Pause

LINDSEY ROLLS DOWN the window and takes some deep breaths as she turns off the country road into her parents’ drive—a long stretch through a field of tall ripening grasses and darting goldfinches. At the end of it, the artificial pond and waterfall, green watered lawns, trimmed flowerbeds, and what she calls the Friedland Folly–the ostentatious house her parents built for their retirement.

The two-story, three-bedroom oak and tiled “dream house” has become an oversized mausoleum for mother Opal to rattle around in. Coerced into moving from the house in town she loved, now she’s isolated out in the county with her failing strength and vision, unable to drive and depending on visits from her daughters. Meanwhile, Lindsey’s father Arlen roars around in his huge diesel pickup truck, wheeling and dealing with his cronies, or gone on fishing and hunting trips.

Lindsey suspects he made a deal with the devil to stay so energetic at eighty-five. When she was younger, she’d blithely assumed she could just choose what she’d inherit: her father’s toughness and adventurous vigor; her mother’s songs and gentle spirit. Now as the days come down to her (more Joni Mitchell playing on her inner soundtrack), she has to face the flip side of these traits: Dad’s restless self-absorption and hair-trigger anger; Mom’s singing voice turned to a fussy whine of suffering.

Lindsey suddenly puts on the brakes. Still partway down the dirt drive, she shuts off the motor, closes her eyes, and takes another deep breath. She gets out and walks into the hayfield. Moving slowly, holding out her arms to feel the scratchy stems, she lets the fringy tops slide through her fingers. Childhood habit kicks in, and she breaks off a stem, strips out the tender inner shoot, tastes the sweet greenness. Chewing on the bobbing stem, she returns to the Subaru, pulls out the audiobook reader she’s bought Mom, and heads to the house.

“Linny!” Opal blinks through her thick lenses, then beams. She struggles to rise from the oversized lounger where she’s propped up with back and neck cushions, heating pad, afghan, and napping shapes of striped cat and spotted terrier.

“Don’t get up, Mom.” Lindsey sets down the box and hurries over to perch on the arm of the lounger, leaning over to give her a kiss on the cheek. She fluffs the thinning gray strands her mother still has permed into a pouf that now reveals a lot of scalp. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, I decided to add another half pill at night of the Remeron. I just couldn’t get to sleep worrying about Eric and the baby.”

“Mom, did you talk to Dr. Nichols about that?”

Opal loves to tinker with her meds, which sets off Lindsey’s alarm bells. Last time, she overdosed herself by upping her antidepressant.

“These young doctors, they just don’t understand how I suffer!” Opal looks indignant, and Lindsey makes a mental note to call Dr. Nichols. She’s the new GP, really sharp and specializing in geriatric patients. The family doesn’t want Opal changing docs again.

“Mom, remember what your counselor said. It’s best if you just pray for the grandkids, try not to worry so much about them.” The latest on Joanie’s oldest is he’s lost his job after falling back into the heroin habit, and his now-ex-girlfriend’s in jail for stealing to support hers. How Joanie is coping now that she has custody of their baby, who has developmental problems, Lindsey has no idea.

“Here, Mom.” She resets, puts on a smile. “I brought you something, I want you to try it out.” She steps over to the box and opens the flaps, sets aside the audio books she’s checked out of the library, then pulls out the compact player.

She wants to plug it in and demonstrate with the earphones while she’s caught Mom in position, let her see this could work, since she refused to try the magnifying reading lamp with the large-type books she can’t read any more: “It’s too bulky, it won’t fit by the lounger. I’ve got my little table there with my pills and everything.”

“Okay.” Linsey turns back to Opal, ready to plug it in.

But by this time her mother’s already struggling upright, plucking at the afghan with helpless little movements, fumbling with the button that releases the extended leg rest. “I’ve got to get up and get lunch ready. Your dad will be in from the shop in a minute.”

“Wait, it won’t take long….”

Too late. The window of opportunity creaks shut as Opal pulls herself to the edge of the lounger, grimacing and rubbing her back. Spike the cat and Bingo the terrier protest the disruption. Opal grunts and bobs forward in a false start at launching herself to her feet. Lindsey drops the player on the cushions and takes her mother’s thin shoulders, gently eases her up onto her feet.

She sways for a second, knit pants and matching top with appliqued roses hanging loose on her shrinking frame. She finds her balance and shuffles toward the kitchen on the other side of the breakfast counter.

Lindsey goes ahead and plugs in the audio player, sets it temporarily on her mother’s side table, where there’s plenty of room once she eases aside the water jug and tray holding all the prescription bottles. She inserts a book CD, slips on the headphones, and fast-forwards to the first chapter of an Agatha Christie novel.

“Okay.” She follows Opal around the counter to the sink, where she’s holding a kettle under the faucet, hands shaking. “I can do that, Mom.” She takes the kettle, fills it, starts to set it on a burner on the stove.

“Wait!” Opal plucks up a tea towel, clutches Lindsey’s arm, and wipes a couple of drops off the bottom of the kettle before she’ll allow it to be set on the burner.

Lindsey refrains from rolling her eyes, the old teenage response, and lets Opal direct the lunch preparations, lets her explain for the hundredth time the right way to set out the plates, how to use the can opener and which container to put the fluorescent orange preserved peaches in, the exact thickness the American cheese must be sliced “or Arlen will growl.”

“Who’s the goddamn idiot blocking the driveway?”

Having announced his presence, Lindsey’s dad slams the door. Still a handsome man with his deeply tanned face and most of his formerly-black, wavy hair, he stomps over in work boots and coveralls to give her a rough hug. “Where the hell you been? Figured you must’ve moved off to Oregon again.” From Arlen, this is a big display of affection.

“What about you? The last couple times I was out here, I figured you’d moved to Canada.” Lindsey plays along, doing the good ol’ gal back at him. “You score any fish?”

“Big waste of time. Humpies weren’t running yet, goddamn river all screwed up.” He turns to Opal. “Where the hell’s my sandwich? I told you I’ve got to get to town this afternoon.”

Opal’s hand tremor is noticeably worse as she hastily picks up the spatula, checks the white-bread cheese sandwich toasting in the buttered pan. She utters a little exclamation, flips the sandwich, reaches to turn down the heat. Black charring streaks the bread.

Lindsey finds herself moving quickly over to hide the sight from her dad, figures they can scrape off the bit of burned bread. But Arlen’s already spotted it.

“Goddamn son of a bitch! Jesus Christ, you’re worthless! All you do is sit there popping pills all day, can’t you manage one little thing for me?” He strides over, jostling Lindsey, and grabs the pan off the stove. He jerks around with it, face flushing, thrusts it clattering and hissing into the wet sink, as Lindsey pulls her mother aside, feels her trembling.

Something snaps inside Lindsey, her spine straightening in protest of that hunched-in posture of her mother’s. She guides Opal back to the lounger, tells her to just sit a minute, then she strides back over to her fuming father, who’s ripping into the fridge and throwing out packets of bread and cheese, slamming condiments onto the counter, swearing in a nonstop rant.

“Stop it!” Lindsey plants herself in front of him as he turns.

He stops short in surprise, then glares at her. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“Not unless you stop swearing.” Lindsey has no idea where this is coming from, or going.

He scowls, takes a step closer, fists clenching as he uses his height to force her to look up.

“Don’t.” Lindsey fights her own urge to back off, cringe.

Arlen still glowers, but he’s shifted somehow, not trying to loom over her now. They stare at each other for a minute, punctuated by some heavy breathing. Then he shakes his head, turns away, stomps down the hall into the bathroom. Bingo, yapping, runs after him.

On the lounger, Opal is crumpled over, a trembling hand patting Spike’s striped fur. Tears are sliding from under her glasses, catching in the soft wrinkles of her cheeks.

“Mom.” Lindsey sits down and holds her, rocking. She blows out a long breath as she realizes it’s the way Opal used to comfort her when she was little.

The back door slams, and a minute later Arlen’s truck rumbles into life, starts to roar off down the drive. Lindsey remembers her Subaru then, blocking the way, and braces herself for a crash. Instead, a blaring horn. She just sits there, patting her mother’s back.

It takes a while, but finally the blasting horn stops and the truck reverses back up the drive. Arlen comes to the glass patio door, opens it, stands there staring at Lindsey and Opal.

“You gonna move your goddamn—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “You wanna move your car?”

June 12

Dear Diary,

God—Goddess—the Great Pumpkin—if there’s anybody out there, give me patience. How much longer can we keep the juggling act going? Always one more egg to keep up in the air—now it’s Mom’s macular degeneration, and Dad just doesn’t get it that he’s not going to have his perfect grilled cheese sandwiches on demand any more. One of these days the whole shebang’s going to come down cracking and splattering all over their custom tiled floor.

(Eeek, shades of Nick!)

Fingers crossed: At least Mom’s accepting the new housekeeper to clean once a week—now that she can’t see the stray dust streaks or check that the upstairs carpet is vacuumed in precision parallel rows—and Dad hasn’t driven this gal off yet with his temper tantrums. But the way Dad’s running through their retirement funds like no tomorrow—now it’s a new boat!—if Mom needs to go into a care facility, how long could they pay for it?

Sisters and I have lost count of the crises with Mom and Dad, like the time she admitted he yanked her down the steps because he was in a hurry, and she fell and broke her shoulder. She always refuses to report him, lied about the black eye that other time. Back when I was off in the Peace Corps, Fran had actually talked Mom into leaving him, had rented a trailer to move her stuff. Opal backed down when Arlen threatened to burn down the house. I’ve talked to a lawyer, my doc, and Mom’s doc, and we can’t force her to move, can’t report Dad unless one of us actually witnesses the physical abuse. Fran and Joanie are clearly burned out after all the rescue attempts, and dealing with the crises with their own kids. Should I give up trying to save her? Have I even managed to save myself?