Fixing myself a BLT, complete with microwaved bacon because who really has time to cook it in a pan, I park my butt on a stool to wait for Emerson. Not even thirty seconds later, she bursts through my door, huffing and puffing as if she ran the whole way here.
“What’s the matter with you!” I cry, coughing up bits of my sandwich I inhaled at her dramatic entrance. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Sorry, I just have news and I’m so excited!” She sits down beside me, picking up my uneaten half of sandwich and takes a bite.
“Um, did you want one?” I offer after the fact. She shakes her head no, shoving the rest of the food in her mouth. “Okay, then. Well I did,” I grumble. I wander over to the microwave to cook a few more pieces of bacon. “Spill, Em. What’s your news?”
“Okay, so get this,” she starts, stopping for a dramatic pause. “Grant asked me out today!” she squeals, clapping her hands together like a five year old at the circus.
“That’s great, really. What are you guys going to do?” I ask as I arrange the bacon in a crosshatch pattern on top of the lettuce.
“He’s taking me to the dinner theater on 1st.”
The dinner theater on 1st Ave is about thirty minutes away and used to be a movie theater in the 1970’s. The old abandoned building was bought up about 10 years ago, renovated, and turned into an expensive night out complete with a three course meal and a two hour show. For obvious reasons, I’ve never been there, but I can tell Emerson is totally pumped.
“Whoa, that’s got to be expensive. I bet you’ll have a great time,” I tell her, tamping down the ugly green monster inside me.
We take up residence on my bed, and I fill Emerson in on my day, including a detailed description of my panic attack. She listens deeply and effortlessly, like I knew she would, and offers lovely bouts of profanity at all the appropriate places. Feeling like I bared my soul and I’m emotionally empty, I tell her about Mrs. Marsden, and how I’m going to visit her tonight.
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Thanks, but it’s okay. Kelsey and Finn are both working tonight so I’ll be fine. She may not even die tonight. There’s no way to estimate something like this. She could hang on for a couple more weeks easily.”
Emerson glances at her cell, typing out a rapid-fire text. “Well, I should go then, so you can head over. It’s nearing six and I have some homework to do. Another fricken English assignment. Mrs. Bergson will be the death of me this semester.”
“You’ll make it,” I console her. “Thanks for coming by. I needed this after my day today.”
“It’s no problem. I love spending time with my best friend, but maybe you should think about laying off Mr. Ryan. If all you accomplish is getting yourself worked up, it’s not worth it,” she offers, giving me a long, hard hug. “See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. See you first period.”
***
Monica’s room is quiet when I walk in, only a small bedside lamp casting a comforting glow over the room. Kelsey told me her son, David, stepped out for a bite to eat when he heard I was coming by. I’ve gotten to know David over the past year as he likes to visit his mom frequently, especially in the evenings. He’s in his mid-forties, married with two kids, and lives right across town. I’ve even bumped into him out and about while picking up groceries or getting a bite to eat, and we’ve chatted about his mom before going on our separate ways. I feel sorry for him; losing a loved one that I didn’t have a connection with was hard, but losing a loved one you shared your entire life with? I can’t even imagine the pain he is beginning to feel, knowing her time is imminent.
Sinking down to kneel beside her bed, I take her cold hand between both of mine.
“Hi, Monica,” I tell her gently, trying not to rouse her but wanting her to know I’m here. “It’s Tatum. I came to visit you for a bit.” She doesn’t stir, and I didn’t expect her to, so I sit quietly and trace small circles around her hand with my thumb. I thought it might be strange or eerie, to sit in a room with a dying person, knowing they aren’t really with you, waiting for them to pass, but I actually feel a calm sense of acceptance. She looks peaceful.
I begin talking about my day, telling Monica about my calculus teacher and how he seems to push every button I have. I talk to her about Emerson, and how I’m trying to not let my jealousy get the best of me when I feel I’m just as pretty, just as deserving as Emerson to have someone like me. How I’m almost eighteen years old and yet, I’ve never been on a date or been given flowers or had someone dote on me. I’ve never even been given a love note of any kind, even the little stupid ones from third grade that say ‘check yes or no.’ And I don’t stop to wipe the tears running from the corners of my eyes as I tell her how I wish I had a mother as caring and kind, as full of wisdom as she always was before the last few months when her mind started to slip.
I reach over to her bookshelf and pull out the dark brown, cloth covered journal she used to spend her life writing about different events, words her children spoke, or thought provoking questions she had. This book, written by hand, is filled with her life’s history, and even though I’ve read it to her a hundred times, I sit back and begin reading it aloud again.
“If she were awake right now, she’d love to listen to that.” David startles me after about five pages in, and comes to take a seat on the foot of her bed, rubbing his mother’s leg, looking down at her with such an intense admiration, I almost look away. But I don’t. I want to witness this, something I will probably never have in my own life. It’s a masochistic action, but what can I say? I’m used to inflicting pain.
“How long were you listening?” I ask, wondering if he overheard my blubbering rant.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I think you needed to get that out,” he says without looking at me.
I feel he’s giving me as much privacy as he can to absorb the fact that I wasn’t alone with Monica. All I can manage is a slight nod of my head, not wanting to meet his eyes.
“How long are you staying?” he asks softly.
“I’m not sure, but I can go if you’d like to be alone.”
“I just need a minute. I need to get home to my kids so my wife can work tonight. I think my mother and I have spent a lot of time together today, and if tonight is the night, I feel I’m at peace.”
Without another word, I walk into the hall, closing the door to give David some privacy. He opens the door a few minutes later, and stops in front of me on his way down the hall. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I meet his steady gaze head on.
“Have someone call me if…you know. I’ll come right over,” he says and I nod my head in affirmation. “It’s been wonderful getting to know you over the past year Tatum, and I can’t even express how touched my mother would be to know you felt comfortable enough to share your emotions with her the way you just did. Thank you for all you’ve done for my family. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, kiddo.” He squeezes my shoulder once more, before continuing his way down the hall.
My feet are cemented to the floor, and after a few minutes of soaking in his gratitude, I find my way back into Monica’s room, sinking back down onto the floor where I cry.
I’m interrupted a few times throughout the night, as the nurse comes in to check on Monica every couple of hours. Around midnight, I had dozed off, and woke up to this awful choking sound coming from the bed. Mrs. Marsden was still asleep, but when she breathed, her chest made this dreadful gurgling sound, like the sound of a child blowing bubbles through a straw into a thick milkshake. After calling the nurse down, she informed me Monica was experiencing what is termed ‘the death rattle.” The name gives me all sorts of comfort. She told me it doesn’t hurt, and Monica’s body is slowly beginning to shut down. She gave me some sponges to help keep Monica’s mouth moist with water, and told me to call if I need anything.