Several times Saffee has heard the story of her parents’ first meeting, at a dance, of course. With pride, Joann told her how popular she had been at dances, and how Nels had quickly claimed her as his own.
“You sure look nice, Joann,” Nels says. “You always did look good in red.” She wears a shapeless bed jacket. “Someone’s cut your hair.” The salt-and-pepper hair is short, very short. “When it grows a little I’ll give ’em some extry cash to give you a permanent,” he says. He’s always liked curls.
“Sapphire! When I’m old and infirm, promise you’ll cut the hairs on my chinny-chin-chin. Promise me now . . .”
Since their arrival, Joann’s face has been without expression, but her eyes slide from side to side. Saffee picks up her chair and carries it around the bed, placing it near Nels where perhaps her mother can see them both at once.
What goes on in her mother’s head now? If the stroke quelled her delusions, as the doctor seems to think, perhaps it was a blessed thing. Too long was she caught in cycles of fairly acceptable behavior when medicated and full-blown schizophrenia when she refused drugs. No longer will there be scandal because she runs down the street scantily clad or knocks on neighbors’ doors to warn of apocryphal dangers. Nels no longer will suffer the humiliation of obtaining court orders to recommit her to the state mental hospital. No more calls for police assistance. At great cost, it appears her torment is swept away.
“Mother . . .” Saffee’s words have come with great difficulty during prior visits. Tonight she must try harder to bridge an emotional hurdle. Ignoring how warm she is in her black sheath, she begins. “Mother, I just want you to know that I’m fine, being married and all, I mean. I’m really good. I have a good life . . . and . . . a lot of credit for that goes to you.”
There is no indication that Joann comprehends, but Saffee continues, “Mother, remember the vegetable soup you always made for us? Now that the weather’s cold, I make it too. Just like you did. Jack really likes it.”
Saffee glances at him. She knows he must be a little uneasy, but he smiles and says, “That’s right, Joann, it’s very good.”
“I just want you to know that I appreciate that you always made us good meals.” Nels nods at her, approving her effort to communicate.
Joann’s eyes steady on her daughter’s face. Saffee searches for more, anything more. “I remember once you told me to never serve liver and brown beans and chocolate cake at the same meal—too much brown.”
“Ugh!” she hears Jack breathe. “Please don’t!”
Saffee laughs. “Funny, the things that stick with a person, right, Mother?”
She searches how to extend her awkward, one-way chatter.
“Oh! Guess what Jack bought me for Christmas—a sewing machine. Singer, of course. You always said they’re the best. I’m going to try to make curtains for our kitchen. Like you did. I couldn’t begin to count all the curtains and draperies you made over the years.”
She feels a duty to carry on the stilted conversation. Nels, never much of a talker, probably runs out of things to say during his frequent solo visits. Jack is quiet. Saffee crosses and uncrosses her legs, being careful not to brush against the bed rail. A run in her sheer black hose would not be good at the party.
“Remember when you used to draw a lot, Mom? Even tricky things like faces and cute little squirrels and rabbits. And all those floor plans for the Cottonwood Point house. You were so good at it. I’m planning to learn calligraphy. If I do it well, it will probably be because you passed on some of your artistic talent.”
Saffee’s heartfelt urge to inventory her mother’s contributions to her life surprises her. She wants to continue. Wants to tell her gifted, fractured mother that she loves classical music because of all the records Joann used to play. But the eyes have closed. They hear a soft snore. Music can wait until another visit.
Jack looks at his watch and Saffee reaches to retrieve her coat. Then suddenly she knows there is one more thing she must say, even if it is not heard.
“Mother,” she declares, “I’m taking the paint off the Norway table.” She would not be surprised if Joann’s eyes popped open at this announcement. But there is no movement.
“I hope that’s good news, Mother. I . . . I hope you’re glad about it. I never understood why you painted it all the time, but I just know that paint must come off.” Saffee rambles a bit, saying that she suspects painting the table served to heighten her mother’s trauma. She tells her that the removal is not a defiant or rebellious act, but a necessity. “The work is, well, therapeutic for me.” She glances at Jack. “It’s been healing, and I didn’t even know I needed healing. And also, Mom, I began to imagine, and hope, really hope . . .” She chokes, making it hard to go on. “I hope that as I release layer after layer of paint, you, too, might be released from the grip of . . . well . . .