“Your mother had her share of difficulties too—a dependence on alcohol, your dad’s death. It may not justify her behavior, but it could explain it. Besides, the most difficult things are what shape and define us,” Penny said.
She gave me a sandalwood-and-marijuana-scented hug, kissed my cheek, and slipped out the door. I drained my wineglass before turning the lights out and leaving the bees in darkness.
SEVEN
HOW MUCH LONGER?” OLIVIAasked, her nose smashed against the glass of the dining room window overlooking the driveway.
“I don’t know.”
“They said four, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, what time is it?” she asked.
I smiled. “Two minutes later than the last time you asked.”
“Which is?”
I showed her my watch. “Four-oh-five.”
Olivia was dressed in her ballet clothes—pink tights, leotard, pink slippers, and a little frilly pink tutu. She didn’t have class until six, but she had insisted on putting on her ballet things as soon as she got home from school. She wanted to be wearing them when she met her grandmother.
“So she’ll know I’m a dancer,” she’d explained, then had asked me to do her hair, putting it in a ballet bun and pinning it in place.
“When will she be here?” Olivia asked for the hundredth time.
I sighed. It was like waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve.
We’d spent the last few days in a mad fit of preparations: the guest room was cleaned, the bed moved out and replaced by a hospital bed. The medical supply company had also delivered a bedpan, commode, shower chair, wheelchair, and walker. A contractor came and installed grab bars and a retractable showerhead in the downstairs bathroom. I’d been on the phone with Paul several times a day. Keeping to his word, he had arranged everything—up to and including having groceries delivered sowe’d be stocked up on all the things my mother ate these days: creamed soups, ice cream, pudding, ginger ale, Ensure. He even sent me a recipe for custard he’d been making for her.
He sent all her medical records to a local hospice agency he’d contacted. He had her prescriptions transferred to a pharmacy in town. We were ready. Or as ready as we could be.
And to be honest, all these preparations had given me something to focus on so I wouldn’t have time to spiral out of control and ask myself:What in God’s name have I done?There was comfort in making lists and checking items off them.
Mark and I had stood together in the guest room last night. We’d replaced its beautiful old iron bed with the rented hospital bed. There were fresh flowers on the table. Olivia’sWELCOME GRANDMA MAVISsign was taped right over the bed. The closet and dresser were emptied out, waiting to be filled with my mother’s things.
“I guess this is really happening, huh?” Mark said, putting his arm around me.
“Yup,” I said, the reality of it starting to sink in. My mother was actually coming. We would see her get sicker and sicker; she would be here when she died.
“Nervous?” Mark asked.
“A little,” I said. I leaned against him. “Okay, maybe slightly terrified,” I’d admitted, switching off the light.
“Maybe they got lost,” Olivia said now.
“I doubt that, honey. I’m sure they’ll be here any minute.”
Izzy was upstairs in her room doing homework with her headphones on. Mark was still at work. He’d offered to leave school early, to get a substitute for his last class of the day, but I’d told him it was fine. “I’ve got this,” I’d said, smiling as reassuringly as I could. “Besides, Paul will be here. He can babysit us, make sure neither of us kills the other or anything.” Even though I’d said it with a wink, Mark did not seem amused.
Olivia backed away from the window, did three twirls across the hardwood floor, carefully avoiding the table and chairs.
“Nice twirls,” I said.
“They’re not twirls, Mom,” she said as she stopped spinning. “They’repiqués.” She stomped back over to the window, pressing her nose against the cold glass.
“Do you want to read a book or something?” I suggested. “Maybe do the math worksheet Mrs. Fletcher sent home with you?”
