Lena
My mother stayed all day. She was there when I drifted off to sleep in the chair, and she is still here when I wake in the bedroom, hours later, as the sun is setting.
Hers is the face I see right after I see my husband’s, leaning over me with a purposefully blank expression in place.
“I’ve got a delicious steak dinner blended up for you,” Nate says, his lips curling up at the corners. “Broccoli, some bread, baked potato with extra butter—it’s all in here.” He holds up the canister I hadn’t noticed him cradling. It looks like it contains vomit. It’s food that will be administered directly into my stomach via the nasogastric tube.
“Why don’t I actually eat with you?”
Nate’s features widen in surprise, his eyes rounding, his mouth forming a silent O. “C-can you do that?”
“Of course, I can do that. I’ll just have to chew really well.” I know in the deepest part of my being that this will be my last meal with my family, and I want it to be as normal as possible. I know enough about last days and golden days to know the importance of making today special and memorable, even though it already has been.
“What about the…?” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but rather sort of flips the tube that still dangles from my right nostril where it’s taped.
“Help me to the bathroom?”
Nodding, Nate sets the container of nutrition onto the nightstand and helps me out of bed. When I stand, I glance over at my mother, Grace asleep in her arms, and I smile. “I love you, Momma.”
Patricia Holmes simply nods. I don’t take offense. I know my mother is probably overwhelmed and incapable of speech. I knew it wouldn’t be easy for her, these last moments. They’ll be bittersweet. Momma knows what’s on the horizon for me. She’s seen it too many times before.
With the help of Nate’s sturdy presence at my side, I hobble past my mother and my daughter, pausing to kiss Grace on the top of the head. “My angel,” I whisper, inhaling deeply before I continue toward the bathroom. Once there, I shoo Nate away.
“What if you need help?”
“Then I’ll yell.”
“What if I’m not fast enough?”
“You will be.”
“What if I’m not?”
“You always are. I’ll be fine. I promise.” To emphasize my words, I pull myself up onto my toes as much as I can and I plant a kiss onto my husband’s perfect mouth. I can’t sustain the position long, the muscles in my legs trembling with that small effort. “Now go, you handsome hunk of man, before I take advantage of you with my mom right out there and embarrass us both.”
“I honestly don’t give a shit,” he replies with a grin. “I’d take you anywhere, anytime.” Even though he takes the bait and responds to my taunt as he would at any other time in our life, I see only a sad awareness on Nate’s face. He knows that I don’t feel like having sex. And I know that he knows. Yet neither of us acknowledges it. It seems easier somehow to pretend that things are as they have always been.
Even though everything has changed.
With a sweet kiss to my forehead, Nate backs toward the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
“I’ll let you know if I do.”
When the door is closed firmly between us, I lean against the sink and let my heavy head sag down between my arms. I take several cleansing breaths before I lift my eyes to a face that I hardly recognize reflected in the mirror.
What happened to the woman who stared back at me a few months before? When had I become this ghostly, sunken shell of Lena Grant?
Blonde tresses that used to hang in shimmering waves to just below my shoulders are dry and brittle and look more like hay than hair. Skin that used to hold a youthful glow looks sallow and paper-thin. Eyes that used to sparkle with life look dull and haunted.
I catalog everything from the dark circles under my eyes to the hollow cheeks, from the prominent collarbones to the bony shoulders poking out under my shirt. When did I lose so much weight? When had I begun to waste away? How has all this happened without me noticing?
Impulsively, I grab the nasogastric tube and pull it out, gagging as it passes the back of my throat. Without looking, I toss it into the trashcan and begin stripping off my clothes. I feel an almost frantic need to see my new reality while I’m still alert and oriented. I want to see what Nate sees, what my mother sees.
Less than a minute later, I stand naked in front of the full-length mirror that rests in one corner of the bathroom. In the shiny glass, I see the clawfoot tub behind me, luxuriously deep and inviting. I see the chandelier that Nate had rolled his eyes over when I pointed it out in a magazine. I see the pile of baggy clothes lying in a puddle beside the toilet, hastily discarded.