I drive her to the Junction in Perry where she can have a catfish sandwich. It is our haunt. In the glass case in the adjoining gas station, there is a large selection of skull rings and a ZZ Top poster.
On the road, Betty is quiet, almost normal again, though she still shakes her hands, fingers outstretched, as if they are wet and she hopes the air will dry them. There is something about riding in the car. She seems quiet and calm, but then I hear her whisper, “Lisbon. Portugal. Scottsdale.”
As we sit down at the booth at the restaurant, she says, “You look so sad today. Is there any way I can help you? Is there anything I can do? You look so sad.”
Later, back at home, she goes off to my aunt’s to play bridge; Anita, a woman from our church, picks her up. I have no idea which Betty will show up at the bridge table, or exactly what she will do. When she returns, I ask how it went. “A lotta old women and bad cards,” she replies, before going back to her room to change into her gown, which, as she has her pants to take off and a pullover to get over her head, is tough. In an hour or so, she comes back into the family room in her jeans, not in her gown. I don’t know what she is thinking.
I am lying on the couch, curved on my side with my rear to the back of it. Betty plops down in the middle, so that she is sitting right in front of me. Something new has passed through her: a wave of playfulness or perhaps happiness. She pokes my nose and stomach with her finger and smiles. She pushes my hair off my forehead affectionately. “What did you do tonight?” she asks. “Are you drunk?” Then she pokes my stomach again.
“You are,” I tell her, “so going to Monroe Manor.”
. . .
By 9:15 or so, I am exhausted and have to go to bed. “Where are you going?” she asks. “To bed,” I say. “I just told you.”
“You’re not staying?” she asks.
“I cannot keep my eyes open.” I have been so worried today. I just need to close my eyes and rest, but it takes me a bit to settle down. After maybe an hour, I hear her shout and then there is a big thump. She has hit the floor. “I’ve fallen,” she cries out. “I’ve fallen.” There are tears in her voice.
I run toward the family room where she is sprawled on the floor. She cannot get up. She is wearing her jeans and I know exactly what has happened. When my mother sits down on the couch, she will often undo her pants at the waist, making herself more comfortable. Then, pants falling down to her hips, she will get up and try to walk to the kitchen. Or wherever. Always scared she will trip on her pant legs, I have cautioned her again and again about trying not to walk with her pants falling down. But as usual, as with everything, she has ignored me.
My mother is scared now, on the floor, trying to sit up, and I am too. I am not sure if I should move her. What if she is injured? Will I make it worse? But, watching her, I see that she is moving well enough. I try to lift her up from behind, with my arms under her arms, but this is not successful. We make it to the point where she is kneeling before me. “Do you want me to get the walker?” I ask.
“No,” she answers with force, with determination. “Get me a chair.” I do, and, making use of it, she hauls herself up. I hold her, steady her. She seems okay. “I was just lucky,” she says. “I was just lucky.”
“Shouldn’t we go into the hospital to make sure? What if you wake up in pain?”
“No, I want to finish my book,” she says. “I’m fine. I’m fine. Be still.” She must make everything all right again as fast as she can. She must return to normalcy as soon as possible. I say again that I want to call the paramedics, but she says, over and over, “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” slamming the door closed on my concern. I am worried about her tailbone, which she bruised during her last confrontation with the floor, in the middle of the night in her room before I came to stay.
“I am all right,” she declares, plunking down in the recliner. “I have to finish this book,” she repeats. “I don’t just want to lie in there awake.” She does seem to have emerged unscathed. I watch her trying to read, struggling to make out the print, trying to pretend all is normal, that nothing has happened here.
I wonder about going back to bed. When I leave the room, she says again, “You’re going to leave me. Are you going to leave me?”
I go back to the bedroom, bring pillows and a blanket to spread on the couch next to where she is sitting. I carry in Mabel’s quilt with the names of all the women stitched around the edges to wrap around her legs. I study the names (Mildred, Lucille, Amy, Cody, LaDonna), note one I like especially, sewed on with a flourish: Evalena. It sounds like a mountain to climb.
Time after time, I open my eyes, checking, checking again, but she reads on. “You can walk?” I ask again and again. “You can walk?”