A Mothering

by Linda Kotis

You see her. About thirty yards away. Standing near one of the benches in the park at Lake Merritt. You almost speak your fears aloud, then clamp your lips before any sound escapes. You blink, rub your eyes, turn away, then look again. No, it cannot be. But the long grey hair, the tall figure, the paunch, the front placket shirt over elastic waist pants...

It’s 12:15 P.M. on Tuesday. You’ve left the office building across the street from the park, after hours of pounding out an application for another health care program grant. It’s half-finished. The Chief of Pediatrics promised to send data last week and isn’t responding to reminders. The filing closes at 4:00PM on Friday.

You walk around Lake Merritt three days a week. Tuesday isn’t usually one of those days, and you’re wearing a sheath dress and heels. But here you are.

Right now you want to enjoy the California sunshine and the light breezes. Not obsess about the family taint of failure. Not relitigate your anger at your mother’s insistence, “I don’t need a doctor. There’s nothing wrong with me!” her response to suggestions she seek medical attention after the mangling of a Medicare compliance plan that infuriated her partners. Not anguish about the diagnosis that truncated her legal career. And hobbled her life.

You nearly stepped off the curb without looking, nearly failed to wait before crossing. Safety first! Always wait for the light! The words reverberate, the mantra for your two-year-old daughter in absentia, at home with her dad who freelances.

You’re stopped on the sidewalk at the edge of the park. The old woman strides in circles, plops down on the bench and then stands up again. Her lips moving, her arms a whirlwind of scything sweeps. You’re too distant to make out every word she utters. Yet close enough to discern that she’s bantering with some being invisible. Or perhaps herself.

You remain in your spot on the sidewalk. You do not move from your spot on the sidewalk. A suited-up man jabbering in consultant-speak on his phone, distracted by his urgent business, almost knocks you flat. He roars “B-I-Ι-TCH!!!” and glowers as though you caused the near miss.

People pass by. On their way into the park’s Astro Tot Lot with children in tow. On their way back from the Thai place, the aroma of lemongrass pungent through the paper bags they carry. Fumes from a vape pen ball up in your throat as the nicotine addict scuttles past. You exaggerate a cough, a pseudo-emphysema sputtering, a fantasy of teaching the polluter a lesson. At least your mother finally conquered the coffin nail at age fifty-five. Shortly before the raider of reason ransacked her mind.

Aura’s breezes have lapsed, the rays from that golden orb in the sky unleash at full strength. You check your watch, look in the park again. The woman wanders back to the bench, seats herself slowly. She’s still now, head bowed, arms limp by her sides, worn out from swinging at the devils around her. A forty-something woman, attired in a long cardigan jacket and trousers, the type of ensemble favored by your mother before the illness stole her chic, stops at the bench. She waits a moment. Then she touches the older woman’s shoulder, the gentleness in the gesture perceptible from yards away, and holds out a bottle of water.

You imagine her soft voice, “Here, please, take this, it’s too warm today.” The old woman raises her head just enough to glimpse the bottle. She nods, takes it from the offerer. Both women share an angular face, a long neck fusing head to shoulders. The age difference, it’s possible...

There’s a small bottle of water in your purse. You could have wriggled out of Medusa’s gaze to approach the bench and provide some comfort. Quenched the thirst of one of God’s children.

You glance at your watch again. The meeting with the Director of Grant Programs begins in fifteen minutes. Folders on your desk hold the meeting handouts. You turn away from the park to head back to the office, then stop walking and do not cross the street.

Is there enough time for a quick chat before returning to retrieve the handouts? Yes. No. Maybe. You pull out the phone and scan the recent calls. You pause, allowing thirty precious seconds to pass, then select your sister’s name.

You last spoke to Alice at 2:30PM on Sunday. A call once a week, to say hello to your mother, ask Alice about the dementia, her impressions of the last appointment at the Cleveland Clinic. Alice answers the phone, wonders why you’re calling again so soon.

You don’t respond to her question. “Let me speak to Mom.”

You talk to your mother at length. “Hi, Mom. I’m working on a grant application for a pediatric program.”

You explain the program, as though she could still engage, as though she would ask for more details. Give her the grace of the brilliance she once had, credit her influence on your career.

“I, uh...I’m using your techniques to write the compliance plan.” Wait for her response. She strings words together, no sense to make.

You allow her to end. “I’m bringing the baby to visit. We’ll be there in a couple of weeks.” Silence, then she mumbles to Alice about the phone.

Alice acknowledges the phone handoff, says hello again.

You describe the scene at the park to your sister, reassure her everything’s alright, except...“She looked like Mom, Alice. Just like her. All I could do was stand there and stare."

---