“Can you remember them?”
The woman massaged Heidi’s cheek until she opened her mouth. She deposited the food carefully, not too far back, and Heidi chewed.
“No, sorry. It’s not sentences. Just words.”
In a depressed state, Heidi lost sentences, and whole thoughts. She only had words, like the list. If that. It was unbearably sad.
Maud kept up a stream of conversation with the orderly and arranged a shampoo schedule with her. The fact was, she should be living closer so she could be more on top of things. She’d have to come more often, though the thought of making all these arrangements again was disheartening. Her life was so different from those of her friends, many of whom were single and working and out on the town. Maud could barely remember being out. The drink with Miles did not count! Not that she cared all that much, but a choice would be nice. Wasn’t that what was always at issue? The freedom to choose.
“I can get you a tray,” the orderly offered. “We have extra.”
“No thanks,” Maud said. “I’ll eat later.”
“You seeing people?”
“No. You?”
“I’ll go to my sister’s…”
She went on about who’d be there, the food, her relief at not being the cook, keeping up the same kind of patter as Maud had earlier. Maud half listened as she watched her listless mother eat by rote. Sounds made their way in from around the floor, other patients, other families, the metallic ring of a bucket struck by a foot or a broom, the elevator bell. A version of life. This was probably as good as it got, as Agnes Lee had suggested. Maud spent a few minutes lulled by that notion, until she realized she’d begun to acclimate to the situation—realized it when the rhythmic scraping of the plate, the gray meat, the pathetic pudding cup that Heidi couldn’t even open on her own suddenly angered her. It wasn’t acceptable! Maud had to get her mother better. She chose that she had no choice.
At the end of the meal she asked the orderly to leave Heidi sitting up. Maud went to the bathroom and ran warm water over a washcloth until it was soaked.
“I’m going to wash your face, Mom.”
Gently, she ran the cloth over the familiar contours, a well-known and much-loved landscape. Heidi was compliant, and was it possible she enjoyed it? Maud took each of Heidi’s hands and washed them, too. She considered doing her feet—surely she needed her nails cut—but that might be too much for one day. Heidi had been traumatized and Maud didn’t want to inadvertently poke at a weak spot.
When Heidi was rinsed and relaxed, Maud took her hand again.
“Mom, you have to talk to me now. You can’t go on like this. If you do you are going to be moved to a place where no one is expected to get better. That is not what should happen to you! It shouldn’t happen to me and Clemmie, either. We need you. So you have to try.”
Did she see a flicker of comprehension behind Heidi’s eyes?
“The doctor here showed me a list of words you wrote a long time ago. I’m going to read them to you now, and I want you to tell me anything you can about them.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the paper. “Here they are.” She read them one by one, snow, cold, fur, boots, ashes, pausing between each of them to search her mother’s face. She gathered all her will into one tough spot next to the hard sob in her chest and aimed a beam out of it straight at Heidi’s heart. Speak, she willed. Speak!
But Heidi did not speak. Maud folded the paper and put it away.
“All right. It’s a holiday. But I’ll be back soon, Mom, and we’ll try again. This is not going to be how you end up. It just isn’t!”
She helped her mother lie back down and sat for another hour watching over her. She thought she had been taking care of her and in charge of her health, but now she saw she’d been doing it from the vantage point of someone about fifteen years old who still wanted the adults to fix everything. But I am the adult, she thought. It’s me and me alone.
To her surprise, knowing she had to fight harder actually felt good.
She went back up to the apartment and found that an entire Thanksgiving dinner had been left for her on the counter. She began to cry. She wasn’t used to being taken care of—she was the carer. Who had done this? Agnes had sent someone, possibly Mrs. Blundt, possibly another helper Maud hadn’t heard of, but Agnes had to be behind it. Maud had already half-forgiven Agnes, and this pushed her feeling toward gratitude. Extra stuffing. Extra cranberry sauce. Perfect.
While she ate, she continued her exploration of the lives of the Franklin Square girls, saving the notebooks for a little later purely for the pleasure of anticipation. She opened the third book, The Franklin Square Girls Know It When They See It.
Gail entered the Zendo in the wrong spirit. Focus and serenity were about as far from her thoughts as the sun from Pluto. Husband, kids, house, you name it—though when she actually named it, it was called Rosalyn. Her mother. Where other mothers seemed to become softer and more accepting as they aged, Rosalyn was harsher, more cynical, more sharply critical. This morning she had called Gail to say she’d been lying in bed the night before thinking that Gail’s bras didn’t fit correctly. Too much fat hung over the band in the back, which was a distracting sight. She suggested Gail go to a good fitter, perhaps even in New York, a knowledgeable older woman who’d find styles that were more complimentary. Gail shook with rage, thinking of it. She took a seat on the cushion and leaped right up again. Sorry, she mouthed to the Zen master, and headed for a bar.
So arch! The girls were now women in their forties with children who were caught up in Beatlemania, while they were having affairs and smoking pot and taking tranquilizers and being treated dismissively at work and wishing they were either younger or older but not as they were. Maud carried the book into the tub and then into her bed and read for the rest of the evening. She laughed aloud, often, and wished there were fifty books in the series rather than only six. She’d track down a set when she got home. She decided she’d take one with her to read on the train and mail it back. What harm done?
The next morning, Friday, she packed her bag, unnecessarily checked the train schedule again—she’d take a train in the afternoon—and settled in the living room with coffee and muffins to read the rest of the notebooks.
CHAPTER 21 Agnes, Leeward Cottage, October 1960
Dear Elspeth,
Today I went to the library in Deel Town and asked the young woman behind the desk for help.
She called me by name, yet I didn’t recognize her. “Of course, Miss Lee, I’d be glad to help if I can.”
“Remind me who you are?”
“I am Karen Concord.”
“Karen, of course. I apologize.”
“That’s all right, Miss Lee. I met you when you came in with Mrs. Wister last summer. I make a point of remembering our patrons.”
She was all angles and droopiness. A narrow jaw with an overbite. Brown wispy hair hanging in icicles that poked into her upper chest. Ill-fitting clothes. She smelled of mothballs, to top it off. Honestly, Elspeth, it’s not hard to look at a magazine. Or is that harsh?
“I’m sorry I don’t know you. Are you from around?” I asked.