Losing Control(88)

She flushes with pleasure at the compliment, and I glow inside at how he understands that it is because she loves me—and perhaps because she is beginning to care for him—that she is brave enough to voice her concerns.

On the Sunday before her chemo day, I take her to the Frick Museum. She says she wants to spend time with me. It is our favorite museum, and not because on Sundays they have a policy of “paying what you wish.” Today I drop in a fifty to cover all the other visits when we paid nothing. The Frick is a treasure chest of a museum, only two floors with everything from Fragonard—my mother’s favorite—to Whistler. We walk around the museum, arms clasped around each other, and end our tour in the atrium.

The fountain is working, the water quietly gurgling over the stone bowls and into the pool below. The foliage helps to soften the stone walls and the tall pillars. The atmosphere and the glass ceiling are so calming that the stone benches actually feel comfortable despite their hard surfaces.

“It’s hard to believe someone lived in this place. Can you even imagine having a reflecting pool in your living room?”

“I can’t imagine the upkeep.”

Then we smile at each other because this is the same conversation we have at the end of every visit.

“I’m so glad that you have Ian,” she says.

“I’m not sure that I have him so much as I’m being dragged behind one of his fancy cars as he speeds toward some destination only he knows.”

“I’ll tell you one thing I’ve learned in the last three years, and that is you need to seize opportunities for happiness when they present themselves to you. Don’t close this one out. Give him a chance.” She squeezes my hands and glances out the window that shows the tops of the trees of Central Park. “I don't want you to end up alone.”

“I won’t.” I lean over and kiss her on the cheek, ignoring the paper-thin feel of her skin. “I have you.”

Steve is idling illegally on Fifth Avenue when we depart.

“Not having to wait for a taxi or bus is certainly worth extra effort.” Mom winks at me. Steve gets out and helps Mom into the car, carefully propping up her feet on the extended leg rest. The venture out drained all her energy and she’s asleep before we hit midtown. He must have called ahead because Ian greets us at the curb.

“Thanks, Steve. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It takes both of us to help my mother up to the apartment. He shoots me a worried look as he supports her slim weight, but I refuse to acknowledge the concern in his eyes.

“She’s fine,” I mouth to him.

“Lie down with me, Tiny,” she says when we step into her bedroom. I ignore Ian’s worry and help Mom into bed.

Using the remote, I shut the drapes and roll onto my side so I can cuddle with my mom as we did when I was a child. Because it was the two of us, we often slept together even as I grew older. Lying here with her now, though, I feel as if I’m the protector and she’s my child.

“I love you, Mommy,” I whisper, laying my hand on her chest.

“Love you too, dear. More than all the stars in the sky.” Her cool hand covers mine, lightly gripping it as she drifts off into sleep. The steady, even sound of her breathing is comforting and I let my cares drift away, cocooned in the expensive comforter inside this lush apartment and holding my mother’s hand while my lover waits for me.

It is everything I could have hoped for.

But while I sleep, a cold drifts over us, waking me. My mother’s hand is ice cold and there is blood coming out of her nose, dripping onto the pillowcase. There’s a dark, ugly pool on the side of her face.

“Ian!” I scream, shaking my mother but she is non-responsive. “Iannnnn!”

He’s at the doorway and then at my side.

“I already called 911.” He has the phone in his hand.

He slides a finger into her mouth and then tips her head back to clear her airways. Then he blows into her mouth. Once. Twice. He pumps her chest, one hand folded over the other. Blowing and pumping over and over as I grip my hands to my mouth to keep the screams inside me.

I don’t remember the ambulance arriving or the trip to the hospital. I only recall the sounds. The shrill whistle of the sirens as we sped uptown toward the hospital. The digital beeps from the machine. The thud of the crash cart. It’s a macabre symphony playing a funeral march. And the drum beat that I want to hear never comes.

I know she is gone before anyone comes to the waiting room. I suppose I knew it when we were at Frick and she was telling me goodbye. I didn't want to acknowledge it was goodbye, so I shushed her. I wasn’t ready to hear her talk of death, even though that was what she needed—whether it was to prepare herself or me, I’m not entirely sure.