Mary Alice Monroe - Sweetgrass

Mama June’s brows furrowed as she returned to her dishes. She was silent for a moment, but when she was drying the pan, she glanced to the table and noticed that he’d already set his fork back on the table after only a few bites.

“Too much salt?” she asked, concerned. “Preston always tells me I’m a heavy salter.”

“No, it’s fine.” He picked up the fork again. “I was walking around upstairs, just looking around,” he said, his eyes on the fork he was twiddling between his fingers. “I went into Ham’s room.” He set the fork down. “I noticed that Daddy’s things are in there.”

Mama June carefully folded the drying towel and set it on the counter. Morgan looked up at her with question burning in his eyes.

“Yes,” she replied at length. “That’s his room now.”

“Since when have you had separate bedrooms?”

“I can’t really remember for how long now.” She could be evasive, too.

She hesitated, wondering how much to share with her son. He wasn’t a boy, no matter how much she sometimes thought he was. He was a grown man and familiar with the ways of life. The trouble between her and Preston had been years in the making, a highly private, personal story between a husband and a wife.

She never had been one for speaking out and voicing her inner thoughts and troubles to others. The way some women went on about personal matters always made her feel as if she’d peeked through their windows. She’d always been one to close her curtains at night, and to her mind, what room was more personal than the bedroom? Son or no, this wasn’t really any of Morgan’s business.

“You needn’t look so shocked. It’s not all that uncommon after a certain age. And now with the stroke, of course, who knows what?” She carried more rolls to the table.

“Stop serving me, Mama June!”

She froze at his outburst.

Morgan looked at her sheepishly and pulled out a chair beside him. “Come on, sit, Mama. You don’t need to cater. Please.”

Mama June set the rolls on the table, then slid wordlessly into the chair.

Morgan placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry about the way I just showed up on your doorstep.”

“Oh, that!” she said, recovering herself and brushing the awkwardness away. “This is your home. You’re here. That’s all that matters to me. It will mean so much to your father, too. You can’t know.”

She saw anguish flash in his eyes before he dropped his hand. “Yeah, well…”

“It will.”

After a minute he said, “I should go see him. Do they allow visitors?”

She heard his declaration as duty rather than heartfelt worry. It defeated her.

“Of course they allow visitors,” she replied. “The more the better. For the last ten days I’ve been reduced to begging folks to sign up and visit. I’ve received roomfuls of flowers and get well cards and more casseroles than I can freeze. Everyone’s been very kind. And yet, no one seems to have the time or desire to go to the hospital and sit with him. It’s so important that someone just be with him, you see. He’s so helpless. Like a baby.” She hesitated. “You…you’ll be surprised when you see him. I hate to leave him there alone. You hear horror stories of mistakes being made in the hospital, or of things overlooked in the charts. I drive downtown every day and stay as long as I can, but it’s not enough.”

“I’ll go.”

She patted his hand fervently. “Thank you. It will mean so much to him.”

“When will Daddy be getting out of the hospital?”

“That’s undecided.” She drew her hand back and leaned against the chair. She glanced over to the kitchen counter where she saw the cookbooks spread open and the shopping list—all preparations for Sunday dinner. For all the joy of Morgan’s homecoming, she knew there would likely be another round of debate once the family gathered.

“What’s the matter, Mama June?”

She looked at his long, thoughtful face and flashed to the boy who once sat at this table beside her wolfing down cold cereal, swinging his legs as he looked out the window, eager to get outdoors. He’d always been tenderhearted. Yet she’d rarely talked to him about things that plagued her, unlike with her daughter, Nan, with whom she used to talk freely.

“I’m so confused,” she said with new honesty. “I don’t know what to do.”

He sat straighter in his chair, appreciating the confidence. “Are you worried about taking care of him? I’m sure the staff at the hospital will teach you what to do. And you can get help once you bring him home.”

“That’s just it. Your aunt Adele tells me I should not bring him home.”

“Oh.” He paused, his eyes shuttered. “Really?”

There had always been an odd tension between Preston’s sister, Adele, and Morgan. His tone told her that time had not diminished the coolness.

“Adele is worried that he won’t get the care he needs here. She thinks we are risking his recovery if we don’t place him somewhere he can get professional treatment.”

“Like a nursing home?” he asked, aghast.

“More a residential treatment facility. The costs of home care will be very high and…” She waved her hand. “Oh, it all makes sense when she explains it to me. She’s done a lot of homework and went over the numbers with me. I can’t remember half of what she told me—except that I should sell Sweetgrass.”

“Sell Sweetgrass…” Morgan exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Wow. I hadn’t, I mean, I never considered that a possibility.”

“Adele says that selling Sweetgrass would free me to provide for Preston and myself without worry of becoming a burden.” She looked at her hands and fiddled with the plain gold band on her left hand. “We’ve never wanted that, you know. To be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden.”

“No, not yet. But according to Adele, we could be. Quite quickly.”

“Adele always deals in absolutes. You know that.” He rubbed his jaw in consternation. “If the stroke doesn’t kill Daddy, selling Sweetgrass will.”

“My thought exactly!” she exclaimed. She took great heart that someone was finally understanding her point of view. And that the someone was her son.

“What do the doctors say? Can Daddy even be moved?”

“They feel he can come home, provided we get assistance, of course, like an army of therapists, an aide and equipment.” She could hear the hopefulness in her own voice.

“Hiring support will cost money.”

“Yes.”

“Can you afford it?”

“For a while. Maybe a very little while.” Mama June sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I keep fussing about the decision. Adele was pretty clear about what I should do. Sell Sweetgrass and move. Hank and Nan agree.”

He considered this a moment, then asked, “What do you want to do?”

“I have to think about what’s best for Preston.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you right now. I’m asking what you want to do.”

She sat back against the ladder-back chair. It occurred to her that in all the many conversations with Adele, Nan and Hank, with the doctors, with the banks and lawyer, everyone had told her what he or she thought Mama June should do. No one had ever asked what she might want to do. No one, except Morgan.

“To be honest, I don’t really know. When your father had his stroke, I was unprepared to make even small, everyday decisions concerning Sweetgrass. Now suddenly I’m thrust into the position of making all the decisions. Preston is going to need a great deal of care before he gets well—if he gets well. I’ve tried to think what’s best for him, and for all of us and…”

“You’re veering off again,” he said gently.