G: Mother's Deathbed

Chapter: Kid, Mother's Deathbed

All night we've been driving towards Houston, one straight shot with my
uncle behind the wheel and my aunt sitting next to him in the front
seat. The car, a station wagon, has seats that fold down and make what
my aunt calls "a bed." But the hinges on the seats push into our backs.
I sleep and wake, sleep and wake, worried about what I am missing at
school.

I got home just the day before and my aunt said, "Go pack. We're
leaving for Texas." My little sister and big sister were already
sitting at the kitchen table, small bags sitting next to them. My
little sister stared at the table, but my big sister looked mad. She
was resting her head in one hand while she tapped the table with the
fingernails of her free hand. Her nails are long, with blotches of red
crusting over them.

"What's wrong?" I asked. I knew, of course, but it seemed like the
thing to ask. I put my backpack on the floor and stood right in front
of my aunt. I wasn't moving until I heard it from her.

"It's your mama," she said, "This may be it." Her eyes looked tired,
her hair wasn't combed. I stood there for a minute, wanting to argue,
but instead I went downstairs to my room in the basement, grabbing as
much as I could and putting it into an old suitcase my aunt had left on
the bed.

Now we are back in Houston, the air wet and coming through the cracks
in the windows. I hate this air but miss it at the same time. I feel
the same about the big green trees along the highway. I'm hot, sitting
Indian style and facing forward. My eyes itch.

"Can we roll down the windows some more?" I ask.

"No," my aunt says, turning around in her seat, "We don't want any
carbon monoxide coming into the car." My big sister snickers and rolls
her eyes. She will sneak off and have a cigarette the second we stop
the car, risking a lecture from my aunt, who also smokes but not in the
car.

We stop for a bit at my uncle's brother's house, unloading the car and
putting the seats back up before heading to the hospital where my
mother has been for months. I would like to stay at this house, which
is brand new and very, very clean. The carpet is white and stands
straight up. The house even has two stories, and furniture with fabric
that matches the drapes.

On the way to the hospital my little sister falls asleep, leaning
against my shoulder. Her head is damp, but I don't move her. Instead I
think about what we will see when we get to the hospital. I wonder if
my mother will look the same, or if her hair has grown back any. I am
also hungry, and hope my aunt and uncle will take us to the hospital
cafeteria, where once the staff knew me. I like their mashed potatoes
and gravy.

We have called my mother every day for the past few months. Her voice
on the other end of the phone was always cheerful, but lower. Sometimes
she'd cough. We'd stand in the kitchen waiting for our turn on the
phone. My uncle gave up telling me and my big sister to say, "I love
you," though my little sister said this freely.

We haven't called my mother in over a week, though, so this trip is not
much of a surprise. I've heard my aunt sneaking around the past few
days, whispering on the phone and to my uncle. She kept sitting at the
kitchen table, shaking her head and taking long, slow pulls on her
cigarettes.

The hospital looks the same. I recognize some of the nurses, who smile
as they pass us in the corridors with their shiny, buffed floors. The
nurses don't recognize me, I discover, when I wave to the nurse behind
the counter. She usually brought me a dinner tray when I visited my
mother, but now she just looks at all of us and goes back to whatever
it is she's doing. I pull out in front of everybody and head towards my
mother's door.

Her room is dark, the curtains pulled. The television is off, too, and
it takes my eyes a few moments to adjust. Another aunt stands up from
her seat and scares me. She's holding a book I read a long time
ago.

"Hey," this aunt whispers. Everyone else comes into the room, making it
crowded. They shuffle around, unsure of where to stand. Both my aunts
talk to each other briefly, and decide just one of us kids should be in
the room at a time. "To say your goodbyes," one of them says.

I go first, because I walked in first. Also I'd like to think that it's
because I know my way around here. My mother is on her side on the bed,
facing the window. Her eyes are closed and she is wearing the turban,
the blue one that I bought for her one day. It's the same turban I used
for a Halloween costume. She is also wearing the thin cotton housedress
with the rose print that she wore all the time before we kids moved
away. But she is not the same. She is tiny, a question mark of a
person.

"Can you hear me?" I say, and that is all I can manage. I will not cry,
because it will not make any difference. I walk into the bathroom and
stare into the mirror. I crack my knuckles, the sound loud and sharp.
The last time I looked into this mirror I had long hair, and I was fat.
Now my hair is cut short, and my face is more angular. I look
taller.

Back in the room I touch the bed, and then make myself turn and walk
out the door. My sisters sit in chairs right outside the door, my aunt
and uncle leaning against the wall. I can't see my other aunt. I sit in
one of the chairs.

"Okay," my aunt says to my big sister, "Go in." But my big sister
shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. My little sister
looks at her for a moment and then stands up. My aunt doesn't argue and
take my little sister into the room.

"You should go in and say goodbye," my uncle says to my big sister,
"This may be your last time to see your mama."

My big sister doesn't say anything. She doesn't look up. I would like
to say something. I can't. The door opens and my aunt walks out with my
little sister, who is crying but quiet, her hand holding onto my aunt's
belt. I look away.

My big sister stands up, slowly, her arms still crossed over her chest.
She goes into the room, but she doesn't close the door. I can't see her
from where I'm sitting. I don't hear her say anything, and then she
walks back out, looking at the floor. Her hair covers the top part of
her face.

"Okay," my aunt says, just as my other aunt turns the corner. Her face
is red, like she's been fighting. I hope she has. My uncle pats her on
the arm and tells her where we're staying. He writes the phone number
down on a piece of paper from the nurse's station.

We leave and drive back to my uncle's brother's house, which is now
full and busy. An aunt from St. Louis has arrived, along with another
uncle. Food covered in plastic wrap and aluminum foil cover the kitchen
counters. The adults mix drinks from a bottle of rum and cans of Coke
they bring in from the garage. They speak quietly while slurping at
their drinks, a sound I can hear from the living room couch. I have a
paper plate full of cold food on my knee.

I stand up when I'm finished eating and take my plate into the kitchen.
My aunt points to a cabinet under the sink, where I can find the
trashcan. I crouch down to throw the plate away when the phone
rings.

My aunt answers the phone, talking into it like she's being
interrupted, and then hangs it up. My knees tell me to stay put, so I
do.

"Your mama passed on," my aunt tells me, and walks away. I hear her in
the living room, telling everyone else.

I think about the shortest route to the bathroom, the one at the top of
the stairs. The one that is so clean, with carpet right in front of the
bathtub. I think about how to get there.