The Reluctant Daughter Part 13

"Should I get my father?" I glance inside the visitor's lounge as Angelina hustles me past its doorway.

"No. I asked her if she wanted him, but she said she only wanted you."

"She did?" I can't help feeling pleased as Angelina and I speedwalk toward the ICU, but my pleasure at being wanted is quickly overshadowed by concern. "Why is she upset?" I take hold of Angelina's arm to stop her for a moment. "The respirator is coming out. That's good news, isn't it?"

"It's very good news," Angelina a.s.sures me as I study her worried face. Today she is all dressed in light purple and wears tiny round amethyst posts in her ears that reflect the florescent lights above us. "But she's been hooked up to it for seven days now, and even though she's uncomfortable, she's used to it. Sometimes patients get very frightened when they're about to undergo a change in treatment, even when we explain to them that their health has improved and the change is for the better."

I follow Angelina back into the Intensive Care Unit, patting my hair, straightening my yellow cap-sleeved pullover, and smoothing my black pants as I go. Though I'm sure my appearance is the very last thing on my mother's mind, old habits die hard and since I am trained to expect her criticism, my natural response is to do everything I can to prevent it. But when I enter my mother's room and she catches sight of me, her eyes do not narrow in judgment; they widen with relief instead.

"What's wrong, Mom?" I take her hand and cover her one exposed shoulder with the fresh pink johnny she is wearing, careful not to disturb the electrode patches stuck to her chest or the port going into her neck before turning to Angelina. "Why is she tied to the bed again?"

"Because she fought with the nurse who was on duty before me this morning," Angela tells me. "When she tried to draw some blood, your mother twisted her arm."

"Oh Mom," I say, though it's hard to blame her, especially given the fresh purple bruises on her own arm. Like me, she has always had small veins that are very difficult to puncture, and she's probably had just about enough.

"Can I untie my mother's hands now? I'll stay here with her," I promise Angelina, who hesitates before nodding her a.s.sent. The minute my mother's hands are free, she motions that she wants to write.

"Wait a minute, Mom. Here." I go in search of the clipboard and bring it over to the bed. "Do you want to use the letters?" I hold the alphabet up to her but she waves it away with impatience. "You want to write something? Here." I turn to a fresh page just as my father and Jack sweep into the room.

"Hi, Aunt Doris," Jack calls, flopping into a chair. "They said we could come in for a few minutes, just to say good morning."

"Doris, they're taking the tube out." My father makes a pulling motion at the base of his throat right in front of his crisp blue collar. "The tube. They're taking it out. Isn't that good?"

My mother looks at him as if she can't understand how she wound up married to someone who's so clueless, and shakes her head.

"What, it's not good?" My father sits down beside Jack and leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "You'll be able to breathe on your own. You'll be able to talk. You'll be able to eat. You'll be able to yell at me. That's not good?"

My mother shakes her head again and starts to write on the pad I am holding for her. I see she is concentrating hard, but just like yesterday, all she can manage is a meaningless looping scribble.

"Here, Mom. Let's try the letters."

My father and Jack come to stand beside me as my mother points with her red nail. "H," I read. "O. Home? You want to go home?" My mother nods.

"Soon," my father tells her. "Very soon."

My mother clenches her eyes shut for a moment and I can practically feel the heat of her rage. I know she is incredibly frustrated and I imagine she is using everything she has to gather up her strength, determined to make us understand whatever it is she is trying to say. She opens her eyes and lifts her finger again.

"N," I say. "O?" She nods. "W. Now. Home now."

"You want to go home now?" Jack asks.

My mother points at Jack and then touches her own nose as if she is saying bingo!

"You want to go home now?" my father asks. "You can't go home now, Doris. Not until they take the tube out."

Upon hearing his words my mother shakes her head violently and I fear she is going to dislodge everything attached to her throat, her nose, her neck, and her arm.

"What, you don't want them to take the tube out?" my father asks, incredulous. "They have to take it out, Doris. You know that. Don't worry, you'll be okay."

Again my mother shakes her head.

"Put the letters away and let her rest, Lydia." My father grabs the clipboard out of my hand. "They'll be coming in soon and I don't think it's good for you to be upsetting her so much."

"I'm not the one upsetting her," I state, furious that my father is blaming me, but too distracted by the look on my mother's face to really start an argument. As she watches him cross the room, carrying the pad and pencil out of reach, her eyes fill with a terrible panic. She looks like someone lost at sea whose small lifeboat-her only hope-is swiftly drifting away. Searching the room frantically, my mother motions for Jack to come closer and he does so immediately, happy to be summoned forth. "What, Aunt Doris? What can I get you?" She waves her hand again, indicating that she wants him to come even nearer. Jack moves my body to the right like a piece of bulky furniture that's gotten in his way, and then steps in front of me. His long gray hair sweeps across my face, tickling my nose, and I impatiently brush it aside.

"I'm here, Aunt Doris," Jack says. My mother scans his T-shirt, which begs the question, "Why be difficult when with a little more effort you can be impossible?" and then raises one red fingernail and stabs him in the belly.

"Oof." Jack collapses in on himself and then straightens up, my mother's finger still poking him in the stomach.

"P," I say, as I realize what my mother is doing, and then pause as if I am a contestant in the final round of the national spelling bee, trying to conjure up the letters of a word that is particularly challenging. "L," I call out as my mother continues pointing. "A." Pause. "N. Plan? You want us to make a plan?" My mother scowls and moves her finger across Jack's chest. He is standing up tall and proud with his stomach in and his shoulders back, like he's lined up for an official roll call.

"E," I announce. "Plane? You want to get on a plane? Now? And go home?"

"Soon, Doris," my father says again, but before she can even glare at him, Angelina enters the room.

"It's time," she says and then claps her hands twice. "Everybody out." My father and Jack leave; I linger in the doorway, looking back at my mother, who is clearly frightened out of her mind. She forms her mouth into the shape of an "O" around the respirator tube, and opens her eyes as widely as she can until her expression resembles the distraught figure in Edvard Munch's painting The Scream .

"Mom, I'll be right outside. Right here." I show her that I'm not going very far, but she starts thrashing about on the bed and I'm afraid she's going to hurt herself. "Give us a minute, Angelina," I plead, desperate to find out what is causing my mother this much distress.

"Here, Mom. Let's try again." I bring her the clipboard and she tears the sheet with the alphabet off the pad. Using every ounce of strength she has, my mother grips the pencil firmly and writes a full sentence. When she's done, she hands it to me.

"They want to kill me and make a mosaic out of my remains," I read aloud and now I am incredulous. "Is this what you meant the other day when you wrote the word 'kill'?" My mother nods with satisfaction; finally someone understands what she has been trying so hard to communicate. "Okay," I say thoughtfully. "I get it now," I a.s.sure her even though I don't get it at all. In addition to affecting her lungs, is my mother's illness also making her lose her mind?

"Listen, Mom, promise me you won't pull out anything and I'll be right back. Will you promise?" My mother nods again, and even though I don't completely believe she will behave herself, I take the piece of paper out of the room and race off in search of Angelina. Instead I find Dr. Harte sitting at a desk at the nurse's station going over some notes.

"Dr. Harte," I say, trying to control the waver in my voice.

"Lydia, right?" he asks. "Your mother's doing fine. They're taking her off the respirator any minute now."

"Look at this." I show him the sentence that she wrote. "My mother has never been paranoid before. What's going on? Has something happened to her brain?"

The doctor reads my mother's words and is completely unfazed by them. "It's nothing to worry about," he says. "Just a little ICU-induced psychosis. That's all."

"My mother's psychotic?" I ask, my voice rising.

"It's actually quite common," Dr. Harte continues in his dry, detached manner. "After about five or six days in here, patients lose touch with reality. They don't know if it's day or night. They don't sleep well. They aren't eating. They're on very powerful drugs. And the combination of all that wreaks havoc with the mind."

"Will she recover from it?" I ask, my voice still trembling.

"Oh yes. She'll be fine. In fact, she won't remember any of this at all." Dr. Harte waves his hand around the area.

"That's a relief," I tell him. "Thank you." I head back to my mother's room, where Jack and my father have returned to attend her.

"What did the doctor say, Lydia? Did she write something?" Before I can hide the piece of paper, my father catches sight of it and s.n.a.t.c.hes it from my hand. He reads what is written there aloud and punctuates my mother's sentence with an exasperated groan. "Doris, what are you, crazy? n.o.body wants to kill you. Don't be ridiculous. C'mon now. Stop the nonsense."

My mother frowns at him with her eyes and rolls her head away.

"Mom." I step up to her bed and stand directly in front of her. "It's all right. I understand now. I know you're in a lot of danger here and I am going to do everything I can to protect you."

"Lydia." My father's voice is full of warning.

"Dad." My voice is just as threatening, as is the look I throw in his direction. "Mom," I turn back to her. "I promise I will take care of you. You know I'm a strong woman. Just like you, right? I'm going to protect you. I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you."

My mother actually seems to take comfort from my words; Jack and my father are rendered mute. Angelina comes in again, bustles about for a few minutes, and then orders us to leave. I stand right by the doorway, making sure I am in my mother's line of vision. Another nurse joins Angelina, and as they approach my mother's bed, she puffs herself up as large as she can, like a cat ready to lash out at anything that dares come near. The two nurses close in on her and though I crane my neck, their backs prevent me from seeing exactly what goes on.

"Mrs. Pinkowitz," I hear Angelina's co-worker say. "This will only take a minute. Now I want you to-ouch!"

"Mrs. Pinkowitz, this isn't going to hurt," Angelina tries to rea.s.sure her. "We just have to-" I hear some scuffling and then Angelina's voice again. "Hold up a minute. I don't think this is going to work."

A long moment pa.s.ses and then Angelina pokes her head out of the doorway. "Lydia," she says, "I asked your mother if she wanted you to come in and she nodded yes. Usually we don't allow family members to be present during this procedure, but your mother is so agitated, I think it would help, so I'm willing to make an exception."

"Does she want me, too?" My father takes a step toward Angelina, eager to go inside. I can tell his question puts her in a tough spot, and so can Jack because he takes my father's arm to distract him.

"Let Lydia go, Uncle Max," he says. "This is women's work."

My father takes a minute to think this over and then nods, as if he needs to give me permission before we can proceed.

"Thanks Dad," I say, suddenly feeling sorry for him. Angelina beckons me to follow her back into my mother's room and as I approach her bed, I see how utterly exhausted she is. Stop fighting, Mom, I want to tell her, but I know that isn't what she wants to hear, and besides, it would be useless since the word "surrender" does not exist in my mother's vocabulary.

"I'm here, Mom," I tell her, stroking her sweaty forehead. "I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere, all right? Can they take the tube out now?"

My mother gazes at me as though her heart is breaking and I can see by her expression that she thinks she is not long for this world. "I love you, Mom," I say. "I'm staying right here."

Angelina comes up behind me and my mother glances in her direction and holds up a finger: wait . Angelina freezes in her tracks and my mother lifts both hands, points to the rings, and then points to me.

"Your rings, Mom? They can't get them off, your hands are too swollen."

My mother shakes her head and points to her rings again and then again to me.

"You want me to have your rings, Mom? All right. I understand."

My mother nods and then, like a woman pumped up on adrenaline lifting an automobile off her injured child, she sits up and yanks her engagement and wedding rings off her left hand and her ruby and diamond c.o.c.ktail ring off her right. I don't know how in the world she manages to pull those unyielding bands of metal up over her fingers, which at the moment are four times their normal size, but somehow she accomplishes this superhuman feat before our unbelieving eyes.

"I'll keep your rings until you want them back, Mom," I say and when she drops them into my hands, I slide them onto my fingers and hold them up for her to see. "I'll take good care of them, Mom. I promise."

My mother lies back and shuts her eyes, worn out and resigned. I nod to the nurses, step out of their way, and turn my back, afraid I'll pa.s.s out if I actually have to witness them pulling the long blue tube out of my mother's throat. It doesn't take more than a few minutes for them to remove it along with the feeding tube going up her nose, and then the room is filled with the sound of my mother gulping for air.

"Breathe, Mrs. Pinkowitz. Inhale, exhale," Angelina instructs her. "You're all right. You're doing fine." My mother's gasps sound like those of a badly wounded animal and I find myself panting along with her. Breathe, breathe, breathe, I silently coax her. My mother is working hard to catch her breath; everything else is irrelevant now. Her chest heaves up and down with effort and she is perspiring heavily.

"Oxygen," Angelina says, and the other nurse tries to strap a mask to my mother's face, but she fights her off again.

"Try the nasal cannula," Angelina instructs and this time my mother lets her insert a plastic p.r.o.ng into each of her nostrils and tuck the tubing they're attached to up around her ears. The oxygen is a great help and soon my mother's breathing, while still labored, becomes steadier and easier. When she seems stable, the nurse pulls the tape off my mother's neck that's holding her med port in place and slides the needle away. It looks like it all hurts like h.e.l.l, but my mother doesn't complain. "I'll put a new port in her arm later," the nurse tells me before she leaves the room.

Jack and my father return and the sight of my mother sitting up and being off the respirator brings them enormous relief. "Doris, you look much better. Much much better," my father says and for once my mother does not glower at him. Encouraged, my father says, "I love you," then musters up the courage to ask, "Do you love me?" My mother nods and his whole face lights up.

"Her blood pressure is good," Jack says, checking the monitor. "Everything looks great, Aunt Doris."

My mother doesn't respond-she is still using all her energy just to pull air into her lungs-and a few minutes later Dr. Harte enters the room.

"How's everything going?" he asks, standing at the foot of my mother's bed. "You look good, Mrs. Pinkowitz. You're coming along just fine."

My mother opens her mouth to speak but no sound comes out.

"Your throat is going to be very sore for a few days," the doctor tells her. "Don't try to talk now. Just rest your voice. It'll come back soon. You're doing fine," he repeats but my mother shakes her head and motions for the pad and pencil. I bring it to her and she writes down one word: liar . Then she hastily writes a sentence and motions for me to show it to my father.

"Don't pay him anything," my father reads aloud and laughs. "Okay, Doris. I won't. Don't worry. He won't get a nickel out of me. Not one lousy dime."

My mother nods with satisfaction as Dr. Harte leaves the room and then indicates she wants to write more so I return the clipboard to her. "One-fifty. Joe," I read aloud. "What's does that mean?"

"One-fifty for Joe?" my father asks her. "You remember that?" My mother nods and again I ask what she's talking about. "While we were on the trip, there were two snowstorms back home," my father explains, "and Joe plowed our driveway out. Selma told her over the phone." He turns back to my mother. "I'll pay Joe, don't worry. I'll send him a check the minute we get home. I'm all over it. You know me." My father shakes his head in wonder. "That's what you're thinking about, Doris? Paying Joe?"

Of course that's what she's thinking about, I want to tell him. She wants her life back. She wants to be in control. My mother is writing again; this time she prints only a number: 914. "What does that mean, Dad?"

"I know, I know, Doris," my father says. "It's all taken care of."

"What's taken care of?" I ask.

My father locks eyes with my mother. "Can I tell her?"

"Tell me what?" I study my mother, who thinks for a moment before she nods.

"There's a safety deposit box at the bank with a bank book in it," my father explains. "It's box number 914. Your mother opened up a savings account before you were born, as soon as she knew she was pregnant, and she's put money into it every week since without fail. Sometimes a ten, sometimes a twenty, once in a while a fifty. Take it from me, Lydia, you're a very wealthy dame."

"Oh, Mom." I turn to her, afraid I'm going to weep. I can't believe that all this time, through all the years I've fought with her, rejected her, and turned my back on her, my mother has been quietly and steadily, in her own way, taking care of me.

Luckily Angelina comes in before I have a chance to break down completely. "Is your mouth dry, Mrs. Pinkowitz?" she asks. My mother nods. "Here. This might help." She unwraps a small green sponge that is fastened onto a stick like a Popsicle. "It's soaked in mouthwash," she explains, inserting it between my mother's lips. My mother makes a face and Angelina smiles an apology. "I know, I know. It doesn't taste very good, but it will help with the dryness. In a little while we'll give you some ice chips." She hands me a few moist sponges wrapped in plastic and tells me that my mother can have one whenever she wants.

"I'll be back." Angelina gives a little wave and leaves the room. The four of us sit quietly in the cubicle for a while, until my mother points to my father's watch. When he tells her it's just about noon, she asks for the clipboard and writes one word upon it: eat.

"You want some lunch, Mom?" I ask. "I'll see if they can bring you some food." My mother shakes her head and points to my father and Jack. "You want us to get something to eat?" She nods and I feel a bit smug that I am the one who best understands what she means.

"We're okay, Doris," my father tells her. My mother shakes her head and points again to the word "eat."

I know what she's doing; she's trying to take care of us. She's a wife, mother, and aunt, and her role is to nurture her family. "Let's go down and get some lunch, Dad. It won't take long," I say, even though I'm not hungry. But I want to carry out my mother's wishes and return her to her rightful position as head of household. "C'mon, Jack."

I rise to leave the room, but my mother shakes her head. She points first to Jack, then to my father, and then to the doorway, instructing them to go. Then she points to me and starts writing on her clipboard.

"What is it, Mom?" I read the word she has put down on the page aloud. "Lollipop." She has me stumped for a minute but then I understand. "This?" I ask, holding up a green sponge attached to a stick that does indeed look like a lollipop. "You want to rinse out your mouth again?" My mother shakes her head and points to me. "What?" I ask. "You want me to use it?" I know this isn't what my mother wants and my ego deflates at not being able to figure out what she's trying to say. She points to the word again, then to me, and then to one of the chairs near the foot of her bed. When it's clear I still don't get it, she writes down another word: stay.

"Lollipop stay?" I think hard and then the tears well up, unstoppable, as the one positive memory from my childhood I've been searching for rushes forward. Lollipop. The pet name my mother used to call me a hundred years ago. "Lollipop, there you are! What color is my Lollipop today?" she'd ask when she lifted me up out of my crib in the morning. "Red? Green? Yellow?" Whatever color I chose to be, my mother a.s.sured me that was her favorite by smacking her lips and then licking and nibbling my chubby little fingers while I shrieked with delight. Other times she'd make me dissolve into giggles by singing that old song from the fifties, "Lollipop, lollipop, oh lolli, lolli, lolli..." Lollipop. Her Lollipop. The name she called me until the day I told her it was too babyish and ordered her to stop. "Moth-er!" I spat the word out as though it left a bad taste in my mouth. "Don't call me that. I'm not your lollipop." But I was wrong. I was and I am and I always will be.

"I'll stay, Mom," I say, pushing the words past the hard lump in my throat. "Dad and Jack can bring me something to eat. I'll sit with you. I won't leave you alone. Is that what you want?"

My mother nods and then opens her arms wide to gather me up as I tumble headlong into them.

SHE LOVES ME, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not . Of course when I was growing up, it was he loves me, he loves me not, but budding lesbian that I was, I always managed to finagle things so I ended on "he loves me not, " much to Colleen's disappointment and my great relief. Not that it mattered much anyway, since I never had anyone specific in mind, unlike Colleen, who had a mad crush on a new boy every other week.