The Reluctant Daughter Part 14

"She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not." It's seven-thirty Friday morning, and being the uber-punctual Pinkowitzes that my father and I are, and despite Jack's slothful tendencies, we have somehow managed to arrive at the hospital a good thirty minutes before visiting hours start. Jack and my father are inside eating breakfast in the cafeteria and I am outside sitting on the bench I now think of as mine, getting ready to call Allie, who I know is just about to go on her midmorning break at the lumberyard. In the meantime, I pluck petals off a daisy I found on the ground that must have dropped out of a bouquet bought by some visitor en route to visit a patient.

"She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me," I announce to the world at large, holding up one last white petal in triumph. Contrary to popular belief, I am not mooning over my very own Allie, Martina Navratilova, or some other drop-dead-gorgeous butch who makes me drool with desire. No, believe it or not, I am swooning over my mother, who loves me, as I tell Allie the minute she picks up the phone.

"It's a miracle, Allie. Everything is different now. My mother loves me. She really loves me. In a very deep way. Like a...like a...like a mother," I say, and then burst out laughing, startling a tiny brown bird that has just hopped up to peck at some bread crumbs near my feet. "She's been saving all this money for me, and she wouldn't let them take out the breathing tube unless I was in the room with her, and she gave me her rings-just to hold, not to keep-and she warmed up my hands, and-"

"Lyddie, hold on. You're babbling. Slow down. And start at the beginning."

I take a deep breath and try to focus. I feel so far away from home, as if the distance between this bench I am sitting on and the lumberyard where Allie works is much greater than the actual three thousand miles that lie between us. I feel like I'm calling from another planet. From another world. Like Brigadoon maybe. Or Oz. How can I put into words everything that has transpired in the past forty-eight hours between my mother and me? I inhale deeply, exhale slowly, and give it another try.

"I feel like...I feel..." I pause, trying to collect my thoughts. "Allie, this is what it must be like when someone who was adopted finally finds her birth mother. You know how much I've wanted a mother my whole life. And at last I have one. A mother who loves me. Isn't that amazing? And what's more amazing is that I love her, too. A lot. More than a lot. More than I ever knew."

Allie doesn't say anything, and I wonder if I've put the poor girl in shock. "Allie, are you still there? Aren't you happy for me?"

"I'm here, Lydia. And of course I'm happy for you. You know that. It's just a little hard to take in and switch gears, that's all."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, up until now you've never used the words mother and love in the same sentence before."

"I haven't?"

"No. The word you always used was hate ."

"Hate? What are you talking about, Allie? I never said I hated my mother." I quickly lower my voice as if my mother could hear me out here, four floors below her hospital room. "How can you even say such a thing?" I am aghast at the very thought.

" You said it, Lydia," Allie reminds me. "You said you hated her for taking you to a diet doctor and making you join Weight Watchers when you were only ten years old. You hated her because she wouldn't let you have a dog or a cat or even a goldfish when you were growing up and you really wanted a pet. You hated her because she made you change out of the pantsuit you'd bought to wear to Jack and Crystal's wedding and made you wear an ugly dress of hers instead. You hated her for being too busy to come to your graduation ceremony when you got your Ph.D. You hated her because-"

"All right, all right." I cut Allie off before she can give me any more examples. "Maybe I said it a few times, but I never meant it, Allie. I was just angry, that's all. I hated some things that she did, but I never hated her . And anyway, why are you being so nasty to me?"

"I'm not being nasty to you, Lydia," Allie says, her voice maddeningly calm. "I'm just refres.h.i.+ng your memory."

"My memory doesn't need refres.h.i.+ng, Allie. Everything's different now."

"Good. I hope so."

"What do you mean, you hope so?" I ask, pressing the phone tightly against my ear.

"I mean, I hope so," Allie repeats. "For your sake. I hope everything's different now, Lydia, and maybe it is-"

"It is, " I insist firmly. "You have no idea what's happened in the last few days, Allie. You're not even here."

"That's not fair," Allie protests. "I offered to come but you said you didn't want me to."

And I'm glad, I think, but don't say aloud.

"I just want you to be careful, that's all, Lydia," Allie continues. "So you don't get hurt all over again."

I lean against the back of my cold stone bench and press against its unyielding hardness. "Why are you being so unsupportive, Allie? Vera thinks this is great. She said it's like I've done four years of therapy in only four days. She's proud of me."

"I'm proud of you, too, Lydia. I'm always proud of you. And I don't think I'm being unsupportive. I'm being realistic."

"Allie." I let the sound of her name hover in the s.p.a.ce between us while I gather my thoughts, desperate to make her understand. An ICU nurse pa.s.ses by on her way in to work and looks at me with a question in her eyes, her worry no doubt a reaction to the frown on my face. I give a little wave signaling that everything's okay before turning back to Allie's and my conversation. "Listen to me, Allie. My mother and I are on good terms for the first time in my entire adult life and you are not going to spoil it for me. Even if I am being unrealistic. Even if I'm dreaming. I don't care." I refuse to let Allie's words burst my bubble, and concentrate hard to recapture the feeling I had before I dialed her number. When I first got out here only a few moments ago, I felt punchy, woozy, light-headed, like I could float away if I wasn't gripping the edge of the bench I was sitting on tightly with both hands. The last time I felt this way was seventeen years ago when I fell madly in love with Allie, and when I realize this, I tell her so.

"I feel that way every day that I'm lucky enough to wake up next to you," Allie says her voice tinged with sadness.

"Oh Allie, I miss you, too. I do. It's just that I'm in another world out here." Again I try to explain. "I sat in my mother's room for twelve hours yesterday and it was like being transported to another dimension. Time is different, s.p.a.ce is different. It's like everything else just faded away and nothing else matters."

"Nothing else matters? What about me? What about Mishmosh? What about," Allie clears her throat purposefully, "the birthday present I went shopping for last night?"

This is my cue to start playing twenty questions with Allie in order to guess what she's thinking of buying for me. And under normal circ.u.mstances, such a game would fill me with delight. But these are hardly normal circ.u.mstances, and at the moment something even as monumental as my forthcoming fiftieth birthday seems trivial in comparison with what I've been going through. "Of course you matter," I hastily a.s.sure Allie, glad that she can't see my right foot jiggling up and down with impatience. It's almost eight o'clock and I'm dying to get upstairs. "You matter a lot, Allie. It's just that I'm a little preoccupied right now." I wait, but Allie doesn't acknowledge this or say anything further until I change the subject and remember to ask, "So how are you doing?"

"I'm all right," she says without much conviction.

"What's wrong?" I probe, trying to hide my restlessness by injecting a heavy dose of concern into my voice.

"Nothing's wrong, Lydia. I'm just lonely for you, that's all. The house feels so empty with only me and Mishmosh rattling around inside it. And on top of that, the weather's been just awful. It's been snowing like crazy for the past couple of days and the temperature still hasn't risen above my shoe size."

"Wow, it must be freezing." Allie has what she calls "tiny Puerto Rican feet," which means it can't be more than six degrees back home. "I'm sorry," I say, as if the lousy weather Allie is experiencing is somehow my fault. I don't dare tell her that it's a beautiful morning here in L.A. The sky is a brilliant cloud-free blue and it's already so warm, I'm comfortable sitting out here in just the bottom part of my sweater set: a sleeveless lilac camisole that matches the cardigan I've taken off and neatly folded on the bench beside me.

"So is your mother any better?" Allie asks after another minute. "Is she still in intensive care?"

"She was when we left last night." I s.h.i.+eld my eyes from the sun and look up toward the fourth floor of the hospital, though of course I can't make out what's going on inside. "They said if she's still improving they might move her out today."

"Well, that's good news. Any idea when they'll send her home?"

"Not yet."

"Any idea when they'll send you home?"

"No."

There is another long, loud silence on the other end of the phone. "Allie," I finally say. "I'll get on a plane as soon as I can. But I can't leave right now. My mother needs me."

"I know that, Lydia. Of course she needs you. It's just that I need you, too."

"I'm sorry, Allie. I just can't come home right now."

"I know that, Lydia," Allie says again. "I wasn't asking you to come home. I was just trying to say that I miss you."

Allie's neediness puzzles me. We've been apart for three days before. For four days, five days, a week once when I was a guest scholar-in-residence at Vera's university. And Allie's always done fine on her own. She's even teased me about how much fun she's had playing bachlorette: not making the bed, letting unwashed dishes pile up in the sink, eating frozen dinners in front of the television, leaving her dirty laundry in a heap on the floor. No, something else must be wrong. As I mull this over, it suddenly dawns on me that what I'm going through must remind Allie that she will never have this chance again, the chance to sit at her mother's bedside and tell her that she loves her.

"Allie, is this hard for you because my mother's still alive and yours isn't?" I ask softly.

"Oh my G.o.d, no, Lydia. Where did you get that crazy idea? What kind of person do you think I am?" Allie's tone is a mixture of hurt and indignation. "I'm not jealous of you and your mother. I just hope the peace between you lasts, that's all."

"It will, Allie. You'll see."

"Lydia, sometimes during a crisis people don't act the way they usually do, and then when everything settles down, they revert back to their old behaviors. That's all I'm saying."

"This is different, Allie," I insist stubbornly. "And anyway, I have to go." I jump up, grab my pocketbook, and fold my sweater over my arm. "It's after eight o'clock and I want to get upstairs and see my mother."

"Okay. I have to get back to work, too."

"I'll call you soon, all right?"

"All right. Bye."

I snap my cell phone shut and try to ignore the uneasy feeling that's growing in the pit of my stomach. I can't remember the last time Allie and I hung up the phone without saying "I love you" to each other and I almost call her back to say it. And to hear it. But I'm afraid that continuing our conversation might only make things worse, and besides, now it's already seven minutes after eight and I'm eager to see my mother and anxious to get up to her cubicle ahead of my father and Jack. I walk over to the hospital entrance, pull open the door, and step inside the lobby, only to see my father and my cousin standing by the elevator. As we wait for it to arrive, I marvel once more at my father's immaculate clothing and wonder how he manages to look so fresh every morning. His tan s.h.i.+rt is completely free of wrinkles, as are his brown cuffed slacks. He should share some of his dry-cleaning tricks of the trade with Jack, I think as I study my cousin who, in his usual unkempt manner, has his long gray hair half in and half out of a ratty-looking ponytail, and is wearing a pair of faded jeans ripped at the knee. Today's quote of the day imprinted on his T-s.h.i.+rt reads "Somebody has to be a bad example," which for once is rather fitting, and furthermore, a statement with which I cannot argue.

The elevator arrives and we ride up as a unit, make our way to the fourth floor, and after getting buzzed in, rush into my mother's cubicle. She is lying in bed, her head propped up by two pillows, her eyes darting about wildly. Upon catching sight of the three of us, she bursts into tears.

"Doris, what is it? What's the matter, baby?" My father is beside her at once, pus.h.i.+ng her scraggly hair back from her forehead and kissing the tears dripping down her cheeks.

"I thought...I thought..." My mother can hardly get the words out and her voice is scratchy and barely audible. I imagine that her throat is still sore from being on the respirator. "I thought I'd never see you again," she finally manages to whisper.

"No, no, Doris. We're here. We're right here. They don't let us in until eight o'clock, that's all. It's okay. Shah ." To my astonishment, my father is breaking his own rule and allowing himself to cry. As am I. Jack has turned his back to us, so perhaps he is crying, too.

"Hi, Mom," I say, once we've all calmed down. "How did you sleep?"

"Not so good," she croaks. "I was hungry."

"Can you eat yet? Did they bring you any food?"

My mother points to a tray on her bedside table, upon which rest individual servings of applesauce and Jell-O.

"Good morning, everyone," Angelina says as she sails into the room and stops at the foot of my mother's bed. "How are you, Mrs. Pinkowitz?" My mother lifts one hand and s.h.i.+mmies it in the air, comme ci, comme ca.

"She says she's hungry," I tell Angelina.

"She can eat." Angelina pulls open the tin foil lid of the plastic Jell-O cup. "Do you want some Jell-O? I think it's strawberry. Or maybe raspberry. You taste it and tell me."

My mother shakes her head and points in my direction.

"You want me to eat it?" I ask. "Mom, you know I hate Jell-O. And applesauce," I remind her in case she has the notion to offer me any.

"You do?" Jack pipes up. "Me, too. How about pudding?"

"Blech." I make a face and Jack gives me a smile and a thumbs up, pleased to find out at long last that the two of us have something in common. "I'll eat something later, Mom. I don't want to take your food."

My mother shakes her head again, points to the white plastic spoon Angelina is holding and then points to my hand. "Oh, I get it. You want me to feed you. Is that it?" My mother nods.

"Here you go." Angelina turns everything over to me.

"It's nothing personal," I tell her, stepping toward my mother.

"It's okay. She doesn't trust me, and why should she?" Angelina asks. "She hardly knows me. She knows you."

I scoop a small bit of Jell-O onto the spoon and lift it toward my mother, who opens her mouth eagerly as a newborn bird. Bite after bite disappears between her lips and after the Jell-O is gone, I feed her the applesauce, too. When she's full, she turns her head away like a baby who's had enough.

"Why don't you take a rest now, Mom?" She immediately follows my suggestion by leaning back against the pillow and closing her eyes. My father, Jack, and I take up residence in our usual chairs and commence our usual activities. My father reads one of the newspapers he bought at the hotel's gift shop, Jack studies the numbers on my mother's monitor announcing any changes that occur like a sportscaster at a ballgame, and I watch my mother sleep. When noontime arrives, my father and Jack rise to go to lunch and again my mother asks me to stay. She beckons me to come close with one finger curled in the air. "You're the only one who understands me," she says, as I bend down in order to hear her better. "I would be dead if you hadn't come," she tells me, her raspy words startling and amazing to hear.

At around two o'clock, Angelina comes in bearing good news: my mother is well enough to leave the Intensive Care Unit and move down the hall. The worst has pa.s.sed; now she has to rest and get her strength back. "Don't worry, Mrs. Pinkowitz, you'll be in good hands over there," Angelina says in response to the worried look that crosses my mother's face. "Everyone across the hall is very nice and very competent. You'll have a new nurse and a physical therapist and a respiratory therapist and they'll all take good care of you."

"What about Dr. Harte?" my father asks, his voice full of concern.

"He'll still be her doctor," Angelina says. "There's nothing to worry about," she rea.s.sures my mother again. "You won't have to do anything. We'll move you right in this bed."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, two burly attendants in green scrubs hustle into my mother's room. "You need to wait outside," the larger of the two tells us. Like yesterday, Jack and my father obey orders and I ignore them, even though the fellow barking commands is huge and looks like a bouncer at a bar whom no one who had any brains whatsoever would dare to mess around with. "You need to wait outside," he repeats firmly.

"I'll move as soon as you do," I tell him, stepping out of the way but not out of the room. My mother's eyes have grown fearful again and I will not desert her.

The attendants busy themselves with unhooking things and checking things and then wheeling my mother away. "I'm right here, Mom," I say, jogging behind her bed, being careful to stay back far enough so that I don't get in the way, but near enough so she knows that I'm still close at hand. The attendants wheel her into room 403 and while they settle her in and hook her up to new machines, I lean against the doorjamb and chatter away, filling the airwaves with whatever meaningless small talk comes to mind. Without pausing for breath, I yak about the weather here in L.A. and back home, the grilled vegetable sandwich my father brought me from the cafeteria for lunch, and the chef's salad I ordered from room service last night for supper. As I blab on and on, I realize I sound very much like my mother, whose chitchat has always been met by me with criticism and scorn. There's a time and a place for everything, I guess, moving from food to fas.h.i.+on as I tell my mother all about the outfit I am wearing, including where I bought it and how much it cost. Right now my purpose is not to impress anyone with my wit or intelligence; it is to soothe my mother with the sound of my voice as she is being pulled and prodded by strangers who seem to be taking an awfully long time to arrange her body in a position suitable to their liking.

"Okay, she's all yours," the attendant finally tells me as he and his companion step into the hallway and leave. My father, Jack, and I file inside and admire my mother's new digs, a real room with a large picture window, a television hanging from the ceiling, a telephone right next to the bed, and best of all, her own private bathroom.

"Hey, not bad, not bad at all," my father says, taking a good look around. "They've already brought in three chairs for us. That was very nice of them. This is great, Doris. You'll be a lot more comfortable in here."

"Want to watch TV, Aunt Doris?" Jack asks, searching for the remote.

"She has it," I tell Jack. "That's it, Mom. It's attached to your bed."

Before my mother can turn on the television, a nurse enters the room. She is wearing a yellow-flowered smock over white polyester pants, and her thick, dyed auburn hair is pulled back into a ponytail that is almost as long as Jack's. She has five gold hoops of varying sizes hanging from each ear and her fingernails are long, square-tipped, and painted a shocking electric blue with a bolt of glittery silver lightning slashed across each one.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she says briskly, like she is standing center stage and welcoming us to a matinee. She has a strong Spanish accent and I pray that my father will not presume that all people of Spanish descent are acquainted with one another and ask if she knows Eduardo, our van driver. "My name is Margarita-"

"Like the drink?" Jack quips, trying to be funny. Or charming. Or something.

"Like the drink." Margarita places her hands on her hips, drums those glittering nails against her smock, and shoots him a look that says don't interrupt me again. "You must be Ms. Pinkowitz," she says to my mother.

"Mrs.," I correct her.

"I always say Ms.," Margarita informs me. "I never a.s.sume a patient wants to be called Mrs."

"In this case you can a.s.sume," I say, throwing thirty-plus years of feminist training right out the window. Maybe this will make up for the countless times I've sent my mother birthday cards addressed to "Ms. Doris Pinkowitz" in defiance of her preference to be addressed not as Mrs. Doris Pinkowitz, which in my opinion is bad enough, but Mrs. Max Pinkowitz, which is even worse.

"All right, Mrs. Pinkowitz," Margarita corrects herself. "I'm your nurse. Any time you need me, you just press this." She shows my mother a red call b.u.t.ton attached to a small white plastic rectangle hooked to her bed. "This rings the nurse's station. If I'm busy with another patient, someone else will come."

"How many other patients do you have?" my father asks. I can tell he misses Angelina already.

"Five," Margarita answers. "This moves your bed up and down." She shows my mother another gadget. "And this is for your TV." She hands my mother the remote. "And you can only make local calls on your telephone. Unless you have a calling card." My mother waves one hand in the direction of the telephone, dismissing it and letting us know she's not in the mood to talk to anybody besides the people in this room. "Your respiratory therapist will come in soon, and then your physical therapist," Margarita continues. "We want to get you up and walking as quickly as possible. As soon as you can make it to the bathroom, we'll take your catheter out." My mother's eyes travel to the bathroom door and I can tell by the look in her eyes, it seems not miles, but light-years away. Margarita notices my mother's expression, too. "Don't worry, Mrs. Pinkowitz. Every day you'll get a little bit stronger. You'll be up and around before you-wait. What's the matter? What is it, honey?" Margarita's whole manner changes at the sight of my mother wincing in pain. "What's wrong?" she asks again.

"It's the blood pressure machine," I tell her, pointing to my mother's arm, which is being squeezed tightly yet again. "Look, her skin is tearing right there under the cuff. Can't you do something about that?"

"I can move it to her other arm," Margarita says. "Or to her leg. Whatever she'd like."

"Does it have to be taken every hour now that she's out of the ICU?" I ask. "It's really bothering her. Can't it be taken every two hours? Or every three?"

"Let me check with the doctor. I'll be right back." Margarita scuttles out of the room and a few minutes later scuttles back. "We can change it to once every two hours, Mrs. Pinkowitz," she says, and my mother turns away from her to throw me a look of grat.i.tude. "Do you want me to put it on your leg or your other arm?"