The Reluctant Daughter Part 18

Margarita's eyes fill, too, and this does not surprise me. All along, I knew that underneath that tough exterior, she was nothing but a marshmallow. "No need to thank me, Lydia," she says, her entire arm disappearing inside her enormous bag until she comes up with a pack of tissues. "Your mother's recovery is all the thanks I need. I'm just doing my job."

"Well, you did a very good job," I say, dabbing my eyes. "But I want to know your opinion. You've spent a lot more time with her than the doctor has. Do you think she's going to be okay? I was going to fly home with my parents to help them out but then I changed my flight and now I'm thinking maybe I should change it back."

Margarita narrows her eyes and squints at me. "Lydia, how old are you?" she asks.

"Forty-nine," I tell her, having never been the kind of woman who lies about her age.

"Ooh, girl, you're looking good." Margarita nods and gives me an exaggerated once-over. "You have a family?"

"Yes," I say, thinking of Allie and Mishmosh, and feeling grateful for the tactful way Margarita phrased her question. Even though she doesn't strike me as someone who would have a problem with me being a lesbian, one can never tell.

"Listen, honey." Margarita leans closer to me and puts her hand on my arm as if she is about to share something very private and confidential. "You're a very pretty woman, but this kind of thing can wear you out and make you ugly real fast. Your mother is stubborn. Trust me. She's going to live a long time. You have your own life and your own family. Don't ever forget that." I nod, listening intently. "There will be more crises and more emergencies. That's one thing I can guarantee," Margarita says, looking straight at me. "This thing ain't over yet. You've got to pace yourself. Your parents have made it this far in life without your help. They're going to do just fine."

"Thanks, Margarita." We stand and she pulls me into a hug. When we step apart, I think to ask, "Do you have a family?"

"Two girls," she answers proudly. "Ten and twelve, both of them going on twenty-one." I wait a beat but she does not mention a husband or partner.

"Your daughters are very lucky to have you as a mother," I say as we start walking down the hall. "Tell them I said so."

"They won't believe you." Margarita shakes her head, sending all her braids flying.

"Maybe not now," I say. "But give them a year or two. Or ten. Or forty. Someday they'll learn to appreciate you." I stop outside my mother's room and smile as she looks up from her bed expectantly. "Take it from me. I am one who knows."

HOME SWEET HOME. Home is where the heart is. Home is where you hang your hat. There's no place like home...there's no place like home. Finally I am homeward bound and so happy about it, I don't even mind the long day's journey into night I have to undertake in order to get there.

Of course I am already up, showered, dressed, and packed when the phone rings at three a.m. with my wake-up call. Now it's half past three and I am leaving my room for the last time. I softly shut the door and make my way down the hall, pulling my suitcase behind me. Halfway to the elevator, I stop, overcome by a feeling that I've forgotten something. But what? Suitcase, carry-on bag, purse...winter coat. That's it. I dash back to my room to retrieve it and then ride the elevator down to the first floor.

The lobby is deserted as is the front desk, and I have to call out, "h.e.l.lo? Anybody here?" three times before a sleepy clerk with a bad case of teenage acne drags himself out from a back room and comes over to check me out. As I stand in front of him drumming the edge of my credit card lightly against the counter and dreading the amount of the bill, my father joins me, shadowed by a bellhop pus.h.i.+ng a cart loaded down with all of his and my mother's luggage.

"Room 716?" The clerk hunts and pecks at his keyboard, peers at the computer screen, and then says, "You're all set," not bothering to cover his mouth, which gapes open in a wide yawn.

"I am?" I turn away from him to face my father, who is also clicking the corner of his credit card against the desk. "Dad, you don't have to pay my bill."

"I didn't pay your bill, Lydia. I haven't checked out yet. Room 523," he tells the clerk.

"You're all set as well, sir."

"I am?" my father asks, surprised.

"Yes sir. Both these rooms have been paid for by a Mr. Jack Gutman."

"Well, what do you know?" My father chuckles. "He's all right, that Jack. Thank you," he says to the clerk as he slips his credit card back into his wallet. "Come on, Lydia."

We step outside, and I am relieved that the van we arranged for last night is already waiting for us but disappointed that Eduardo is not behind the wheel; I would have liked to say good-bye to him. Our driver helps us load everything into the back, and then steers his way through the dark, empty streets of L.A., pulling up to the hospital in record time. A guard buzzes us in and we ride up to the fourth floor, where my mother awaits us.

"Hi, Mom." I step into the room and greet her, keeping my voice to a whisper out of habit because it is the middle of the night. Bending down, I kiss her on the cheek and then step back. "You look great," I say, and she does. Even though she is still tethered to an oxygen tank and sitting in a wheelchair, she is finally out of a hospital johnny and into her own clothes, a pair of gray slacks and a cream-colored sweater. She also wears a delicate necklace of light blue cloisonne beads and matching earrings, the sight of which reminds me that I haven't given back her jewelry yet.

"Here, Mom." I pull her rings off my fingers. "Take these."

"Thank you, Lydia." My mother slides her wedding band and her engagement ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand. Then she studies her ruby and diamond c.o.c.ktail ring for a minute, almost as if she doesn't recognize it, before holding it out to me. "Keep it, Lydia. As a thank you for what a big help you've been."

"Oh Mom." There go my hopes of getting through just one day of this trip without crying. "You don't have to give me your ring."

"I know I don't have to, Lydia. I want to. Besides, sooner or later it will be yours anyway."

I ignore the implications of that statement and slip the ring back onto my right hand. "It's beautiful," I say, kissing her on the cheek again. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Let's go, ladies. The van is waiting," my father says, always tense before a flight, even one that leaves five hours from now. "All set?"

My mother nods and we begin the journey, a night nurse we've never met before wheeling her out of the room, with my father and me trailing close behind, in charge of the extra oxygen tanks. As we wait for the elevator for the very last time, the doors to the Intensive Care Unit burst open and Angelina flies out of them.

"I heard you were leaving," she says, hurrying toward us.

"Angelina, what are you doing here in the middle of the night?" I ask. "Don't you work the day s.h.i.+ft?"

"I switch on and off. Mrs. Pinkowitz, it's so good to see you up and about." Angelina places both hands on the armrests of my mother's wheelchair and bends down to look her in the eye.

"It's good to see you, too," my mother replies in a polite voice that lets me know she has no idea who this woman is.

"Mom, it's Angelina. She took care of you in the ICU. Don't you remember her?"

My mother studies the nurse's face but I can see that it doesn't register. "I'm sorry," she says.

"It's all right." Angelina straightens up. "You must be glad to be going home."

"Very glad," my mother says. "Good-bye."

"Good luck to all of you," Angelina stays with us until we get on the elevator, and then waves as the door closes. We make our way downstairs, through the lobby, and out the door, where our van driver is waiting for us, chatting on his cell phone and smoking a cigarette. He drops his b.u.t.t on the ground and stubs it out the second he catches sight of my mother with her oxygen tank.

"All set?" he asks, opening the door to the van. The nurse holds the wheelchair steady as my father helps my mother climb out of it and up into the vehicle. I crawl over her to sit beside her and my father takes his place up front next to the driver. We settle in, buckle our seat belts, and watch the nurse push the now-empty wheelchair back toward the hospital, a place I am relieved I will never have to enter again.

As soon as the van pulls away from the curb, my father half turns in his seat and glances at my mother. "Everything okay, Doris?" he asks.

"Fine," she says. "Don't worry about me. I'm all right."

He swivels back around and though he is facing away from me, I see him pull his flight itinerary along with his license out of his jacket pocket, and grasp them firmly in his fist, just as I have done.

"Look, Dad," I say, holding up the flight doc.u.ments and ID that I won't need for at least another six hours.

He laughs. "What do you know? You got my shtick, kid."

I laugh, too. "I always wondered where I got it."

Soon we are at the airport, pulling up to the curb outside Terminal One. The van barely stops before my father leaps out and hurries off to find a skycap with a wheelchair. We get my mother settled and my father pushes her inside the terminal with me following with the oxygen tanks and another skycap behind me with our luggage. After all our quiet days in the hospital, the hustle and bustle of the airport is more than a little overwhelming. Even at this early, unG.o.dly hour, it is full of people racing about: businessmen in suits swinging briefcases and barking into cell phones; parents dodging through the crowd chasing their running, laughing children; pairs of carefully groomed flight attendants speedwalking on their high heels while sipping large cups of coffee. Because my mother is clearly a special-needs customer, we are brought to the front of the line and checked in quickly. My parents' luggage disappears and they receive their boarding pa.s.ses without a problem.

"What about this bag?" the man who has checked them in asks me.

"That's mine," I tell him. "I'm on a different flight."

"What is your flight number?" he asks.

"I'm on a different airline," I tell him. "Can you watch this for me while I bring them through security?"

"No, miss, I'm afraid not," he says, and though I argue with him briefly, he remains firm.

"Mom." I find my parents, who have moved off to the side and out of harm's way. "I can't come through security with you because of my suitcase. I have to go check in at my own airline. It's in a different terminal. I'll do that and then come find you."

My mother's face shatters with this news. "Lydia." She reaches up and tenderly cradles my cheeks in both hands as if my head is fragile as an antique china teacup. "Remember, the safety deposit box. Number 914. Everything in it is for you."

"Mom." The noise and frenzied activity of the airport fade away and all I see are my mother's worried eyes. "It's not a big deal. I'll find you. And you're going to be fine. I'll meet you at your gate. I promise."

"Hurry back, Lydia," my father says, his frightened glance wandering toward the gauge on my mother's oxygen tank.

"I will," I say, and then stand there waving as they disappear into the crowd. Once they are out of sight, I run toward the exit and flag down a taxi to take me to Terminal Nine, too much in a hurry to wait for the free shuttle. Luckily there are only three people ahead of me in line and it doesn't take long for me to step up to the counter. A brunette version of Melissa, complete with French-manicured nails and a too-heavily-made-up face, types my flight number into her computer.

"That flight doesn't leave for another six hours," she informs me. "You can't check in until four hours before the flight."

"Can I just check this bag?" I motion toward the large suitcase beside me, which I would gladly abandon if I could figure out a way to do so without raising suspicion. "I have to go help my parents in another terminal. My mother's on oxygen and they can't manage by themselves."

"I'm sorry," the airline worker says. "Those are the rules."

"You don't understand," I tell her, my voice cracking and the tears I never seem to run out of starting to flow. "My mother's on oxygen," I repeat, openly weeping now. "If I don't help her change her tank in an hour, she won't be able to breathe. She will die," I wail, not caring that people are starting to murmur and stare.

"Let me get the manager," the woman says, disappearing through a door in the wall behind her. I can't believe I'm finally having the meltdown I've managed to hold at bay ever since I left home eleven days ago. I sob for a few more minutes and then pull myself together just as the door in the wall opens and a man comes out of it and walks briskly over to me.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks, his voice professional yet kind. I explain the entire situation to him and he takes care of everything: putting me on an earlier flight so that I can check my luggage through and a.s.suring me that if I miss that flight, there will still be a s.p.a.ce for me on my original, later one. Then he issues me a special pa.s.s that will allow me to return to Terminal One, go through security, and meet my parents at their gate.

"I made it," I announce, once I finally find them.

"Oh look, Doris. Lydia's here," my father says casually, as if we are meeting for lunch at a neighborhood diner.

"See, Mom, I told you there was nothing to worry about." Her wheelchair is parked at the end of a row of seats and I sit down next to her and take her hand. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm all right," she says, but her voice lacks confidence.

"Do you want something to eat?"

"Maybe something small. A m.u.f.fin. Blueberry if they have it. But no coffee. I don't want to have to go to the bathroom."

"I'll have coffee," my father says. "And a copy of the Times if you can find one."

I head off toward the newsstands and food court and return bearing breakfast and the morning paper. My mother takes her food and watches me spread a thick slab of cream cheese across one half of the onion bagel I've bought for myself.

"Not so much," she says, frowning. "You've lost some weight, Lydia, that's the only good thing that's come out of this. It would be a shame if you gained it all back."

"Mom," I groan, spreading the cream cheese on even thicker, for spite. "I like my body the way it is. I don't want to lose any weight."

"Lydia, you may feel that way now but take it from me, as you get older it's much harder to-"

"Mom, please. Drop it." I've never spoken to my mother like this before and am shocked when she actually obeys my request. Though she does get the last word in by shrugging one shoulder as if to say, Okay, Lydia, but don't say I didn't warn you...

Soon the waiting area is crowded to overflowing with other pa.s.sengers flying to New York. After we finish breakfast, I look down at my mother's oxygen tank and notice that the needle of its gauge has just hit the red zone, signaling that the supply is getting low.

"Hey, Dad?" I poke the front page of the newspaper he is holding up in front of him.

"What is it, Lydia?"

"You need to change Mom's oxygen tank."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

My father exhales heavily, knowing that his moment of truth has arrived. He bends down and studies the tank, trying to remember everything he has recently learned about it. "I turn the wrench this way?" he asks me, twisting it to the left.

"I'm not helping," I answer, folding my arms. "I'm not going home with you. You need to figure it out yourself."

"All right." He sets to work and as far as I can tell, after a few false starts, does everything the way he's supposed to. When he finishes he looks at my mother anxiously. "All set, Doris? Are you getting the oxygen?"

"No," she says. "I'm not getting anything." She takes the nasal cannula out of her nose, checks the two p.r.o.ngs, and inserts them into her nostrils again. "No," she says again, shaking her head. "Nothing."

"What do you mean nothing? You're not getting anything? I did it right." My father checks everything again. "Are you sure, Doris?"

She throws him a look and says, "I'm sure," her own anxiety clearly rising. Both my parents turn to me but I just shake my head and refold my arms. My mother sighs, knowing that the time has come to take matters into her own hands, and she does so literally, checking the gauge, and the dosage k.n.o.b, and then pulling on the tubing of her nasal cannula, the bottom end of which she soon discovers has come loose and is no longer fastened to the tank. "Um, Max," my mother says, holding up the end of the clear plastic tube like someone showing her baffled spouse why the toaster or the television set is no longer working: it isn't plugged in.

"Whoops." My father attaches the tube where it belongs, underneath the gauge. "How's that?" My mother waits a minute and then nods, once again back in the saddle. Now that the problem is solved, all three of us relax and breathe a little easier.

All too soon a flight attendant comes over to help my parents onto the plane before general boarding begins. She instructs me to leave the extra oxygen tanks behind the desk for the medical supply company to pick up later, and then it is really time to say good-bye.

"Lydia." My father grabs me into a fierce hug and squeezes me like he never wants to let go. "I can't thank you enough. Really. You were terrific. We wouldn't have survived without you." When he straightens up and pushes me away, I see that his eyes are wet.

"Good-bye, Dad," I say, offering him a tissue, which he takes and turns away to use, embarra.s.sed that once again I've seen him cry.

"Good-bye, Mom." I bend down to embrace my mother, who seems so small in my arms. "I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart," my mother says. "Have a good trip home. And tell Allie I said thank you for letting me borrow you for so long."

"I will. You have a good trip, too. Don't forget the oxygen company will be at your gate with more tanks as soon as you get off the plane. And Jack will meet you at baggage claim and drive you home."

The flight attendant waits politely as we hug and kiss one last time, and when we are finally through, she wheels my mother away, my father trailing behind them. A minute later the woman comes back out, pus.h.i.+ng the wheelchair in front of her, now empty of my mother. Balanced on the seat instead is her clunky green oxygen tank. The sight of it undoes me and all I can think of is the day we put Princess, the poodle we had when I was growing up, to sleep. We brought the poor old pooch to the vet, who took her in his arms and disappeared into his back office, only to return to the waiting area a few moments later bearing her tags, leash, and collar. I sobbed then, and I sob now, just as shamelessly.

"Your parents are all set," the flight attendant tells me, awkwardly patting my back. "They're sitting right in the front, and your mother is all hooked up. Don't worry. There's plenty of oxygen on the plane. She'll be fine."

I thank the flight attendant and, having no other choice, take her word for it. Standing at the plate gla.s.s window still sniffling, I look out at my parents' plane, hoping to catch a glimpse of them, but of course that's impossible. Now that they're on board, there's nothing left for me to do but make my way back to my own terminal, which I do, though not in time to catch my re-booked earlier flight. I wait around the airport for several hours, and then once I finally do board, I doze the whole first leg of the journey, sleepwalk my way through the Chicago airport, change planes, and snooze through the second flight, too. Then before I know it, I am rising from my seat, shuffling down the aisle behind my fellow travelers, and then racing through the terminal in search of Allie, who is standing as close as she can behind the security checkpoint, her eyes scanning the faces of all the pa.s.sengers streaming toward her. I push my way through the crowd and at last the distance between us-both real and imagined-disappears as I throw myself, sobbing yet again, though this time with tears of relief, into her waiting arms.