Hole

Dan glanced back and forth between the number on the door to the scrap of paper in his hand. Confirming. Reconfirming. Confirming once more. This can’t be the right room. That woman sitting in there reading in the reclining chair, the woman he could see through the open door, that’s not her. That can’t be. That woman is old. The slumped shoulders. The white mass of disheveled hair, matted in places, obscuring the profile of her slack face. None of these were familiar. But the name on the clipboard hanging outside the door, that was her name. And the woman’s hands, the hands holding the newspaper…yes, those were hers. He knew those long, graceful fingers. Fingers that had washed him, buttoned his shirts, tied his shoes. He put the scrap of paper back in his pocket, pulled on the hangnail on his thumb a few times and stepped in.

“Mom?” he called out softly as he came to stand in front of her.

Her head jerked up, brow creased, her clouded eyes peering into his. Recognition slowly erased the lines on her forehead.

“Dan!” she gasped. “Oh, I was just thinking about you! I was doing the crossword and it asked for something in French and I thought, ‘Dan would know.’ Now here you are!”

“Here I am.” he said softly, stooping to kiss her cheek, his trembling hand reached out to grasp hers.

She smelled the same, and yet, she didn’t. There was the scent of Emeraude he always associated with her, but it was mixed with something sharp, something medicinal. He caught sight of an orange, plastic chair in the corner, under the IV pole with its green, blinking light. Gently setting down her hand, he seized the chair and brought it to sit facing her.

The January wind threw snow against the room’s one large window behind him and frost gathered in its corners. The frost brought visions of candles burning, of snow angels and hot cocoa. He drew his coat more tightly around him and sat down.

“How...” he croaked. “How do you feel?” He gnawed on his upper lip, then his lower.

“Oh, the doctor says, I’m sick but I feel fine.” she smiled, setting the newspaper in her lap. “Except for the headaches. But they’re gone now, now that I’ve got my friends there!” she pointed at the paper pill cup on the bed table. “The doctor was talking about some problem with the MRI. I dunno. I can’t remember.”

To Dan the diagnosis was unforgettable. That memory was glaringly, hauntingly clear: sitting in the overly white office…was it only this afternoon?, twisting the ring on his finger over and over again as Dr. Ortiz pointed out sections of the scan. He could picture the right temporal lobe perfectly – healthy brain tissue surrounding a black hole the size of a tennis ball, dead tissue that the tumor had already eaten away. He shook himself and realized she was still talking.

“…so good to see you. You’ve been away so long! How long have you lived out in California now? Two or three years?” He looked at her wide-eyed. An exit sign flickering erratically in hallway beyond her made him blink.

He squeezed eyes closed. “It’s only been five months, Mom.”

“Five months? Really? Seems like longer.” Her voice lilted.
He put a smile on his face, took her hand in both of his and leaned forward.

“No, we left in July. Remember the party? Remember how hot it was?” This past July – years ago when you were young. Remember? Please remember.

“Party?” she said vaguely, then a slight gasp “Your hair is getting so long!” she reached out and touched his shoulder length, brown hair.

He took her shaking hand in his and pressed her splotched fingers to his lips. Then sitting back, he stuffed his traitor hands in his pockets and looked wildly about the room as her gaze drifted back to the paper in her lap. Rubbing away the wetness at the corner of his eyes he took in the charts, the stack of magazines on the bed table, the EEG with its moving colored lines, the green bedpan, the cards on the shelf above the bed. Get Well cards. A chuckle died in his throat. Turning to look out the window, he saw that the lights in the parking lot were barely visible in the darkness through the swirling snow. He caught his own reflection in the window. The dark circles under his eyes and the two-day stubble made him look away and he noticed the flowers on side table. Flowers that contrasted starkly with the sterility of their surroundings. Three bouquets of red roses. His nostrils flared and his lips seemed to have a life of their own – working this way and that.

“Look at all the flowers!” he blurted.

She turned to look at them “Oh, yes. My, they’re pretty.” she said as if seeing them for the first time. “You know your dad used to give me a dozen red roses on my birthday every year. Now that he’s gone your brothers and sister do it. Only it’s not my birthday…Is it?”

“No, Mom. It’s not.” The unwatched television mounted on the ceiling was softly playing an old musical comedy. A particularly sharp clatter of icy snow against the window propelled him out of his chair to sit on the arm of hers. “They just gave you the roses because you’re sick. You know that, right? That you’re very sick?”

“That’s what that Mexican doctor was saying.” she said, scratching the back of her left hand where the IV was attached. “But I’ll get better. Can’t wait to get out of here and have some real food.”

“I think she’s Spanish, Mom.” he smiled a real smile now. Then reaching his arms around her, he drew her bird-like foreignness to him. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll get you home soon. You’ll be more comfortable there.”

He rested his head on the top of hers and, knowing that she couldn’t see, closed his eyes and let out a slow breath as her hand absently caressed his arm. They remained there a few minutes in silence, listening to the music coming from the television. Seventy-six trombones led the big parade…

“Oh, I’m feeling tired,” she yawned. “Will you help me into bed? Can’t seem to stand lately by myself without falling over.”

“Sure.”

He took her elbow and helped her to cross the few steps to the bed, his hands more steady than before. Then, when she sat down, he drew her legs up onto the bed, careful to keep her gown in place, then adjusted her head on the crackling pillow and tucked her in under the thin, white bedspread.

“Sleep well, Mom.”

He smoothed her hair and peered at her face as if trying to memorize every line, waiting until she dozed off. He turned off the overhead, fluorescent light on his way out. Shutting the door behind him, he leaned his back against the corridor wall. His breath came in gasps as he rested his hands against his knees.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered staring at the floor. “I’m sorry.”

When his breathing steadied, he stood, buttoned his borrowed blue wool coat, put on his gloves and walked quickly down the deserted hall to the elevators.