The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go Page 3

  She didn’t know what it meant or anything, that she snuck into her own mom’s room to feel better. All she knew was that they were definitely not okay.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The phone kept ringing, but Lorraine refused to answer it. She knew Regina and Victoria wanted to tell her what they thought of her e-mail, but they simply didn’t have the right. She was their mother, and it was her job to coach them through life so they wouldn’t make fools of themselves. So far her job was 50 percent complete—Victoria had always been the better child. The idea of perfume for Christmas wasn’t awful, but Lorraine didn’t care for gardenias, and her own daughter ought to know that.

  She sat in her spacious condo overlooking a small flower garden in the courtyard. Right now it was layered in small, white lumps marking where existing plants hid. In the summer it was quite lovely with roses, day lilies, and no gardenias—not that they would grow this far north. She rocked in her chair and rubbed her hands. Dry skin caught her up short. She held them up to her face, giving her eyes time to focus. The skin looked rough, like she’d been carrying stone. Lorraine Price didn’t labor. She’d already complained to the property manager twice this winter about the dry air. She opened a tub of coconut oil, one of the many she had tucked around her apartment. Taking a fingerful, she rolled it between her hands until it started to melt, then rubbed it into her dry hands, using the excess on her elbows and smoothing the rest onto her ash-blond bob. She didn’t look her nearly seventy years, and she attributed it to frequent coconut oil use. She enjoyed the envious compliments she often received from the other residents when they discovered her age. One gentleman had even asked who she was visiting when she’d gone to get her mail last week.

  The phone started ringing again. The sound made her light-headed. She stood, pausing a moment before taking her first step to make sure her balance was sound, then walked to where the phone hung on the wall between the kitchen and living room, her right foot tingling with each step like it had fallen asleep. She reached for the phone cord with her right hand, but for some reason she couldn’t get a good grip on the cable leading from the wall to the cordless phone’s charging station. Odd. No matter, she simply used her left hand instead and yanked the cord out of the wall.

  Silence.

  Lorraine shifted her weight to her left foot to give her right a little shake, trying to return the feeling back into it. She hadn’t been sitting any differently than usual—it must be a sign she should be moving more. Perhaps she’d join one of the walking clubs whose flyers she’d seen posted in the condo building’s lobby. She shifted her weight back and forth, but the feeling did not return. She shuffled to the bathroom, expecting the pinpricks of regaining feeling to start any moment, but the numbness continued to spread up her leg. Finally reaching the bathroom, she looked in the mirror above the sink to check her hair and saw that her right eye sagged a bit. That wasn’t how it should look. She opened her eyes wide, the left opening much wider than the right. She opened and closed each eye, alternating the winks. When she shut her left eye, everything became blurry. But when she switched, her vision cleared. This wouldn’t do. She had never needed glasses before—she didn’t want to start now.

  Her right hand tingled. She used it to poke at her face, but couldn’t really feel it—like when the dentist numbed to fill a cavity. She knew her skin was moving around, but she didn’t feel it. Suddenly, a sharp spike of pain shot through her head, and she sucked in her breath. She’d felt that. Her heart skipped a few beats, then raced to make up for the missing ones. Something was happening. Something very bad. Lorraine didn’t like circumstances she could not control.

  I’ll call Roza. She stumbled out of the bathroom, bumping against the wall as her right leg struggled to keep her upright. Lorraine took two more steps toward the phone, and her leg crumbled beneath her until her right hip, arm, and the side of her face collided with the hickory floors. At least she was numb so she couldn’t feel the unsightly bruises she was sure were forming. A jar of coconut oil—that would help the bruises heal and ease the discomfort—sat next to the phone, but both were out of reach.

  Pushing with her left hand, she tried to sit up, but half her body felt like wet sand, impossible for her age-weakened muscles to move—loath though she was to admit it. She focused on her target with her nonblurry eye and filled her lungs with air, ignoring the fear bubbling inside of her. She’d always found a way to survive. Whatever was happening now would be no different. She had done harder things in her life—she could get what she needed even if her body resisted. Using her left foot, she slid her body closer to the small table where the phone and coconut oil waited. The elastic on her pants was too loose and they slipped down her hips as she scooched, leaving her foundations-covered bottom exposed. Spanx, her girls referred to them, but at least they were full coverage to spare her the indignity of an uncovered behind. She would have expected slithering across the floor to hurt, but other than the throbbing still in her head, she surprisingly felt nothing. One more push and she reached the leg of the table. She grasped it, pulling it to her, shaking it until the phone and jar of oil toppled off—onto her head. Insult to injury.

  Her hand reached and grabbed the phone, through sheer force of will. She pressed speed dial number one, the button to call Roza—Roza would help her. In the forty years they’d known each other, her old friend had never let her down. But this time there was no dial tone. She tried again, then remembered she had yanked it from the wall just a few moments ago. Can that have only been minutes? Or was it hours?

  Her muscles refused to cooperate further. She really wished she had relieved herself before falling, before losing control of her muscles. She regretted that decision now as warmth—along with her remaining dignity—spread down her legs. She lay in her own urine, realizing her greatest fear had come true. She was going to die alone, mortified, without even a cat to curl next to her.

  While she lay there, her husband improbably appeared from her bedroom, looking as handsome as ever. Where had he been this whole time? He wore his army uniform, crisp and freshly pressed. She could smell the lavender starch she had used on his collars, the polish he’d used to shine his boots. His brown hair was clipped short to his scalp, but she remembered how soft it felt when he grew it out, like a rabbit’s fur. His large, soft eyes took her in. Her fear and self-consciousness evaporated.

  “Oh, lovely Lorraine, what are you doing down there?” he said. His shiny shoes flashed in front of her before he tucked them under his legs as he sat crisscross next to her. She tried to say something, anything, to tell him how glad she was to see him after all this time, but he touched her lips. She couldn’t feel anything through the numbness. “Now, I’m here. Don’t you worry how. I’ll keep you company until someone arrives. It won’t be long.”

  He brushed her out-of-place locks off her forehead and ran a finger down her cheek that must look so old to his young eyes. She wanted to lean into his touch.

  “It’s been so long, and you look exactly the same,” he said.

  Flatterer. He’d always had a way with words. How she missed this, his flirtation that never felt insincere. A tear trickled over the bridge of her nose and fell to the floor. He was so beautiful and young. Was it finally time to be with him? Finally their time?

  “Not yet, my lovely. You have some things to sort out before that. Our girls need to know.”

  She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t. She didn’t care if anyone came, and she had no plans to tell anyone anything. She wanted to go with him, be with him. But if she couldn’t go with him now, then she was going to memorize everything about this moment. His hands rested on hers, the nails perfectly square and neat, his skin tanned from working in the sun. Dark hairs dotted his knuckles, hints at the dark hair dusting his covered chest. His lips were the exact shade of pink champagne she remembered. He must have just shaved, because his ordinary stubble was absent.

  A key slid in the lock, and he looked toward the door
at the sound, a smile on his face.

  “She’s here.”

  Faced away from the door as she was, she couldn’t see who entered—she could only watch his smile spread wider as he saw who had come. Lorraine blinked at the tears, trying to clear them up before whoever had arrived could see them. When she finished blinking, he was gone. And her heart broke again, just like it had so long ago.

  “Mom,” Regina said. Her feet clomped across the floor. She hadn’t taken off her shoes, forgetful girl. “Mom. Mom!”

  Regina slid a hand under her, moving her body so they could see each other. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Her voice rose in panic. “Mom?”

  Finally she was catching on. Why couldn’t Victoria have been the one to find her? Regina always was the slow one. At last, Regina pulled out her cellular and called 911.

  “Hi. My name is G-Gina. My . . . my mom is on the floor.”

  Tsk. Hardly any relevant information at all. Her daughter’s chest expanded and deflated.

  “Sh-she’s not talking.” Regina looked her in the face. “Her eyes are open, but she’s not talking. Help me.”

  This verbal stumbling was hard to watch. Lorraine shut her eyes.

  “Now her eyes are closed. Please, please come quickly.” Regina’s hand, warm and surprisingly comforting, held her own. Her voice dulled to a buzz, and Lorraine let the darkness come. Maybe when she woke, he would be back. And then they’d both be okay.

  HAVE I LIVED UP TO YOUR EXPECTATIONS?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Her mom was warm, that was something.

  “Mom. Mom.” Gina gently slapped her face. No response. Gina’s breath quickened. She couldn’t panic. She could help her mom. She started making a list.

  1. Call 911.

  She didn’t know what to do after that. But it was a start. Something she could do to improve the situation. Gina had worried about finding her mother on the floor more than once. She was always curious what her reaction would be. Would she fall to pieces? Would she respond like a good daughter should and call for help? Or would she close the door, go to Starbucks, get a latte, then come back in a half hour? She was reassured, at least, that leaving for Starbucks had never crossed her mind.

  While she waited for the EMTs to arrive, she assessed her mom, talking to her as she checked her body, even though she seemed to be unconscious. Maybe it was like a coma, and she could still hear her and be reassured by her presence—though Lorraine being reassured by Gina would be a first.

  “Okay, Mom. Let’s see how you’re doing here.”

  She put a hand on Lorraine’s wrist and watched her chest rise and fall.

  “You’re alive. You have a pulse and you’re breathing. That’s all good.”

  Somehow her mother’s pants had come down her hips, and she was in a puddle of water. Maybe she’d fallen in the spill and hit her head. Gina got a paper towel to wipe it up.

  “Did you slip in some water? Is that what happened? I’ll get this tidied up right away.”

  But when she set the paper towel on the liquid and watched it turn yellow, her nose finally picked up the distinctive scent.

  Not water.

  “Oh, Mom. Okay, don’t worry. I’ll get you cleaned up. You’re going to be fine.”

  Gina couldn’t leave her like this for the ambulance. Her mom would never forgive her. Reluctant to leave her side, she rushed to the closet and grabbed the first skirt she saw—a long, floral print one she usually wore on hot summer days. Not ideal for the time of year, but her mom could reprimand her later about it. She grabbed the scissors from the desktop pen holder where her mother kept them and went to work.

  “I know this is a summer skirt, but I think it’ll be easier than pants. This will only take a minute, and no one will ever know what happened.”

  She slid the pants completely off and used them to dry up the rest of the puddle. Then she slid the skirt over the slender legs and hips, leaving it bunched around her waist and above the damp Spanx, which would make it easier to cover her again once the undergarments were cut free. Using the scissors, she cut each side of the elastic shorts from top to bottom, her heart racing that the paramedics would arrive while her mom was so exposed. Lorraine would never forgive her for that faux pas. With a snap, the material gave. Averting her eyes, she slid the damp fabric away, dried her mother with a clean towel, and pulled the skirt quickly down over her legs. She added a blanket to keep her warm and a pillow under her head so she looked more comfortable.

  “There. Now it looks like you’re napping.”

  Oh fudge, that’s what people said at funerals. Her mom wasn’t going to die, was she? Gina violently shook her head and rearranged her thoughts to be more positive.

  Busying herself, she threw away the ruined undergarments and tossed the towels into the laundry so all the evidence was gone before any other witnesses arrived. Where were they?

  “See, we’ve got you all cleaned up for the paramedics. They’ll be here any minute, and you’ll be back to your normal self in no time.”

  Gina kept rambling to fill the silence, more for herself than her unconscious mother. Alone and waiting, she opened the condominium’s door wide to the hallway, not wanting to leave her mom’s side but keen to know the second the EMTs arrived. Her mom must have been so frightened, not being able to move or talk. Lorraine’s voice was her weapon of choice in life, and without it, she was less fearsome—like a defanged cobra. She returned to her mother’s side, holding her hand and watching the nearly invisible rise and fall of her chest—counting the seconds between breaths to make sure they stayed consistent.

  Tears still lingered on her mother’s face. She must have started to cry before she lost consciousness.

  “I bet it hurt when you fell.”

  Gina dabbed the tears off with a wadded-up tissue she had in her pocket. In her forty years, she had never seen her mother cry, or even have a moment of helplessness. Maybe the tears were a symptom. She glanced around for something else to comfort her mother and her eyes landed on the jar of coconut oil. She scooped out a small dab and gently took her mom’s hand in her own, rubbing the oil into her already soft skin like she’d seen her do all her life, moving her thumbs in circles on her palm, then down each finger. She repeated it with the other hand, relieved that her mother’s skin stayed warm and her breathing steady.

  A whoosh of air from down the hall moved the door a few inches, followed by bustling feet. Gina stepped out the apartment door to see the EMTs hustling in her direction. A few neighbors poked their heads out of their nearby doors like prairie dogs watching an approaching predator. As the paramedics arrived, Gina waved them in. Giving them space to do their work, she stood against the wall, answering any questions they asked.

  Did her mother have a history of fainting? No.

  Does she have any allergies? No.

  Does she live alone? Yes.

  What medications does she take? Gina read the line of pill bottles on the kitchen counter. Blood pressure medication, yes, but nothing serious for a woman in her late sixties.

  What hospital should we take her to? St. Al’s.

  Gina watched as they strapped her mother to a gurney and covered her with a thin blanket. What came next? Would she be okay? Gina had questions, too, but had to force herself to speak up, for fear of being inconvenient.

  “What do I do? Do I come with you? Follow? She’s going to be all right, right?”

  “Follow when you can. Go to the ER entrance. If you have her insurance and end-of-life instructions, it’s a good idea to bring those along. And she’s stable for now,” the paramedic said.

  Before Gina could form any follow-up questions, they were out the door.

  End-of-life instructions?

  End-of-life. Instructions.

  End of life.

  End.

  It couldn’t be. Her mom was too tough. She was going to outlast them all, right? Gina clung to that thought and used it to rally, to get moving. She would find t
he insurance information. She would get to the hospital. She would call Vicky. She would text May.

  Gina scanned her mother’s home. She’d never been alone in it before. Her mother had moved only a few years ago, tired of maintaining the property where Gina and Vicky had grown up. Finding her a suitable place to live had been a nightmare. Most senior apartments were “no better than hovels,” according to Lorraine. She had wanted granite countertops, real wood floors—no parquet and, heaven forbid, no laminate—and beautiful grounds, and she’d paid accordingly. Thank goodness Gina’s father had left her a small fortune.

  She pulled out her mother’s monogrammed overnight bag from the hall closet. If only Gina had time to make a proper list of items to pack, but she’d have to wing it. She started with the desk, finding bills, take-out menus, and programs for events held in the complex’s main building. She also found two unopened jars of coconut oil. She set these on the kitchen table, adding any more she found as she went. As she searched she set aside things her mom might need at the hospital—a toothbrush, fresh pajamas and underwear, deodorant, and a new jar of coconut oil—shoving it all into the bag.

  She searched the closet for slippers and a robe, peeking in the corners for anything that could be important. Under a stack of neatly folded towels, she found a safe with the keys dangling in the lock. Inside was an expired passport and a battered brown accordion file, held together with clear packing tape. This must be it. She scanned the first compartment’s documents, which made reference to who she wanted to make decisions for her and what kind of medical care she wanted to receive. The phrase “do not resuscitate” stood out, but Gina chose to ignore what that meant. This must be it, though the folder was stuffed with a lot of other papers. She didn’t have time to go through it now, so she tucked the entire file under her arm, zipped up the overnight bag, and locked the door behind her. After racing across the icy parking lot, she slid into her car, and the folder’s elastic closure gave under the pressure as it hit the cement. Before Gina even realized what had happened, she heard a tear and papers fluttered onto the ground, scattering immediately. Mother fudge.