It's no sacrifice

The building across the main road from me is being demolished. Driving past the piles of rubble tonight, I can't recall what the building looked like but I look at the mess that it is now and think of Mom.

I think that's what it is like for her. Knowing it was there, knowing it's in bits and pieces now, but not remembering what it was when it stood. Her life.

Dinner tonight was going to be a simple thing. It's Wednesday, Prime Rib Night at the club. I wanted to go back, wanted to be in the dining room with the piano player and Mom's memories. I invited Sharon; Mom asked Catherine. I thought it might be a memorable evening.

She looks at me, head bobbing with the scotch and martini(s), says, My daughter wants to take me to New York City. I have no idea why she wants to take me there. New York is mine. Her father didn't know. SHE doesn't know. Why would she want to take me there? She doesn't know.

She speaks to me, of me. The trip my gift to her for Christmas. We're supposed to leave in two weeks. I know tonight that it's too much for her. We won't be going.

A broken heart looks out at me from a pair of watery eyes. It's the first time she doesn't recognize me. But it won't be the last, I know, and it's not the last tonight.

I want to die. He just rolled over and died on me. I WANT to die.

She's envious.

Catherine holds her hand to her head, index finger out, forefingers and thumb tucked in, as if she's shooting herself. Sharon kicks me under the table.

She forks a piece of air, brings it to her mouth, shakes her head at the emptiness. I cut her meat for her, pick up the spilled carrots from the tablecloth, pick up the roll that fell to the floor. I shake my head, it's always butter side down.

I know it's a matter of minutes before she tells me I never cared about her, and then elaborates that no one ever cared for her. Like the steady ticking of the clock in the hallway, I can rely on it. Three, two, one, she's off: No one gives a shit about me.

I tell her it's time to go. She tells me she doesn't understand what I'm talking about. I motion to Isaac to bring the check. He tells me he'll take care of it, and he brings a wheelchair, whispers, It's okay, Alison, your mother is an exceptional woman. We have so many happy memories of her and your father. It will be an hour later when I call him to thank him and he tells me again about the happy memories, that I realize he is sincere.

It takes Isaac, a waiter, my niece, myself and a wheelchair to get her to the car. The waiter leaves the scene. Isaac and I put her in the car. She shoots me an eye, tells me she doesn't understand who I am or why I'm doing this to her. I see the fear in her eyes.

At home, we walk her through the door but she doesn't understand, and in not understanding, doesn't trust, and in not trusting, defends herself by gripping the wall with everything she has so that we cannot get her inside.

I don't know why you're doing this to me.

Mom, it's Alison. I love you. This is your house and I'm going to put you to bed.

She screams that she has to go to the bathroom and I walk her there. I help her with her clothes and she looks me in the eye, says, I want to die. I can't do anything on my own, I can't even stand. I don't want to be here anymore.

As if this were an argument. As if it were simply a matter of convincing me. If she ever had to convince me of anything, this is not it. I get it. She's done. No matter how much she's had to drink tonight, these words she speaks are her truth.

We all know it.

Nonetheless, I gently explain to her that she's still here and I love her and am going to put her nightgown on and put her to bed. This, she accepts.

As I tuck her in, she looks me in the eye, desperate and sad, whispers, I just want to die.

With my hand on her forehead, I kiss her on her cheek and speak into her flesh, I know you do, Mom, I know you do.

I turn off the light, sit beside her on the bed until her breathing steadies, again kiss her and pause there for a moment. I know she can't hear me but still, I love you, Mom.

The building across the main road from me is being demolished. Something new will soon take its place. Driving by it tonight, I think that's what she feels like. She doesn't want to keep up with the present. Without my father, her life is demolished. Looking at the rubble there, bits of what was once solid, I understand her. Completely.