The Reluctant Daughter Part 12

"Can I have that?" I ask, pointing to the pencil and pad he is about to put down on the counter by the sink. My father hands everything over, though I can tell he doesn't want to. I turn to a fresh page and start printing out the alphabet in large, clear letters. Like many a good feminist, I've held plenty of human services jobs-it's how I supported myself while I earned both my master's and doctorate degrees. My parents made it clear they would pay for med school or law school but not some "crazy meshugeneh Women's Studies program." So while I was a student, I took care of several disabled people, including one who couldn't speak but communicated instead with a letter board, similar to the one I am creating now. I finish the alphabet, add the words "yes" and "no" to the bottom of the page, and hold it up with a flourish.

" Voila, " I say, and then explain. "It's a letter board, Mom. Maybe it will be easier for you to point to the letters instead of writing them. To spell out what you want to say."

"Would you look at that," my father marvels. "How clever." I think this is the first thing I've ever done in my adult life that has truly impressed him. "Doris, Lydia wrote out the alphabet for you, so you can point to the letters. Point." My father jabs his forefinger in the air to demonstrate. My mother studies the alphabet I've written with interest and then raises her right hand.

"H." I read the letter I think she is indicating, and my mother nods. "O." She moves her manicured finger across the page without lifting it in a smooth, sweeping motion, the same way Colleen and I used to steer the small wooden pointer across her Ouija board when we were in junior high, asking it to answer our questions about what we would be and who we would marry when we grew up. "Is that an N?" I ask my mother. "No? Do you mean M? Okay. H-O-M..." My mother's finger moves slowly to the left. "E," I say aloud. "H-O-M-E."

"Home," my father proclaims.

"Is that it?" I ask my mother. "Home? You want to go home?"

She nods emphatically.

"We're going home, Doris. In a day or two. As soon as they take the respirator out." My father is talking loudly again, although my mother hears better than he does. Better than I do. "The respirator," he repeats, pointing to his own throat. "They have to take it out."

My mother shoots him her Evil Eye and he throws his hands up in the air and holds them there in a gesture of surrender. "What'd I do, Doris? Please. I'm trying as hard as I can to get you out of here. I really am. Aren't I, Lydia?" He turns to me for support.

"Do you want to say anything else, Mom?" I offer her the alphabet again. She stabs at a letter with her red nail and her finger slides off the page.

I urge her to try again, but she is too weak to lift her hand and I feel guilty for wearing her out. "You seem tired, Mom. Rest a little and we'll try again later. Okay?" She nods and closes her eyes.

My father and I resume our positions on the two chairs off to the side of the room, but before we can get comfortable, Jack barges in, strands of his long white hair flying. "Did I miss anything?" he asks, as if he has just raced into a movie theater, afraid that the coming attractions have ended and the main feature has already begun.

"No, Jack." My father gestures toward my mother's hospital bed. "Everything's still the same."

"Phew." He brushes the hair out of his face and starts unsnapping the navy blue windbreaker he has on.

"Is it still cool outside?" I ask, just to make conversation.

"A little," Jack answers, shrugging off his jacket.

"Oh my G.o.d, Jack, what is wrong with you?" I say as loudly as I dare, the vow I made this morning to be nicer to him flying out the window. "I can't believe how rude you are."

"What?" Jack asks, clueless. "I didn't even say anything yet."

"Your shirt." I point to his apparel. "I can't believe you're wearing that. In a hospital, no less. That is so offensive on so many levels, I don't even know where to begin."

My cousin looks down at his chest, which is covered with the words "I'm not a gynecologist, but I'll take a look" and says, "Oops," with a apologetic shrug and a sheepish grin.

"Jack." I try and fail to contain my fury. "What the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

"Lydia, I wasn't thinking, okay?" Now Jack is furious, too. "Crystal wasn't around to help me pack so I just grabbed a pile of T-shirts and jeans, threw everything into a suitcase, and caught the first plane I could, unlike a certain someone who took her own sweet time getting her big fat a.s.s out here-"

"Children, children." Though Jack and I are middle-aged adults, my father reprimands us as if we are still the pre-adolescents we once were when my cousin and his parents visited us every Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Jack and I pretty much spent the whole day arguing about anything and everything: what game we wanted to play, who got to set it up, who got to go first, who got to keep score. "If you must fight, take it outside," my father says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder and banishing us from the room, just as he did when we were young. "I don't want you disturbing her." He nods his chin in my mother's direction. "She needs her beauty sleep."

"Sorry," I mumble to my father. "But Jack, I'm serious," I say, keeping my voice low. "You cannot wear that T-shirt in here."

"What would you like me to do, Lydia?" Jack stage-whispers. "Take it off? Run around naked?"

"You can turn your shirt inside out, or you can put your jacket back on," I tell my cousin, giving him the illusion that he has a choice in the matter. "It's entirely up to you."

Jack opts to put his jacket back on and then leaves in search of another chair to bring back to the room. A few minutes after he returns, Angelina comes to check on my mother. She examines the monitor, the fluids, and the various contraptions attached to my mother's hand, chest, face, and neck before turning to us. "How's she doing?"

"Great," Jack says. "Wonderful. She just finished a tap dance."

Angelina ignores him and looks at me. "She was conscious for a little while and she knew we were here," I say, "but now she's sleeping again."

"It's normal for her to go in and out," Angelina tells us. "The doctor will stop by to see her soon."

"Nice girl, that Angelina," my father says as soon as she leaves the room. "Very attractive, too," he adds, as I knew he would. At least he's consistent, I think, as he picks up the newspaper again.

The longest day of my life continues to crawl by one endless moment at a time. Every hour on the hour, the blood pressure cuff wrapped around my mother's arm automatically tightens, causing her to screw up her face and loudly moan. Technicians come and go, sticking my mother with needles, adjusting her tubes, recording her vital signs. A little before noon Dr. Harte comes in. Tall, thin, and slightly balding, with p.r.o.nounced cheekbones and a long skinny nose set in the palest face I've ever seen, he reminds me of the actor who played the father in the old Patty Duke Show . He spends a few minutes reading through my mother's chart, nodding thoughtfully as he flips through the pages. Then he glances briefly at her monitor and even more briefly at her before proclaiming that she "looks good" and there's nothing to be done at the moment; just like Angelina said earlier, all we can do is wait and see.

After the doctor leaves, I notice the room seems colder, and gather the two sides of my sweater together in one hand, bunching them tightly under my neck. "Why is it so cold in here?" I ask my father. "I'm chilled to the bone."

"It's for the machines," Jack informs me. "They won't work right if they get too hot. Right, Uncle Max?"

As my father nods, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. My mother is gesturing with her right hand again. I am up and at her side in an instant.

"Do you want to write something, Mom?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Do you want to try pointing to the alphabet?" Again, no. "What, then?" She flaps her fingers against her palm quickly as if she wants me to come even closer, and when I do, she takes hold of my hand, plasters it to her right side and covers it with her own. Instantly I understand, and lean over her, careful not to disturb all the tubes and needles, and offer my other hand. She grips it tightly, pressing it against her left side, warming me as best she can with the heat of her body, all she has to offer. As I stand there, carefully shifting my weight so I don't topple over her, I hear Vera's voice in my head, reminding me: She's a mother. She wants to mother you . My eyes well up with tears, and I turn my head so my father won't see. And as I stand there hanging in the balance, my hands heating against my mother's hips, I remember a saying I saw on a b.u.mper sticker years ago that I didn't believe back then but now know is true: It's never too late to have a happy childhood.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE a day makes ... As the afternoon wears on and I continue my mother's bedside vigil, the t.i.tle of an old song appears in my head out of nowhere, though I don't remember who sang it or any of the words. All I know is the hard thrilling truth of that phrase and I am reeling with it. A new day is dawning. My mother and I have made up. I have given her what I've always wanted to get from her: acknowledgment, validation, and love. And that simple though not easy act has changed everything completely.

For the first time ever, I understand what is meant when people say they have had a change of heart, because my heart is lighter, and free as a bird that's been let out of its cage. My whole body seems lighter, too, and not because I ate a tiny breakfast and could only manage to choke down a few bites of the lunch my father brought upstairs for me. Corny as it sounds, I feel like a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders, a weight I've been carrying around for years and years and years. I feel altered and transformed; I am not the same person I was yesterday, or even several hours ago. I have molted but instead of skin, what I have shed is a lifetime of sadness, resentment, anger, and grief. I could never have predicted that I would be able to let go of all my pain so easily. But it has truly vanished like a puff of my mother's bygone cigarette smoke disappearing into thin air.

Though I feel energized and ecstatic by all the day's events, underneath it all, I am also utterly exhausted. Everything aches with fatigue: my brain, my bones, my fingernails, even my eyelashes. I wonder if they can bring a cot in here so I can lie down, I think, mentally rearranging the furniture of my mother's room. If we took out the bedside table, which we're not using anyway, and angled the respirator a little to the left, there might just be enough s.p.a.ce. I know I could go down the hall to one of the visitor lounges and stretch out on a couch as Jack has done, but I have no desire to move. Coc.o.o.ned in my mother's cubicle is like being wrapped in a warm fuzzy blanket on a cold bl.u.s.tery day. I feel cozy and safe and protected, and I want to stay here forever.

But Angelina has other ideas. When she comes in at three o'clock to check on my mother, she takes one look at me and says, "Out, Lydia. Now."

"Why?" I ask. "And what about him?" I point to my father, who is slumped down in the chair beside me, snoring lightly. "Why do I have to leave if he doesn't?"

"Because he went downstairs for lunch and you've been in here all day without a break since eight o'clock this morning."

"That's all right. I'm used to working long hours," I tell Angelina, trying to joke with her. "If you can handle a twelve-hour shift, so can I."

But Angelina is not in a joking mood. "Lydia, you need to stretch your legs and you need some fresh air," she says, her voice stern. "And besides," she adds, seeing I'm not convinced, "if you fall apart, you won't be any help to your mother at all. If you don't want to do it for yourself, do it for her." I've got to hand it to Angelina. She's smart-too smart. She knows the one and only thing to say that will persuade me to vacate the premises.

"Okay, okay," I say, giving in at last. "But just for a few minutes." Rising from my chair, I place my hands on my hips and look over my shoulder, twisting my back first to one side and then to the other. My spine makes small crackling noises, and I have to admit Angelina is right: it does feel good to get up and move. I pull the straps of my purse up over my arm and tap my father on the shoulder. "Dad?"

"What? What's the matter?" His eyes pop open and he startles awake. "What is it? What happened, Lydia?"

"Nothing, Dad. Calm down. Everything's okay. Mom's still sleeping." We both glance over in her direction to make sure that what I've said is true. "I'm just going downstairs for a few minutes to get some air. Do you want me to bring you anything from the cafeteria?"

"No, I'm fine." He waves my question away and then uses the back of his hand to cover a large yawn that halfway out of his mouth changes to a tired groan.

"See you soon." I head out of the room but take only two steps before turning back. "Can I have my cell phone?" I ask, holding out my hand. My father pats his various pockets until he finds the phone and returns it to me. Before I am out of the room again, he has fallen back to sleep.

I push my way through the swinging doors of the ICU and stride down the hallway. When I pa.s.s the visitor's lounge, I peek my head in to see Jack splayed across the couch like a lifeless rag doll, his head propped up on one armrest, his dirty sneakers dangling over the other. His long gray ponytail spills over the side of the couch, its uneven ends brushing the floor, and his glazed eyes are glued to the TV set mounted overhead. He is watching some game on ESPN that involves very large men chasing a small ball of some sort, and doesn't see me standing in the doorway. I decide not to bother him and continue on my way downstairs.

The world outside Holy Family Hospital is so bright, it shocks me, and as I push open the gla.s.s door, I fumble in my purse for a pair of sungla.s.ses to quickly shove onto my face like a movie star fresh out of rehab who doesn't want to be recognized. Though I know I should take Angelina's advice and go for a short walk, an empty wooden bench next to the building beckons me, and I lower myself onto it instead. Leaning back, I close my eyes and raise my face to the sun, hoping to bake out the chill that has lodged inside me. The hot, dry Los Angeles air feels like a blessing after being cooped up inside and freezing all day.

After a few minutes, I am warm enough to remove my sweater. After a few more minutes, I feel refreshed enough to open my eyes and look around. It's amazing to me that there's still a world out here that hasn't changed all that much since the last time I saw it early this morning. Cars wend their way up the street one after another, birds chirp in the trees, a teenage boy zips by on a shiny silver bike. Off to the side, I see three nurses sitting on a bench similar to the one I have claimed; two of them puff away on cigarettes and one munches handfuls of potato chips, her hand reaching into the bag on her lap and rising to her mouth in a continuous motion as if her arm is an automated lever. Across the street a young woman with a baby carriage stands on the corner waiting for the traffic light to change. She turns her head and hides her face in the crook of her arm as a bus zooms by, spewing a dark cloud of smoke behind it. Clearly life goes on. If you're lucky. Will my mother be so lucky? I wish I knew the answer.

"I have an idea. Let's call Allie," I say aloud, as if there is a group of people sitting on the bench with me, eagerly awaiting instruction. And in a way there is. In addition to forty-nine-year-old Lydia, there's thirtysomething Lydia, twentysomething Lydia, teenage Lydia, little girl Lydia, and baby Lydia all contained inside me, each one clamoring to be taken care of and rea.s.sured that she isn't about to become what once upon a time she longed to be: an orphan. My mind fills with the scene in the movie Peter Pan when all the Lost Boys meet Wendy for the first time and crowd around her to sing with great delight, "We have a mother. At last we have a mother." I sing the same words softly to myself-to all my selves-keeping my voice low so the nurses perched nearby won't hear me. It's true: I have a mother, at last I have a mother. But for how long? Another minute, another hour, another day?

I continue sitting in the sun while my mind ping-pongs back and forth and my heart beats out equal amounts of joy and sadness each time it thunks heavily inside my chest. A quartet of teenage girls saunters by, their eight flip-flops making a clipped, syncopated racket slapping against the soles of their feet, and I remember a fight about footwear my mother and I had when I was a teenager. It was Yom Kippur and I was determined to follow all the strict rules of the holiday to the letter. So in addition to fasting and not doing any work or riding in a car, I was also going to refrain from wearing leather to show respect to the animals who sacrifice their lives to feed and clothe us. When I got ready to go to synagogue that morning, I put on a knee-length purple dress that my mother had approved of, but instead of the fancy black patent leather flats that went with it, I decided to wear a pair of yellow flip-flops instead. I can still hear the shriek my mother gave when she caught sight of me. "You are not leaving the house like that," she yelled, pointing at my feet. I responded by yelling back, "You are so G.o.dd.a.m.ned hypocritical," which only proved my own hypocrisy, as I was taking the Lord's name in vain not just on any day, but on the holiest day of the year. My mother didn't give in so much as give up, and she, my father, and I walked the mile and a half to synagogue without saying a word. On the way home, a painful water blister formed on the inside of my left big toe, which only made me yell at my mother again, this time for allowing me to wear the flimsy flip-flops, which offered no support. "What kind of mother are you?" I believe I even shouted. Now I smile at the memory, and then grin at how amused I am by it. Yesterday the memory would have filled me with self-righteous indignation; today it merely makes me chuckle.

I dig out my cell phone, eager to discuss all this with Allie, my darling creature of habit, who always comes right home after work and eats her dinner at six o'clock. But when I turn on my phone, I see I have one missed call-a message from Allie-so I listen to it first.

"Hi, Lyddie, it's me." At the sound of Allie's voice, I feel my insides start to melt, like a carton of ice cream left out on the kitchen counter. "I just wanted to let you know I probably won't be home tonight when you try to call. I'm going on a little shopping excursion right after work. To check out a birthday present for a certain special someone. I know, I know, your birthday's not until August, but this is a big one and I want to do it up right. I'm just starting to look around, okay? So don't ask me where I'm going or what I'm looking at because I'm not going to tell you. I mean it, Lydia. I miss you terribly and so does Mishmosh. Bye."

"Bye," I echo, saving her message so I can listen to it again later. Briefly I think of calling Vera, but I'm starting to get a bit antsy out here. Twenty minutes have pa.s.sed since I've been away from my mother, and in that short period of time, anything might have happened. As I gather up my things, I remember something Colleen said to me years ago, soon after her first child, a daughter, was born. "I can't stand to be apart from her, even for a minute, even to go to the bathroom," she told me early one morning, her sleep-deprived voice sounding groggy and blissful over the phone. "At night, I keep getting up to check on her. If I can't see her, I get this actual pain in my chest, this ache, this longing to be with her. I call it phantom baby pain. It's like part of me is gone if I'm not in the same room with her." This is how I feel about my mother, I realize, as I rise and stretch and crack my bones like I've just woken up from a long winter nap. Who would ever have imagined such a thing?

I move toward the door of the hospital and as I open it, I see the little nun I met yesterday-was it really only yesterday?-scuttling ahead of me. She moves fast, bringing the White Rabbit of Alice in Wonderland to mind . I'm late, I'm late for a very important date. I hurry after her, walking quickly and quietly as a private eye in an old detective movie from the fifties, but I still have trouble keeping up. Why I'm trailing her, I can't say, but I feel a mysterious need to go after her, so when she pa.s.ses the elevator bank and turns right, toward the cafeteria, I do, too.

The nun stops in front of a heavy-looking wooden door, and using all her weight, which can't be more than eighty pounds, she pulls it open and steps inside. Without a word, I follow her and see that we have entered the hospital's chapel, a bright, airy room with a high ceiling, lined with wooden pews leading up to an altar upon which hangs a large cross with a very lifelike Jesus nailed to it. Sunlight pouring through two stained gla.s.s windows spills fragments of blue, red, yellow, and green onto the white walls. The nun takes a seat in the second row and I slip in beside her.

"Good afternoon, Sister," I say, and even though I keep my voice hushed, it echoes loudly through the s.p.a.cious room.

"Good afternoon," she replies, holding out her hand. "I'm Sister Grace."

"I'm Lydia," I tell her, taking her hand. "Lydia Pinkowitz."

"Did you come here to pray?" Sister Grace asks, peering up at me through her thick gla.s.ses. Her eyes are just as I remember them, blue and kind.

"Maybe. I guess so." I don't really know why I've followed Sister Grace into the chapel but I don't feel comfortable telling her that.

"Forgive me," Sister Grace says, clasping her hands onto her lap. "I'm too old to kneel."

"That's all right," I a.s.sure her. "I'm too Jewish to kneel."

She smiles. "He was Jewish, too," she says, pointing to the figure on the cross with a finger crooked from arthritis.

"I know. A Jewish carpenter." An oxymoron if I've ever heard one, since all the Jewish men I know, upon hearing the word "screwdriver," think of vodka and orange juice instead of a tool.

"Whom are you here to see?" Sister Grace studies my face, her eyes magnified and curious behind her thick gla.s.ses.

"My mother," I say with a little sigh. "She's in the Intensive Care Unit. She's very sick."

"I'm sorry, my child," Sister Grace says and the words "my child" wash over me like holy water. "But remember, G.o.d doesn't give us more than we can handle. He takes care of all His children. Including your mother. And including you." She nods her head and turns from me to face forward. "Come, Lydia," she says, patting my knee lightly. "Let us pray."

I clasp my hands and bow my head slightly, just as Sister Grace does, remembering the words my father spoke earlier this morning: a little religion never hurt anyone . And while that certainly isn't true, I do feel a sense of calmness as I sit here with Sister Grace even though I know I need to be getting back to my mother. I steal a glance at the nun next to me who is so tiny I feel like an awkward giant sitting beside her. She is still as the statue on the altar before us, and I hesitate to disturb her. I wonder what she thinks about when she prays. Or maybe she isn't praying at all. Maybe her mind is spinning in circles the way mine usually does. What is prayer anyway? And does it really do any good? Is anyone up there listening? To think that all those years of Hebrew school have culminated in this moment: Lydia Marilyn Pinkowitz, known to all her teachers as Leah Malka, sitting on a pew in a Christian chapel of all places, doubting the existence of G.o.d.

" Sh'ma, Yisroael, Adonai Elohanu, Adonai Echad ." I move my lips and whisper the one prayer I remember, the most important one, the one every Jew is supposed to say first thing in the morning and last thing at night so if we die in our sleep, those will be the very last words that pa.s.s through our lips as we leave this lifetime and enter whatever follows. Hear O Israel, the Lord our G.o.d, the Lord is One . I can't believe I've just said these words, which praise a G.o.d whom I don't particularly like or believe in: the Biblical G.o.d who I was told was just and merciful but who seemed to me to be unfair and unkind. I prefer the nurturing, maternal, loving G.o.ddess myself, but I say the words anyway, just in case. Plus even though I hate to admit it, the age-old Hebrew feels familiar on my tongue and that offers comfort. I wonder if I should say the ancient, holy words for my mother when I go back upstairs since she can't say them herself. And if I do so and she dies, will they still count?

"Sister Grace, I have to go," I say, rising. "Thank you."

"Peace be with you." She grasps one of my hands in both her own, and I notice a gold wedding band circling the fourth finger of her left hand. Bride of Christ meets Bride of Allie, I think, wondering how Sister Grace would feel if she knew I was a lesbian. I decide it doesn't really matter and take my leave. But I can't get up to the fourth floor right away; the hallway is jammed with gridlock. Several EMTs are rushing about, barking orders loudly and wheeling a patient on a stretcher surrounded by IV poles and other medical contraptions onto the elevators.

"What's going on?" I ask the receptionist, who has a concerned look on her face.

"A terrible car accident," she says. "Some poor Mexican fellow was driving. It looks bad."

"Are there stairs somewhere?" The woman points to the left and I hurry off, more anxious than ever to get back up to my mother. But I can't get anywhere near the swinging doors that lead to the Intensive Care Unit. The staff is in full-blown emergency mode and all I can do is stay out of their way. I duck inside the visitor's lounge, which is filled to overflowing with members of a large family that span four generations at least. Jack is nowhere in sight, and neither is my father. I'm glad of this; the faces of the Mexican family from the smallest infant to the oldest great-grandparent are grave, and I'm sure they are in no mood to put up with some well-meaning yet invasive white person's Spanish banter. Though I doubt even my father would be insensitive enough to say "Buenos dias" at a time like this.

I try not to stare at the dark brown faces before me, one more beautiful than the next, as we all wait for someone to come tell us we can go inside. But it is not a doctor or a nurse that comes to summon the Mexican family; it is a priest, and as they all file out behind him, a loud wailing begins, and builds, swelling like a tsunami. I follow them inside and see that whoever has been injured has been placed in the cubicle next to my mother's. The priest disappears into the room, and the family crowds around him, spilling all the way out to the nurse's station.

"What's happening?" I ask Angelina, whom I finally catch sight of leaning her hip against a file cabinet and holding a folder in one hand.

"He's not going to make it," she says, her voice full of sorrow. "He lost control of his truck and smashed head-on into a telephone pole. He never had a chance. They're giving him his last rites now." As if on cue, the accident victim's family grows quiet and the priest's voice rises out of the silence. "May the Lord Jesus Christ protect you and lead you to eternal life..."

I have always been told that hearing is the last to go, but I pray to G.o.d-any G.o.d-that my mother is not listening to what's going on right now. I slip inside her room where Jack and my father sit, their eyes full of shock, their faces green.

"Mom," I say, but she does not respond. "Mom?" I repeat, a bit louder.

"Lydia, don't wake her up," my father whispers.

"I won't. I just wanted to make sure she was asleep," I tell him, backing away from my mother and taking a seat next to Jack. The three of us maintain a respectful silence until the priest is through and the bereaved family files out, their sobs and moans tearing apart my heart.

Except for the involuntary up-and-down motion of her body caused by the respirator, my mother doesn't stir for the rest of the afternoon. She doesn't even wake when the blood pressure cuff around her arm inflates itself every hour on the hour to carry out its own special brand of torture. Each time it starts strangling her arm, Jack and my father swivel their heads to the monitor, as if the figures that appear there are the winning numbers of a lottery ticket they are holding. Which in a way I guess they are.

I don't care about numbers and graphs, though I know they're important; all I care about is the look on my mother's face. Her expression is blank and I can't tell what that means. As I study her, a disturbing thought enters my mind: what if I blew it? What if she's at peace now and is all ready to go? I know it's not uncommon for someone who is dying to hang on longer than expected as they antic.i.p.ate an important occasion, such as a birthday, an anniversary, or just the arrival of someone they need to see in order to tie up loose ends. What if the only thing that had been tethering my mother to this life was her unresolved relationship with me? Now that it feels like there is some sort of peace between us, might she feel her work here is finished and that it's time for her to leave this earth and enter the world to come?

I stare at my mother's face for hours, memorizing her flaccid cheeks, the cleft in her chin, the two deep lines that run from her nostrils to the outer edges of her lips, the beauty mark below her nose. And then all too soon, it is eight o'clock, the end of visiting hours, and we have to go. And difficult as this day has been, now comes the hardest part of all: though I don't want to, I must place one heavy foot in front of the other and drag myself out of the hospital, each step I take putting more distance between me and my mother, whom I may never see alive again.

TODAY IS THE FIRST day of the rest of your mother's life." Angelina is all smiles when she greets me with these uplifting words the next morning as I enter the Intensive Care Unit with Jack and my father trailing close behind.

"What do you mean?" I ask, my heart cautiously fluttering with hope.

"I mean," Angelina's smile widens, "your mother turned the corner last night and we're taking the respirator out. In about an hour."

"Oh, thank G.o.d," my father says, and his knees actually buckle, causing him to stagger backward and fall.

Jack catches him with both hands under one elbow as he sags against the wall and stands him on his feet. "Take it easy, Uncle Max. C'mon, let's go sit down."

"We're prepping her, so you can't go in there yet," Angelina says, nodding toward my mother's room. "Why don't you go wait in the lounge until I call you?"

My father, Jack, and I troop off, our mood nothing short of jubilant. We enter the empty lounge and arrange ourselves on the couch, all three of us crossing our left legs over our right at the same time like we're performing a comedy routine. "Didn't I tell you she'd be fine?" my father asks, taking careful aim before punching me lightly on the shoulder. I don't argue with him because for once in my life I'm glad that he's right.

"I wonder when they'll release her," Jack muses, lifting the remote control off the coffee table to turn on the TV. After flipping through the channels twice, he settles on an old I Love Lucy episode. As he and my father lift their heads to watch the Ricardos and the Mertzes pumping their fists in the air and arguing loudly, I consider going downstairs to call Allie and tell her the good news. Because of the three-hour time difference, we're still playing our frustrating game of phone tag and haven't managed to speak to each other directly since the day before yesterday. I've left her several messages and she's done the same, letting me know that she's fine, Mishmosh is fine, and the pipes are fine (she wrapped them in special heating tape so they won't freeze again). In addition, Allie, knowing how neurotic I am, left me a very long message going over my mail, which was mostly junk, and my email, which was mostly spam. At least my mother was considerate enough to get sick in January during my break, I thought after I hung up the phone. If this had happened right in the middle of the semester, I don't know what I would have done.

When the grating noise of canned laughter becomes too much for me to bear, I rise from the couch, my hand already reaching into my purse, rooting around for my cell phone. Telling my father I'll be right back, I step out into the hallway, but before I make it halfway to the elevator, the doors to the ICU slap open and Angelina bursts out of them, hurrying toward me.

"Your mother is pretty upset at the moment," Angelina says when she catches up to me, her voice breathless and urgent. "I think you should come."