I Remember

Pamela R. Winnick

Pamelarwinnick@Yahoo.com

412-901-1631

I Remember

I remember looking at that woman in the bathroom mirror, that familiar-looking old woman with folds of flesh rolling down her neck, gray hair so thin I could see her scalp, and a  half- moon  of blue and black around one eye. As I stepped closer, I noticed that her lips were swollen and crisscrossed with a rivulet of blood.  

How had this happened? Had I fallen yet again?  I could remember the last time. I'd missed a step and tumbled down the staircase, breaking four bones in my wrist.  Soon after, my son installed ramps and more bannisters. "You were lucky this time," the doctor said as he wrapped up my wrist. "Had you broken a hip, you'd be in a wheelchair. Or worse. Don't you think it's time to move out of that old house?"

I didn't.  

My knees ached as I shuffled to the kitchen in my worn-out slippers. I boiled a kettle of water, opened the cabinet marked "tea and coffee," poured the steaming water over a tea bag. and sat at the table.  Every drawer and cabinet had been labeled: flour, sugar, utensils, pots and pans, silverware. I recognized the large loopy letters scratched in red ink, the tiny hearts beneath them.  Suzanne. Or was it Suzette? My son's big -toothed wife stopped by every Saturday. A toothy smile on her face, she'd lug in the groceries. "I'm just looking in on my favorite 'Mom,'" she'd gush.

As I sipped my tea, I gazed out the window onto my the rolling slopes of my acreage. Leaves on the long-dead trees had turned green, and the daffodils had somehow survived yet another winter. In the distance, I could see the playground Doug had installed way back, first for our own kids, later for the grandchildren he hadn't lived to see. I remember the day I sat beneath the shade of a sycamore and watched his strong hands hammer together the swings, the slide, the tiny club house on top with a shiny red roof. I remember his smell: a mixture of sweat and Irish Spring. And I remember his long illness, his groans, his pain, the medication bottles lined up on the table beside his bed, the curtains drawn.  Good thing he hadn’t hung on long enough to see me like this.

The phone blasted from the wall.  As I leapt to my feet, I spilled my tea into the saucer. I remember the fine bone china set, roses with a gold trim, that had been passed down the generations. I knew it would end up at the Salvation Army, along with my Steinway, my art, my hand-knit afghans. And my home. I remember that man in a greasy suit and slicked back hair who'd wanted to build condos on my property. "In the name of progress," he'd said, standing too close. "We need more homes in this part of Pennsylvania." Though he'd offered me millions, I'd slammed the door in his face.  

"Hello?" I shouted after the fifth ring. Only then did I remember that I'd forgotten to put in my hearing aids. Where were they anyway? I had no idea.

"Hi, Mom," came that cheerful voice, which, thankfully, was loud enough for me.  "How are you this morning?"

"Perfect," I lied. "Just perfect."

"It's a beautiful day," she chirped. "Josh and I thought we'd pop by this afternoon. With the kids off to college, we've been a bit lonely." 

"Today?"

"Four-ish, we were thinking."

I remembered that face in the mirror. "Not today. I'm busy."

"I'm sure you can spare a few minutes for us," she said. "See you later."

 I hung onto the receiver long after she clicked off. I looked at the old clock on the wall, trying to make sense of the dials. Three o'clock? Had I slept that late?

 Clutching the bannister, I made my way up the staircase on cranky knees. In the bathroom, I opened the drawer marked "makeup." I rubbed a beige cover-up around my eye and slid on a thick coat of bright red lipstick. I dressed in the bedroom with its ancient brass bed, opened the drawer marked "underwear" and pulled out my ratty old woman's panties and bra. I hadn't many clothes these days but found a loose red dress in the closet and a pair of sneakers on the floor.

Just as I was tying my sneakers, I heard them call my name.

"Wilma?" she shouted. "Are you okay?"

I tied to hurry down the stairs despite the shooting pain in my knees caps.  As I smiled down at Josh, I still could remember him as a little boy, riding his bike for the first time, falling off and getting on again. Falls didn't hurt children, except for maybe a scrape on the knee. But falls could kill old people. 

As she watched me take my last step, her smile faded. "What happened to you?" 

I shook my head. "I don't know what you mean."

She stepped closer and cupped my chin in her hands. "You've been hurt," she said and looked at Josh.

"Mom," he said. "We'd better get you to the emergency room. Lord knows what you've broken this time."

"No!" I shouted. "No more hospitals." I touched my bad eye. "I banged it against the door. It's nothing serious." I turned to her. "Maybe you could make me one of those, what do you call them?"

"I think you mean a cold compress," she said. "Or a box of frozen vegetables."

Josh's face  grew red. "You need a hospital, Mom. We'll drive you there. Just let them  look at you."

His wife—how I wish I could remember her name—opened the closet and pulled out my jacket. She held me as Josh stuffed me into it, arm by arm. Together, they led me out the front door and helped me slide into the back seat of their SUV, which still smelled new  Josh started the engine, grumbling. He thought I couldn't hear him. But, leaning forward, I did.

"We've got to get her into assisted living," he muttered to his wife. "We can't let her live alone."