A Temporary Visit

Snow and ice crunched under the tires of the taxi – yes, an old-fashioned taxi – that pulled up the long black driveway to her parent’s house in a rural suburb of Cleveland. Her flight had only been briefly delayed, a minor miracle for January, considering the fifth season of “deep winter” as her Dad would say, that afflicted so many northern midwestern states.

Nearly midnight. Lynn crept out of the taxi, retrieved her carry-on luggage, and tiptoed over the slippery bricks leading to the back door, the light kept on for her.

Slowly opening the door, she wasn’t surprised to see that her Mom had waited up for her, a bottle of wine ready to open. Was she really that disciplined to not crack the screw top while she waited up half the night, or was her second shift? Did it matter?

Stone-deaf and lightly snoring, sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, Lynn hesitated before touching her Mom’s shoulder.

“Mom,” Lynn whispered, for no one’s benefit, lightly moving her shoulder.

Her mother blinked her eyes open and started to chuckle.

“Oh! Well, you could have been a thief in the night!”

Her Mom went to get up, but Lynn was already getting two wine glasses out of the cabinet above the desk, a piece of paper taped to it with a note written in black sharpie: LYNN ARR – 10:45PM, underlined for emphasis. Only the light above the kitchen sink was on, but it was late, and there was no reason to light up the whole house.

“Are you hungry? I can heat up some Swiss steak. Mrs. Swislocki brought over some potato soup.”

“More thirsty, Mom,” she smiled and poured them both a glass of wine.

“How are things going here?” Lynn asked.

“Well, you know. It’s always something. Tim and Rachel next door are getting divorced. I hope that Rachel gets the house. We never did care for that Tim. Aunt Mary Pat is thinking about downsizing, which, she really should have done a long time ago. Staying in that big house is just asking for one of those kids to move right back in,” she said.

“What’s going on with you?” her Mom asked.

Lynn looked at her mother, who seemed so tiny in her fluffy bathrobe and thought about how to answer.

“For the most part, things are pretty good. Work is busy, which I like. The kids seem to be finding their way. I can’t believe I’m an empty nester.” Lynn smiled as she added, “I wish they would call more, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” her Mom replied, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry Dad didn’t wait up for you, but you know how early he goes to bed.”

Lynn reached her arm around her Mom and gave her a squeeze. She kissed her mother’s temple.

“To Dad,” Lynn said, raising her glass.

“To Dad,” her Mom echoed as they clinked glasses.

“Mom,” Lynn whispered, for no one’s benefit.

“I’m sorry Dad couldn’t come and pick you up from the airport,” her Mom said. “You know, his glaucoma has gotten really bad lately. I’m going to call the doctor on Monday to see if I can get him an appointment. But really, he shouldn’t be driving out at night when the roads are so treacherous.”

Lynn was starting to feel the relaxed buzz from the wine, and realized that their glasses were empty. Without asking, she refilled both glasses. She took a sip, exhaled, and looked up at the textured ceiling.

She was exhausted from the trip, the last-minute travel arrangements and rearrangements. The cold weather, always a shock to her system from the milder weather of Atlanta, in January no less.

“You really didn’t have to move up your trip,” said her Mom. “It’s been all gloom and doom around here with this awful weather. It’s just a few more days in the freezing cold. And with these roads so bad, you’ll just be stuck here with us.”

They sat in silence for a few moments at the round Amish-made wooden table. Heirloom quality, they would want to give it to her one day, even though, of course, she already had a kitchen table. Not as special as this one, though. The years of homework done at the table. Doodling and daydreaming. The wonderful dinners her Mom had cooked, capped off by desserts of rhubarb pie or carrot cake or caramel brownies. Only years after she grew up and away did she realize that what most people considered Sunday dinners was just another Tuesday at her house. Scratch-made desserts included.

Lynn woke herself up from her daydream and finished her second glass of wine.

“Mom.”

“What’s that now?” her Mom practically shouting. “These hearing aids are pure garbage. One more appointment to make, I suppose.”

“I’m going to say goodnight to Dad.”

“If he gets up, see what he wants for breakfast. I think he’ll want some bran muffins. I have the batter already made.”

Lynn didn’t turn to look at her Mom’s face or wait for a response. She pushed back from the table and walked quietly into what had once been their bedroom. It was now all his, of course. An oxygen tank quietly shushing. A nightstand full of rows of daily pill organizers. A rosary. A night light.

A hospice worker, patiently waiting for her, silently nodding as she sat in the old rocking chair with the cane seat that the blind people had once expertly repaired.

“Dad,” she whispered.

He was breathing, but did not move. His eyes remained closed.

She reached out to hold his frail, cold hand, all blue veins and liver spots and tissue-thin skin with bruises.

“Dad,” she said. “It’s me. Lynn. I made it, Dad. I’m here to take care of Mom. Thank you for waiting for me. I’m here now.”

His heavy lids lifted. And closed. Their weight unbearable. His hand gave a gentle squeeze.

Lynn kept him company until the early morning, and then he was gone.

She kissed him on the forehead and went to back to the kitchen.

The hospice nurse would know what to do. She would take care of the things that Lynn did not know how to do, what most people would never need to do.

Lynn knew how to make a pot of coffee, and so she did. She knew how to heat up the oven and take the muffin batter out of the refrigerator. As she sat warming her hands on the coffee mug, and waited for her Mom to wake up, she knew that her visit home was not going to be temporary.