Scott Turow - Personal injuries

When Evon climbed into the Mercedes each morning, Robbie was cheerful as a sunbeam. He zipped along, entertaining her with chatter, while she remained in the sullen funk of the sleep-deprived, still grieved that his circus act with Judge Medzyk had cost her another hour in bed. Their first stop, a few miles in the wrong direction, was his mother's nursing home. While he was inside, Evon read the paper. She pushed her seat back, reclined, took in the aroma of the leather. The engine ran and she had the enormous solid machine to herself. One morning he decided to invite her inside.

"Hell, come on, you'll meet my ma." It seemed unthinkable to him that she would have no interest. And she did, actually. She was curious about the woman who'd borne him.

The result of Mrs. Feaver's stroke last year was a nearly total hemiplegic paralysis. She had no use of her left leg and only marginal ability to move the arm on that side. But she still could speak, much as Robbie occasionally wished that weren't the case; after therapy she had no audible impairment. Mrs. Feaver's home, the apartment in which Robbie had grown up, was a second-story walk-up, which she'd had to abandon as a result of her disability. Robbie had wanted to take her into his house, but his mother, even in her weakened state, would hear none of it. He had enough on his hands with Lorraine. After much discussion, this nursing home seemed to be the best alternative. It cost him a left lung, he said, which made him feel a little better.

Today Estelle Feaver sat upright in a padded day chair, dressed and ready for breakfast, which was still some time away. She held on to her heavy black-framed glasses with one hand, as if this might improve her vision, while she extended her neck turtle-like in the effort to follow the TV suspended on the opposite wall. Judging from the volume, her hearing, too, was failing. The utter immobility of her left side was apparent even from the doorway. Her arm hung down like wet laundry. She did not realize they had entered the room until Robbie was quite close to her. When she saw her son, she threw her right hand in the air, then recovered enough to whisk the glasses from her face and bury them in the folds of her skirt.

"Rob-bee!" She fell into his arms and lifted the one good hand to his shoulder. She held him for quite some time until her cloudy, dark eyes found Evon.

He introduced his new paralegal. To account for the fact that they were together so early in the morning, Robbie claimed they were heading to court. His mother's mouth went through a series of sour reflexes that signified disbelief, but she looked away rather than castigate her son for his antics. Robbie, as always, happily avoided unpleasantness.

"She looks great, doesn't she look great?" he asked Evon. Mrs. Feaver in fact looked simply old. Her skin was engraved by heavy wrinkles which the thickly applied base and makeup did not really hide, and the chin beneath her neck hung in several folds that no doubt displeased her. It was clear she continued to take pains with her appearance. Even if Robbie had not told Evon that he engaged a manicurist and a stylist to come to the home weekly, it would have been plain. There was no missing the incredible orangutan orange of the hair dye or the popping red paint on her nails; they contrasted too pointedly, both with the glum surroundings and with her decrepitness-the bent spine, the pallid spotted hands, the rattling cough. Looking at Mrs. Feaver, Evon found it difficult even to say that she might once have been attractive. Her nose was hawkish and her false teeth, on which some of her bright lipstick was smudged, seemed to have altered her jawline. But she was a force. You could feel that much. She brushed aside her son's compliments with a show of bashfulness.

"Well, it's just for him," Estelle said. "Who else sees me in this place?"

In his cheerleading fashion Robbie again extolled the way his mother took care of herself, once more inviting Evon to chime in with praise of her own. She'd have been willing to flatter an old woman, although she'd never had much enthusiasm for ladies in war paint, the way they felt it was a female's responsibility to be so much more colorful, more glittering and glamorous than God and nature had made them. These days her own hair was barely combed; she was growing more perfunctory with her Elizabeth Ardent makeup every morning, and she'd taken the color off her nails several weeks ago.

But there proved no need to patronize. Mrs. Feaver continued as if Robbie had not invited Evon into their conversation. Evon saw quickly that, at least as far as Mrs. Feaver was concerned, no one really intruded on her relationship with her son. And in fact, as Robbie and his mother went on chortling over events here in the home, Evon realized that the same was true for him. They were so happy in each other's presence! Robbie tended to speak of his mother as if she were a drain. But it was his disinterest, his objectivity, that was feigned. The man was really a through-and-through fake. He was as clearly bound to her as she was to him; his litany of compliments even, as her body failed, seemed sincere, a measure of the comfort he took in her physical presence. He held on to her hands as he questioned her about the doctor's latest report, while his mother lingered contentedly in the hot light of his interest.

"Oh, the doctors. What do they know? You think you get Nobel Prize winners in here?" She squinted at Evon, her harsh voice reduced to a whisper. "They're all foreigners. They're here for the Medicare. They give them I don't know what, six bucks for every old bag they glance at. They run through here like their pants are on fire. I can't even pronounce the names. Shadoopta. Baboopta. God save me if I ever needed to call one. I'd just be dead."

Robbie received this speech, like everything else the old lady said, with great mirth. He hugged her again, and then, after further banter, motioned Evon to go. To detain him, Mrs. Feaver inquired after Lorraine.

"Eh," he answered.

"My son. His wife and his mother, one sicker than the other. Sometimes I'm alone, I cry for him, it's such a terrible thing. Who takes care of Robbie?"

He was jiggling the water pitcher throughout this speech. But he heard her, apparently. He reminded her about Mort.

"He always sees the bright side," answered Mrs. Feaver. "He makes jokes anyway. He's on the economy plan with Hospital Supply. My God."

"Hey, shaddup, willya?" He leaned over and kissed her brow.

"So you'll come tomorrow?" Mrs. Feaver asked somewhat plaintively.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. End of the day. I got court in the morning." He waved, then shot down the hallway. Mrs. Feaver watched his departure with dismay and did not respond when Evon lingered at the threshold to say it had been a pleasure.

"So that's my ma. A pistol. right? There's only half of her left and she's still full of beans." Advancing down the corridor, each doorway revealing another frail body, shattered by age and disease-the skin parchment-colored and like a luffing sail, mouth toothless and desperately agapeRobbie managed another thrilled laugh.

Seeing what was required, Evon made the previously suspended remark about how well Mrs. Feaver kept herself.

"Yeah," he said again. "She looks great. She's always looked great. I mean, when I was a kid-" He rolled his eyes. "You look at the pictures now, I don't know, it's not like she was Liz Taylor or anything, but she had something. Pizzazz? Vitality. What was Jackie Gleason's old line. 'Va va va vooooom!' She was always put together really nice. She was going out and selling and looking good at it. Still today, I'll smell Chanel Number Five-Channel Five, I used to call it-and I'll think about my ma, hugging me before she ran off to the store.

"Guys dug her. I could tell that. And she was like a lot of pretty women I've known, she liked being dug. She liked the power of it, I think. I could always tell that she loved walking down the street on the way home from work. In those straight skirts and high heels? The neighbor guy, in his sleeveless undervest, smoking a cigarette and pushing a hand mower over the little strip of city lawn, would stop and draw a smoke and take a real long look, even shake his head for mercy once she went past. She loved that. Half the wives in the neighborhood wanted her arrested. They called her 'Sophia Loren,' and not to be nice."