IT'S COMPLICATED

She’s propped up on pillows, her eyes closed. The TV is on, an old black-and-white movie, but you can barely hear it. She’s wearing a garish blouse I don’t recognize. They don’t take pains to sort the laundry, and her closet is filled with clothes that aren’t hers. Likewise, the cute blouse I’d given her for Christmas is undoubtedly in someone else’s closet.

“Hey mom.”

            Her eyes pop open, her face lights up, and she looks at me like I’m the last person on earth. She is overjoyed to see me. It’s an act. She doesn’t even like me. 

            “Oh, goody goody, I’m so so so happy to see you, oh, I’m so happy to see you,” she croons. “Goody goody goody.”

Please. 

I kiss her papery cheek, twice. She smells okay. 

Her roommate appears to be asleep, a lump facing in the opposite direction towards the closed window. Other than saying hi, we usually ignore her, talk as if she isn’t even there, which is kind of the case.

The aroma of something boiling wafts in. It’s almost lunchtime.

“Hmmm, smells good,” I lie. “So how are you feeling?” I perch on the edge of the chair wedged into the narrow space between their beds. 

            I can’t remember what she said. She didn’t complain — well, she did complain, but not right off the bat. She eased into it. She hated the food/her bed was uncomfortable/her roommate wouldn’t change the channel/no one ever visited her. Even if one of us had been there the day before, she’d say that. 

            “Garth and I just got back from a day trip/a road trip/a trip overseas,” I begin. 

            “Would you rub my feet/adjust the pillow/adjust the blanket/turn off the light/turn on the light/close the window?” I did.

            “We had a great time,” I continued, “and the weather was perfect! It was supposed to rain so we brought umbrellas, but no rain, not a drop!”

            “How come you never visit? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”

            “Mom, I was here three days ago.”

            “Well, you never were much of a nurse. We all know that.” She meant that when my husband Ken was sick, I was too eager to go out to lunch with a friend when hospice arrived. 

            Silence.

            “I was talking to God. He’s up there,” pointing to a corner of the ceiling. “He knows I’ve been bad. I’ve been so bad,” and there she goes, she starts to wimper, tears up.

            “Mom, you weren’t bad. You did the best you knew how. It’s all any of us do.”

            “No, I was a bad woman, a bad mother.”

            “You were a good mother, look at Keith and Kevin, look at me. We turned out okay, right?”

            “But Larry.” And now she’s crying.

            “That was Larry. He was who he was.” 

Her hand is gnarled, bony, her wrist birdlike. There is brown under some of her nails. I can’t look at them. They’re too long but I’m not up to giving her a manicure. And I don’t really have time. Maybe Karen will do it. Besides, every time I try, she yelps like I’m torturing her, no matter how careful I am. Maybe next time. 

I look at the clock.