A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“They are?” I say.

“Yes,” she says, definitively. “They came this morning and they haven’t left yet.”

She looks up at Ashley. “You look less Chinese — did you have work done?”

“Mom, this is Ashley — not Claire.”

“Who are your people?”

“You are my people,” Ashley says, kissing her.

“Mom, Ashley is your granddaughter, she is one of us.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says, shaking Ashley’s hand.

“Mom, I’ve been meaning to tell you — when I visited Aunt Lillian, I got your jewelry back.”

“The diamond engagement ring?” my mother asks.

“No, some pearl earrings, a bracelet, the necklace with the ruby, and a few other little things, a pin, and a little necklace. She was very happy to give them back — seemed to want it off her chest.”

“I’m sure,” my mother says. “Did you look at her hand? Is she still wearing the engagement ring your father bought for me?”

“I have no idea, Ma,” I said. “It really seems like something the two of you should work out together. When you told me to ask her for the jewelry you didn’t mention a diamond engagement ring.”

“I wanted to see what she would fess up to — before I really put the screws on her,” my mother says.

Time for lunch — in the dining room. The floor assistant comes to take her to the dining room.

“I’m not going,” she says.

“Why not?” I ask

“A protest,” she says.

“I don’t think they’re going to bring your lunch,” the aide says, shaking her head.

“They used to,” my mother says.

“That was before,” I say.

“Well, it’s not like I’d miss much,” she says.

“Don’t be too sure,” the aide says. “It’s chicken and pasta.”

“Damn,” my mother says.

“What?”

“I really like the chicken and pasta, it has lemon and broccoli, and I get one of the girls from the kitchen to slip me some olives and capers. It’s almost like real food.”

“I brought dessert,” Ashley says holding up the cookie tin. “Homemade.”

“Fine,” she says, “we’ll go.” And up she gets, and as she leads us down the hall I notice she’s walking with a certain jounce or bounce in her step.

“Mom, you’re walking really well,” I say.

“It’s the dancing,” she says. “If you think of dancing, then you can walk; it’s just like stroke patients who sing in order to talk.”

“Fantastic,” I say.

“I was always a very physical person,” my mother says. “I’m not sure your father knew that.”

When we get to the door of the dining room, she signals to one of the aides as though he’s a maître d’ in a fancy restaurant. “Table for three,” she says.

“Anywhere you see a vacancy,” he says.

“Do you want iced green tea or bug juice?” my mother asks Ashley.

“Bug juice?”

“Fruity punch,” my mother says, “only here it’s laced with vitamin C and Metamucil.”

“Just water,” Ashley says. “Is the water plain?”

“As far as I know,” my mother says, and then she gazes into Ashley’s eyes and says, “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Me too, Grandma,” Ashley says.

“How’s college?”

“I’m in fifth grade, Grandma,” Ashley says.

“Well, don’t be discouraged,” my mother says.

“So where’s your friend?” I ask, unsure what exactly to call him.

“What do you mean where — he’s right there across the room, with his people. That’s why I didn’t want to come to lunch. Didn’t you see them glare at us?”

“I missed it.”

“You’re a moron,” she says to me.

“Did you two have a falling out?” I ask.

“Of course not,” she says, defensive.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“His people hate me, they actually ignore me. If we’re sitting next to each other, they speak only to him, never to me.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” I say.

“Are you saying I’m lying? That’s why I never tell you anything, because you never think I’m telling the truth. I never should have married you.”

“Ma, it’s me, Harold, not Dad.”

“Well, then, you’re just like your father.”

“Grandma, what was Pop-Pop like? When did he die? Did I ever know him?”

“Why are you trying to distract me with all this talk about the past when what I care about is that my man, my living and breathing man, is being kept from me by his ungrateful little bitches?”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Those are his daughters,” she says.

“Should I go over and break the ice?” I ask.

“Between him and me there is no ice. We knew each other before.”

“Before what?” Ashley says.

“We went to the same junior high,” my mother says. “I was friendly with his sister, a lovely woman, who died on a cruise ship. She was thrown overboard and eaten by sharks, and they never figured out who did it.”

“Her husband?” I suggest.

“She never married,” my mother says.

As the dishes are cleared, Ashley pulls out the cookie tin and is wrestling the top open when nursing-home staff surround us. “You can’t open that here — no outside food,” they say.

“It has no nuts or seeds,” Ashley says.

“It was made at home with love,” one of the attendants says.

“Yes,” Ashley says.

“Can’t allow it — everyone here has to be treated the same. We can’t have people who have no visitors getting depressed just because your mama has someone who cares about her.”

“How about if we share?” Ashley says.

“How many cookies you got?” the worker asks skeptically.

“How many patients do you have?” Ashley asks.

The worker checks with another aide. “The lunch census is thirty-eight, and that doesn’t include folks eating in their rooms.”

Ashley puts the cookie tin down and starts dutifully counting. “I have forty cookies.”

“You go, girl,” the worker says.

Ashley goes from table to table, person to person, offering her cookies. Some people don’t want any, others try to take two, and Ashley has to stop them: “One per customer,” she says.

After the cookies are distributed, I urge my mother to go and say hello to her boyfriend and his family.

“No,” she says, shaking her head and making a face. “They don’t like me.”

“Well, I’m going to introduce myself; if he’s someone you care about, we should be polite.”

“I’ll stay here with Grandma,” Ashley says, and then she whispers to my mother, “They wouldn’t let him have a cookie.”

His family is not polite.

“I thought I would just say hello,” I say, extending a hand. Only the man in question reaches for my hand.

“Nice to see you, son,” he says.

We exchange small talk until one of the daughters pulls me aside.

“We’re not happy,” she says.

“Why not?”

“Your mother is a nursing-home slut. She persuaded him to cheat on our mother, who took care of him night and day for fifty-three years.”

“I didn’t realize,” I say.

“Of course you ‘didn’t realize.’ We know who you are. … I repeat, your mother seduced our father. We heard that happens in places like this — so few men, so many women.”

“I think my mother knew your father from before,” I venture.

“She tried to steal my father from my mother,” the girl says.

“That was in junior high,” my mother calls across the room. “These new hearing aids are really good. At the time I didn’t think their relationship was so serious — excuse me, it was junior high.”

“If I may ask, where is your mother now?”

“She’s at Mount Sinai — that’s what landed him here. They went out for dinner, she fell, knocked him down — he broke a hip, she hit her head. She’s been in a coma, and we’re trying to make some decisions.”