades. It comes across the floor and it jangles its bones. They clank together as they swing toward me and I begin to feel a wet spot between my legs where I have just pissed myself. 

And here is my mother as I am thrown back into reality. 

And I am repulsed.

She is wheeled across the shiny linoleum of the airport lobby area. 

The stewardess looks at me. 

And I don't move. 

I only stare.

Yes, she is my mother I want to tell the stewardess, only I don't want her. I smile at her. The stewardess, that is. She is pretty and I would rather take her home instead. Think of the fun we could have, you and me, I think. Dinner, movies, the beach, trips to foreign countries.

My mother motions to me. The stewardess turns and disappears, heading back up the tunnel to the plane.

Mother’s eyes are an uncertain color. Oily, dark, sunken into her head. Black rings engulf them, and the glasses upon her nose can serve no imaginable purpose. Her hands are shriveled, crippled, and there is a tube leading out from under her hospital smock. It leads to a bag under the wheelchair and as I watch, it fills some of the way up and still she motions for me to come closer.

I take large steps and quickly I am behind the chair, pushing her to my car, not wanting to speak to her. I only want to get her home before anyone sees me with her and I have to identify this hideous woman as my mother. If this sounds illogical, it probably is. It's not like I would run into anyone I know at the airport in the middle of the night on a weekday. Only I don't care, I am so damned ashamed of this woman.

We do not speak on the car ride back to the apartment. 

A one hour drive from the airport. 

I had no idea the silence could be so thick. 

It is rich and syrupy and I love it because I have no intentions of speaking with her. 

What would she have me say?

Once in the apartment, I sit and stare at her until light breaks through the living room shades. Micki doesn't ask why I did not come to bed the night before, and she keeps the kids away from me for most of the next day. I love them, I miss them, but I need time to process this thing that has just happened.

The phone rings.

"Johnny boy." An old childhood name only my brother can get away with, except I don't think it is all that funny at the moment.

"Lee, what do you want?" My mother sleeps across from me in her wheelchair. I don't know if she would have been more comfortable somewhere else for the night, but I didn't care enough to ask. It is 7a.m. and Lee is talking to me as if nothing has happened. Maybe in his life nothing has, but mine is a whole different story.

"John, what's ma doing?"

"I don't know."

"What? She's in a wheelchair, for God's sake; it’s not like she went out for the night. What time did you get in, anyway?"

"I don't know. Listen, can we talk about this some other time? Mick wants to go out today, some outlet mall. Will you be around later? I'll call you back." Anything I can do to get him off the phone.

"Yeah, sure. 

Listen, Johnny, you're a good son to take her in, man. 

You should know that."

I hang the phone back in its cradle and look at my mother. Her eyes are closed and her glasses rest in one hand. I have a sudden urge to snatch them from her and smash them under my foot. Elsie, my youngest daughter, creeps into the living room and sits next to me on the couch.

"Daddy, is that grandma?" She whispers this so close to my ear that I can feel her breath and my ear tickles and I love her so much that I don't want her to get wrapped up in all this... this crap, but I don't know what else to do. I nod my head. It doesn’t require much effort.

"What's that?" She points to the urine bag that is still only filled as much as it was when we came in last night. And then she notices her hat. "Why does she sleep with her hat on, Daddy?"

"Cancer, honey. She lost her hair."

"Does it hurt?"

"No, honey, it doesn't hurt." 

I wish it did, though, I want to add. 

I don't.