Theme Week Five

                We woke up late that Thursday; the afternoon sun shone through the blinds creating a hazy glow in the small room.  It was warm and the blankets had been thrown off in the night. Covered by the thin, blue sheet, I was tempted to stay in bed and relax all afternoon but the warm breeze flowing through the window tempted me out of bed. Throwing the sheets off I padded to the bathroom and threw my wild hair into a low ponytail that rested on the nape of my neck. I grabbed my computer and went outside to soak up the early-afternoon sun.

                The end of June smelled sweet; the calm wind carried the aroma of fragrant lilacs and freshly cut grass. I waved to the neighbor sitting on his stoop across the street and logged onto my laptop to check the usual sites. My inbox was cluttered with junk mail, filled with free offers and notifications from websites that promised me they could find me love with a senior over fifty. I quickly perused the messages, looking for a reply to the email I wrote my mother a few days before. She hadn’t responded yet and I moved onto Facebook. I had received a message from my brother. I clicked on it; it was short and to the point. Two sentences wrought with urgency and as I read them, over and over, I was paralyzed with fear, panicked.

                I ran up the steps and flung the metal door open. “Where the hell is it?” I said as I searched for my phone. It wasn’t on the nightstand or in my purse. “Ryan. Where the fuck is my phone?” I yelled, shaking him out of his sleep.

                He looked up at my pale face, confused. “What’s wrong?” he ventured cautiously.

                “I need your phone,” I said, ignoring him. I couldn’t say the words to explain what was wrong. Not yet.

                “I think it’s in the kitchen charging.”

                I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I walked out of the bedroom and the tension escalated. The temperature in the house was rising and my hand was shaking as I dialed the number I knew by heart but rarely called. “Please pick up. Please pick up,” I thought as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

                “Hello?” My stepdad Mike’s voice was tired, his usual gruffness overtaken by stress.

                “What’s going on? Zak wrote me. Mom’s having surgery on her heart?”

                “Yeah, she’s in surgery now. We’ll know more in a few hours when she gets out.”

                Confusion overwhelmed me. I had no idea my mother had a heart problem, no clue she was sick. “When did all this happen?” I asked, thinking to myself how typical it was that I was the last to know.

                “She’s been here since Monday. They ran some tests.  Apparently she has a blockage in her heart. They’re going in today to see….,”

                “What? Monday? She’s been there since Monday. It. Is. Thursday,” I raged. "Why the hell did you not tell me about this sooner? Did you not think I’d want to know that my mother is in the hospital?” I pictured my Mom lying in a hospital bed, metal bars on each side, hooked up to machines and IV’s. Lonely and scared, I imagined how hurt she was I hadn’t visited her.

                How could they think I didn’t care? Yes, my mother and I rarely saw each other even though we lived less than a mile apart. In fact, we rarely spoke. Our relationship was strained and difficult but in no way did that mean I didn’t love her; that I wouldn’t care if she was in the hospital. I called. It wasn’t my fault she never called back. I invited her out to lunch. It wasn’t my fault she never wanted to go. I asked her to come see my apartment. It wasn’t my fault she had a migraine that day. The only thing I was guilty of is getting angry for her inability to communicate; for interpreting her actions as rejection instead of the symptoms of mental illness.

                Taking a deep breath, I asked Mike to call me when she was out of surgery so I could visit her. I hung up the phone. Resting my bare elbows on the wooden counter, I placed my head in the palms of my hands and began to cry. Sobbing, I felt like a horrible daughter. I was scared. Ryan crept up behind me; wrapping his arms around me, he held me close as the tears fell from my eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered. For the first time I didn’t believe him.

                Wiping my tears away I said, “I have to go get ready. I don’t know when she’ll be out of surgery.”

                “You’re going to go see her?” he asked.

                “Yeah, I have to, right?” I said, already dreading the visit, hoping I could genuinely give my Mom the support she needed. I prepared myself to do what I do best and pushing my feelings of rejection and hurt aside, I focused on staying calm to give my mother a stress-free, friendly visit from her daughter.

                I spent an hour creating an effortless, put-together look. I wore a flowy summer dress and cute leather wedges. Natural curls coated in a pound hairspray cascaded down my back. Five shades of brown and gold eye shadow and peach blush completed the minimalistic look; I looked like I had just rolled out of bed and thrown on a dress. My mother didn’t like it when I wore a lot of makeup.

                I was pacing across the cold kitchen floor when the phone rang. “Hello??” I said, hoping to hear the surgery went well.

                “She’s back in her room. Everything went well; they didn’t have to put a stent in her heart after all,” Mike said.

                “So she’s up for visitors?” I asked.

                “Yep, she’s in room 579.”

                On my way to the hospital I stopped at a store and bought my mother a bracelet and matching earrings. Beautiful green stones arranged artfully, handmade creations. Clutching the boxes in my hand, I walked down the corridor of the hospital. The sterile white walls and silent halls starkly contrasted with the blooming life of early summer outside.

                I lightly knocked on the door of room 579 and heard my mother’s voice. She was on the phone with what sounded like a co-worker and when I entered the small, private room she ignored me. Not a wave, not a smile. Holding back the tears, I intently read the signs on the wall outlining hand-washing procedures; I re-read the steps to take in case of an emergency four times. Unfortunately there wasn’t a pamphlet with instructions on repairing a broken relationship.

                Her room had a large window that looked out on the Penobscot River; the river was high and calm. My mother was still on the phone; I’d been there for ten minutes. I paced awkwardly around the small space, dying to leave; she obviously didn’t want me there. She finally hung up the telephone and I plastered a bright smile on my face to hide my irritation. “How are you feeling?!”

                “Fine,” she answered. “I have to quit smoking. It’s been three days now.”

                I knew that. Three days that she’d been in the hospital, three days until I knew she was sick. Biting my tongue I handed her the two boxes. “Here, I got these for you.”

                She accepted them, finally smiling when she saw the deep green beads. “Thank you. I love them. Did you make them yourself?”

                “No, I bought them,” I said.

                A heavy silence filled the room. “You have a nice room,” I said.

                “Yeah, it is.”

                The conversation was going nowhere and as the minutes passed, I became increasingly uncomfortable. I could tell she was too so I nervously chattered about books she should read and the weather. I told her I knew she’d be fine and it was good they found the problem early. I offered to come over when she came home to help her and she said nothing.

                I heard the familiar voices of my little brothers and stepdad, relieved. Harley and Jesse bounded into the room, chattering about their day at school, unaware of the gravity of the situation. My mother listened attentively about the book fair and baseball practice. Mike, quiet as usual, stood in a corner, the exhaustion written in the bags under his kind brown eyes. I watched too, an outcast in my own family, a stranger. I saw the way her face lit up when my brothers walked into the room and her immediate dismissal of me hurt more. I had tried.

                My mother grew tired; it was time for her to rest. She was going home the next day and I hugged her goodbye, happy I had seen her, happy to be leaving, not ready to process our relationship and at a loss of how to fix it. I went home and sat on the porch, watching the sun set, the sky a brilliant portrait of deep purple and hot pink. I looked at the sky, the beauty around me, and knew no matter how angry I was or how hurt my feelings were, that I would still try to communicate with my mother. I would reach out even if it hurt me, and it likely would. There wasn’t a magic potion to fix our problem or her heart; a heart that was more damaged than even the most experienced cardiologist could see.