John Saul - Nightshade

“Jeez, Mom, it’s not just me — look how she treats you . It’s like you can’t ever do anything right, no matter how hard you try!”

“I know.” Joan sighed. “But it still doesn’t change the fact that she’s my mother, and I have to take care of her as long as I can. I can’t just — ” She cast around in her mind, searching for the right words, but could find none better than the ones her mother always used. “I just can’t bring myself to ‘throw her in the home.’ ”

Matt took a deep breath, then slowly let it out in a sigh of resignation. “I guess,” he agreed, and Joan could see how much effort it took for him to give her even that. But then he brightened. “Hey, who knows? Maybe she’ll be better once she’s out of here. Let’s go up and get whatever she’s going to need, and get out of here.” He wrinkled his nose against the acrid smell of the fire that hung heavy in the house. “This place smells even worse than ever.” But as they started up the stairs, Matt’s step slowed, and when they came to the landing, he paused, gazing through the open door to the room that had belonged to the aunt he’d never known. “She’s not gonna make us move Aunt Cynthia’s stuff too, is she?”

Joan hesitated at the door to her sister’s room, then stepped through it. And suddenly she heard her mother’s voice again. “Get out! That’s Cynthia’s room, and those are Cynthia’s things, and no one is to touch them! No one! And keep your bastard brat out of there, too!”

As the echo of the words slowly faded away in her mind, Joan shook her head. “No,” she told Matt. “She can’t ask us to do that.” She smiled at her son, and offered him a conspiratorial wink. “After all, we can’t move what we can’t touch, can we?” But even as she spoke the words, her mother’s voice rang in her mind once more. This time she recalled a day when Matt was three, and she had suggested to her mother that he was old enough to have his own room.

“Cynthia’s room? You want me to give your sister’s room to your little brat? Never! As long as I’m alive, I’ll keep your sister’s room ready. When she comes home to me, all her things will be waiting for her! All of them!”

Joan, eyes glistening with tears, had said nothing, knowing it was useless to argue with her mother.

Now, she reached out and pulled the door to Cynthia’s room closed, hoping that by blocking the view of her sister’s room, she could also block the pain of her mother’s words.

She didn’t mean it, Joan told herself. She was already starting to get sick, and she didn’t know what she was saying.

“Come on, let’s pack up whatever she’s going to need and get out of here,” she said to Matt, unconsciously repeating the same words he’d spoken a few moments before.

* * *

IT SEEMED NOTHING could thaw the icy chill that had settled over the Hapgoods’ dining room: not the fire that Matt had laid in the hearth, nor the dozens of candles Joan had lit to cast a warm glow over the family’s dinner. Though she’d cut the last of the fall flowers and set the table with the set of Limoges that had been given to Bill’s grandmother as a wedding present from the Vanderbilts, and though she’d carefully prepared only things she knew her mother liked, nothing had gone as Joan planned.

She’d felt a faint flicker of hope when she first led her mother into the room. Emily stopped short when she stepped through the dining room doors, her eyes moving through the room, lingering on the gleaming silver and crystal that shimmered in the flickering candlelight. It’s going to be all right, Joan had told herself. But then Emily said, “How could you light all those candles? Don’t you even care about what happened?”

“I was just trying to make it nice for you, Mother,” Joan ventured as she helped the old woman into the chair opposite Matt.

“Why bother? You know you don’t want me here.” Emily peered balefully at her son-in-law and grandson. “And I don’t want to be here.”

Joan did her best to keep a conversation going, but no matter what she said, her mother either ignored her, disagreed with her, or changed the subject.

Emily glowered at the plate of food Joan set in front of her, and after objecting that she’d been served far too much, asked if the chicken was spoiled. “Nobody could eat this,” she declared.

“It’s good, Gram,” Matt said.

“It’s rotten,” Emily said, pushing her plate away. “Take me home.”

Joan silently appealed to her husband.

“You are home, Mother Moore,” Bill said. Seeing Emily’s eyes flash, he quickly added, “At least for a while, until we can decide what would be best for you.”

It was as if Emily hadn’t heard him. “Where’s Cynthia?” she asked. “Why isn’t she here? I want Cynthia!” She stood up, pushing her chair back from the table so abruptly that it fell over. As Joan and Bill leaped up to help her, she brushed them aside. “Leave me alone. I’m going to find Cynthia.”

Emily left the dining room and Joan started after her, but Bill caught her arm. “Let her go,” he said.

“But she doesn’t know what she’s doing,” Joan protested. “She barely even knows her way around.”

“Matt can keep an eye on her,” Bill replied. Then, to his son: “Don’t try to argue with her, Matt, and don’t try to make her do anything. Just keep an eye on her and don’t let her hurt herself. Okay?”

Only when Matt was gone and he’d closed the dining room door did Bill speak to his wife again. “This isn’t going to work,” he said gently.

“I can make it work,” Joan began. “All she needs is a few days, and she’ll know her way — ”

Bill held up a hand to cut the flow of his wife’s words. “She won’t know anything. And she won’t get better.” His voice took on a slight edge. “You know she won’t, Joan. Every doctor we’ve talked to for the last two years has told you she’ll only get worse.” He hesitated, then pressed on. “We have to find a place for her. A place where they can take care of her.”

Joan shook her head. “Bill, she’s my mother! And when all this started — when she first got sick — I promised that no matter what happened, I’d never put her into a nursing home. I promised I’d take care of her myself. I can’t just put her away!”

“It wouldn’t be putting her away — it wouldn’t be anything like that. We’ll find the best place in the area, and we can hire around-the-clock care if you want. And you’ll be able to visit her every day.”

Joan shook her head. “I can’t,” she repeated, her voice trembling. “I promised her! She’s my — ”

Again Bill cut her off, and when he spoke this time, the edge in his voice had sharpened. “I know she’s your mother, but I also know how she treats you. Most of the time she has no idea who I am, and as for Matt — ”

“I know,” Joan said, breaking in before he could finish his indictment. “But what am I supposed to do? Could you have broken a promise you made to your father?”

As Joan’s tears overflowed, Bill put his arms around her. “I know,” he said. “I know how hard it is. But if she stays here, she’ll tear this family apart. I know it.” He looked deep into her eyes. “And you know it too.” Joan didn’t answer, but to Bill the conflicting emotions that struggled within her were written clearly on her face, and finally he held her close. “A week,” he conceded. “We’ll give it a week.”

They stood together, their arms wrapped around each other, each of them reflecting upon the words Bill had just spoken.

In a week, Bill thought, I can find the best nursing home in the Northeast, and do whatever it takes to get her admitted.