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Margaret
by
I.
"Oh my hell! Shut up that goddamn noise!" I sink a little lower in my chair, glance up at the startled musicians, and give them a stupid, apologetic smile. They're from outside, so they don't know Margaret, but I'm sure she's the one who hollered. No one in this care facility would fail to recognize her irritable squawk. I can see her on the other side of the room, sitting alone as always, perched on the edge of a chair with her bony back rigid, her neck stretched, and her arms dangling limp and loose from her shoulders. She isn't looking at the performers. Her gray eyes are glazed and unfocused, her placid face turned away from the trumpets as if she hadn't even noticed when they suddenly burst out with "Joy To The World." I doubt that the entertainers are accustomed to reactions as direct as Margaret's, but their performance suffers only a little. There's a moment's hesitation, then they plunge ahead as strident as before, their brassy notes almost as abrasive as her voice. It's nearly Christmas, a brilliant, snowy afternoon, and the lounge of the care center has been dressed up with the expected paper Santas and a lighted tree. The residents ignore the decorations, the air smells of disinfectant instead of pine, and even though many of the audience members want extra blankets wrapped around their legs and sweaters hanging over their shoulders, it's much too hot in here. A lot of people have been brought from their rooms to see the show, but several people are asleep in their wheelchairs, one snoring loudly, and at the back of the room a nurse is taking the blood pressure of a woman reclining in a chair. The performers are uneasy volunteers from the Salvation Army, three men, sweating visibly in their dress suits and white shirts, probably nervous because of the subdued reception they are getting. The seasonal music is a generous gift for these sleepy, just-fed residents, but in this somber room the carol is as discordant as Margaret's reaction. "Goddamn shitasses. . . atta, attta. . .," she blurts out again. Margaret isn't my responsibility and her interrupting this show isn't my problem. I'm a volunteer; I'm as much an outsider as the musicians. But I've been coming here for several months now, and Margaret's indomitable spirit has caught my attention. In a place where resignation clouds the air like a fog, any show of defiance can be appreciated, even if it is only a symptom of illness. Margaret doesn't return my fondness for her, however. She doesn't even like me. In fact, I don't think she likes anyone. She certainly doesn't think she needs my help. She snarls rude names and stomps away if I just say hello. I get up from where I've been chatting with another woman, take a deep breath, and cross the crowded room. The sudden barrage of loud music has startled the other residents as much as it has Margaret, but their astonished faces are accepting it with polite silence. I pick up her hand, which she seems to have forgotten she left on the seat beside her. "Hey, Margaret, how about you and me taking a walk?" She struggles immediately to her feet. "Come on," she says and pulls me toward the door. I slip my arm under her knobby elbow and grip her hand tightly. Off we go, out of the lounge and down the long corridor toward her room. Margaret leads. She jerks me along, annoyed that she has to tolerate my touch. Her steps are the tiniest imaginable but quick and assertive, but quick and assertive, her slippered feet slapping noisily on the tile floor. Every footfall is punctuated by her angry grunts and curses. "Atta, attta . . .goddamn shit ass . . .uhn, uhn, uhn . . ." Margaret looks a bit like my mother, I suppose, small, skinny, always impatient. Maybe that's what attracts me to her. My mother's last illness wasn't like Margaret's, but when it came I couldn't spend much time with her. I had young children and lived a thousand miles away. Almost before I considered the possibility of it, she died. So now I come here in my spare time. A cheerful young man carrying an armload of clean towels happens to pass by us going the other way. A new aide, I guess, noticing his green jacket. He probably hasn't met up with Margaret before because he says, "Hello," and smiles naively, stepping aside to give us room. "Up your butt," Margaret replies without meeting his eyes. Margaret isn't really like my mother at all. "He's a bitch," she hisses. "No -- a bastard. They aren't the same thing, you know." I try another smile in her direction, but she won't look at me. "My name is Judy, Margaret," I announce as if we were meeting for the first time. "I'm a volunteer." Margaret has never appeared to recognize me, and she isn't ever anxious for anyone's company, so I doubt that she wants mine now. Even in my tight grasp, her hand feels as limp as an old mitten, and her expression is annoyed. I know she would rather take off on her own, but she isn't very steady on her feet these days, so I keep her arm clamped tightly under mine. I could be an aluminum walker on wheels as far as she is concerned. Something sturdy to hold on to. Since she is so resolute about ignoring me, I get a chance to study her from the corner of my eye. As I mentioned, she's thin, really thin, the way my mother was. The sort of thinness that looks uncomfortable, as if her skin were only a loose covering over taut rubber bands of muscle with nothing to cushion them. Margaret's hair is nicer, though -- medium length, gray salt and pepper, cut and waved professionally in a casual style that clearly is losing in an attempt to soften her grim demeanor. My mother always cut her hair herself, even after my siblings and I grew up and she had more to spend. Sometimes she asked me to trim the back along her neck. No sense in wasting good money to have it done, you never knew what was coming next. We arrive at Margaret's bedroom. It's not much: one-half of a double divided by a curtain wall. And there isn't much to identify it as hers except the nametag on the door. She doesn't have a roommate at the moment and the other half of the room is vacant, so at least there is privacy. Margaret goes in, flushed and breathing hard from her walk, and collapses onto an upholstered chair. She blows out a long puff of air as attentively as if she were exhaling cigarette smoke. "Oh, hell!" she sighs into the stillness. At last she turns to face me. She looks me over with the cool reserve you usually give to strangers you're not sure you can trust. Her small mouth is straight as a runway and rigid with irritation. A portrait of contempt. I turn to leave. "Will you please just stay here for a minute?" she asks sharply. I stare back from the doorway. "Please!" I cross the room and sit down, on the edge of the bed since there is no chair but hers. She turns her back to me again and scoots her bottom to the front of the chair, then rocks forward and back, forward and back, trying to stand but not quite making it to her feet. At last she gives up, flops back on the cushions, and sits almost still for a few seconds. Abruptly, she begins scrubbing the heel of a hand against one eye. The eye already is red and irritated, so I reach for her hand and draw it away. "Does it hurt, Margaret?" I ask. "Oh, Jesus Christ, yes! I think I got an anchor in it." "An anchor? You mean an eyelash?" "Yeah, an eyelash. And my head hurts -- the top of my head." She touches her temple with the tips of her fingers, sighs some more, and says, "I've got to take it all apart and put it together again. God, everything is just too much!" She leans forward, so close our foreheads almost bump and our eyes meet head on. "This play isn't very good, you know. It drags on." Her voice drops so low I can barely make out the next words, "I like the people, though." Her pink tongue flicks in and out, wetting and rewetting her already chapped lips, and creases deepen around her eyes as she scrutinizes my face again, looking for something there that clearly she isn't finding. She gives up. She drops her shoulders and wriggles back into the seat. "I'm not in any hurry . . . I'd rather play at it . . . as long as they're out. . ." Her words race on for several minutes while I struggle to follow, wondering if there is any real meaning in what she says. She's not really talking to me. She seems to have forgotten that I'm here. The words trail off, then finally disappear altogether, and for several minutes we sit in silence. Suddenly, her back straightens. Her eyes dart around the room, pausing to examine one object after another, dismissing it and moving on. They stop, blinded, frozen into chips of ice. Her head falls back and her mouth drops open. "Uhnn . . nn . . .no--o--o--oh-h-h!" she howls. A wail of unmistakable rage roars up from deep in her chest, squalls out across the room and reverberates into the hallways. On and on. Like an animal caught in a trap. I don't know what to do. I've never seen real misery come to life in a sound. I watch, frightened, as tears fill my eyes. I wait until I can't bear it any longer. "Margaret!" I shout, clutching her hands. It stops. Just like that, as if I had turned a switch. Her dazed eyes flick around the room, her mouth still hanging open. Her face trembles all over. She blinks a second time, and I can finally take a breath. Both our hands are shaking. Suddenly hers seem to have grown heavy, much too big for the bony wrists. She watches as I lift and caress their soft palms and massage the fingers. It surprises me that she allows me to touch them at all. "Such large hands, Margaret," I say. "They look a lot like my mother's hands." Her lashless eyelids flutter some more. "Yeah?" She holds one hand close to her face and examines it as coolly as if she were evaluating a piece of fruit. "That's all the years we've got behind us," she says. She reaches up with her other hand to support the first. "My finger hurts," she says, and pushes the hand toward me as if she wants to give it away. "The third one. It has blisters." I turn it over and back again. Except for a lace pattern of blue veins, all the fingers are smooth and healthy, without even the spots and lumps that usually come with age. I look into herface, but she jerks her head away. "My knees are killing me," she grumbles. I rub them lightly through her knitted slacks, amazed at the sudden familiarity between us. "Does that help?" "Yeah, that's good. I'm so tired." She sighs and sinks back in the chair. "I don't want any more of this. I'm sick. I'd like to shit my head." I struggle to think of something to say. I want so much to comfort her, but no words come. She isn't going to recover --she knows how ill she is. The most I can do is try to make these last days a little better, a little less lonely. But only if she will let me. I wait. I want her to talk to me, to tell me something about her life, about who she is, but she doesn't. I glance around the room at the things that were brought here from her home. There isn't much -- some clothes, some needlework, an afghan. I notice the paper labels with her name, handwritten and attached with clear tape to her closet, her dresser, her side of the room. I get up from the bed, cross to a small table and open a photo album. She watches as I leaf through the pictures. "That's my father," she points. "No, Margaret. I think that's a picture of you." "Oh, all right," she concedes without much interest. I flip some more pages. The pictures are old, black and white snapshots for the most part. Margaret smoking a cigarette; Margaret laughing. No pictures of her husband, but there are studio portraits of an elderly man and woman. "That's my mother and father," she calls over. "And that's my house." It's a simple ranch-style house, rather run-down, with an old sedan parked under a carport. It looks western, California, maybe. One picture is of a much younger Margaret holding a small boy in her arms while a little girl stands behind her, clutching her skirt and looking shyly around her legs at the camera. "Who are these kids?" I ask, showing her the snapshot. "I don't know." "I think they must be your children, Margaret." "I don't think so . . . I don't know." "Do you have a daughter?" "Yes, I think so." "What's her name?" "I don't know. I've had to give up so many things. And kids aren't much. I know one thing for sure, I'm never going to do that again, I'm too tired. I'm just too tired." She takes a deep breath and is quiet while several minutes pass. I put the album back on the table and take her hands again as I sit on the bed. "Yeah, that feels good," she says softly, relaxing her shoulders and closing her eyes. I close mine, too, and wait for her to fall asleep. It's growing dark when I leave the care center. Snow is tumbling to the ground; silent, fat, clumpy flakes, clean, white, muffling all sound except the squeak of my boots as I push through on the way to my car.
* * *
I think Margaret and I will be closer now, the ice has finally broken. That's only partly true. On good days, Margaret's face lights up when she sees me. Sometimes she actually allows me to give her a hug. Other days . . . well, if I put my arm across her shoulders, she jerks away, spins around and shouts: "What the hell are you doing -- I don't like that!" So I back away. "COME BACK HERE!" she'll snap. I'm as confused as she is. "Oh, my hell!" she roars, her saliva spraying my face. "Will you please just stay here for a minute? Please!" As trembly and unsteady as she is, Margaret can't sit still for more than a few minutes. She always wants to walk, and now I've been approved by her to go along, her left arm tucked under my right, snug against my ribs, and her hand in mine. On good days, she will smile sweetly and ask for permission. "I'm going to walk around a little bit, is that okay?" On other days, she just grabs my hand and off we go. We must travel miles through the hallways, up one and down another, back and forth. "Oh my god, where are you going?" she complains as we walk. "You can't go that way, you have to go this way!" She isn't talking to me, of course, she's dragging me along. I think, maybe, she's talking to her own legs. When I've had as much as I can take and tell her I want to leave, she screams at me, her lips so close that I can feel puffs of breath on my cheeks. "You goddamn bitch! You're dumping me, aren't you? You goddamn bitch!" And she'll raise her hands and threaten my face with her nails. Sometimes I wonder what good it does for me to come here, why I continue to visit her. It's true that I seek her out, even at the expense of time with other residents, but some days she doesn't seem to recognize me, and often she doesn't want me around. Maybe it's just curiosity, my fascination with what a deteriorating mind can do to an otherwise healthy person. I'm sure that if we were related, if she were my mother or my sister, or even if I had been her friend at another time in her life, seeing the way she is now would be heartbreaking. But it isn't. I can accept her strange behavior, her abrupt mood swings, even her temper. This is the only Margaret I know.
* * *
A few weeks later I arrive at the care center and learn that Margaret has been given a new room, so I go to take a look. She's alone when I reach her doorway. The lights have been turned off, and the room is dark. She's standing tall and straight with her back to me, a dark silhouette outlined by a large window, her arms raised high above her head. Delicately, barely touching the glass, the tips of her fingers trace wide arcs over its surface. There isn't much to look at outside the window, just a parking lot with mounds of dirty snow scraped up by a plow and left heaped in front of the cars. A cold wind scatters the few remaining leaves across the pavement. Occasionally a sparrow drops down from some nearby trees and scratches at the gravel, but the sky is a lumpy, disapproving gray -- it could rain or snow again any minute. Margaret isn't really looking out. As she moves, the light from the window falls on her colorless, still angry face, and I am able to see her unfocused eyes. She calls out in a loud stream of noises and syllables, interrupting occasionally to shout insults at people she doesn't identify, for offenses I can't even guess. " . . . Goddamn, goddamn shitasses . . . atta, atta, uhn . . . " "Hi, Margaret." She turns and looks me over as if she has never seen me before. "How are you doing today, Margaret?" I ask. "Atta, atta...I don't know yet! Uhn, uhn, uhn," she grunts. "When I find out, uhn, uhn, I'll let you know!" For a moment, she's silent and studies me as I switch on the room lights. "I didn't mean all that," she apologizes. "I want to get up into your head and help you." I cross the floor to take both of her extended hands and lead her to a chair. She plops down with another grunt. "You have a picture window now, you can look out." "I haven't been out! I don't want to freeze!" she snaps. "It's cold! And my nose is all stuffed!" I sit down on the bed beside her. We listen to the ticking of a clock as I gaze around the unfamiliar room. I can't help wondering who decorated it. There is a couch I haven't seen before, blue, really very nice, the sort of thing I think Margaret would have chosen for herself. It almost matches her recliner chair and makes the room look rather homey. Margaret's needlework has been hung on the walls, framed cross-stitch pictures of birds and flowers, and the clock we have been listening to. There are still no family pictures except those in the album, which now lies open on the table beside her bed. The familiar paper labels, roughly printed with her name, now mark the closet door and cabinet here. Abruptly, she stretches forward in the chair, curls her hands into fists, and pounds her knees. "I didn't do anything!" she cries into the silence. Her eyes flick over to meet mine again. "Do you want to break out of here?" she asks. "Do you like your new room?" I ask. "God, I don't know. Do you know what I'd like? The fruit cup. Somebody's been stealing them." Her eyes close as she sags back and begins weaving her fingers through the stitches of an afghan that hangs over the arm of her chair. "I feel like hell today," she sighs. "I can't do anything. I'm in bad shape. I don't get it . . . I want to live!" She hesitates. "I might have to," she adds. The afghan is crocheted and neatly homemade, I notice, with large red roses that Margaret's fingers are busy tangling. I lift a corner of its fringe. "I made that," she says, smiling over to me. She slides her fingers out of the flowers, smoothes them with a few pats of her hand, and closes her eyes again. "My mother used to crochet," I tell her, pulling the edge of her coverlet over my knee. "She tried to show me how, but I'm left-handed and Mom wasn't. She never did have much patience. She finally decided I was unteachable and gave up altogether. '"Figure it out for yourself,' she said." Margaret's eyes slip open a crack. "I did learn how," I go on, "but it wasn't eas, and it took me a long time. I tried to copy whatever she did. It worked, sort of, but my work didn't look like hers. All my stitches twisted in the wrong direction." Margaret studies me with a frown. "They were almost the same but different, you know?" I insist. "Like our signatures. I must do something wrong, but it works well enough for me. I still crochet that way." "I know your mother," Margaret says. "You do?" "Oh, yes. I've known her for many years." "I didn't know that." "It's not good for her here." She leans closer until we're nearly nose to nose. "This is not a good place for cancer." She relaxes back in the chair and her eyes drift closed again. I wait. She's so still, I think she might have gone to sleep, but I keep talking anyway, probably to myself, but maybe so she'll know I'm still in the room. "My mom did a lot of crocheting. Knitting, too --sweaters, socks, slippers. She made lots of things for me when I was a kid. And things for my children, too." I take a quick glance at Margaret. Her eyes are still shut but I feel her listening. "Mom was a chain-smoker," I say. "Everything she made smelled like ashtrays. She never knew that, but it's the truth. I sure wasn't going to tell her." Margaret's lips part slightly, her breath is even and noisy. Maybe she really has gone to sleep. I lift the edge of her afghan and crush it between my fingers, feeling how soft it is. "Mom made afghans, too. Like this one, with the roses all over it. And some with lots of different colors." She'd crochet yarn scraps together, whatever was left over from things she had finished. I still have a bunch of them. "Every one of them is coming apart. Mom just didn't tie the knots tight enough when she joined different yarns together. The colors pull apart and ravel at the slightest tug. I've tried to sew them back together but it's hopeless." I stand up and cross the room to the window. A light rain has started to sprinkle down, freezing in icy slivers where the drops brush the glass. I pull the heavy curtain closed and turn off the lights again. The room is almost dark. "I still like them, though," I continue as I wrap the rose-covered blanket over Margaret, tucking it in around her bony shoulders. "They look like mice chewed them, but I don't care. I sit and poke my toes into the holes and wind the strings around my fingers. Stitches keep popping open all the time." I listen to the tick, tick, tick of the clock that hangs above Margaret's bed -- a cat, with a tail that swings back and forth and round eyes that roll from side to side as if it surveys the room. Margaret's head nods, tips back, and a snore rumbles up from the back of her throat. I smile at the angular face with its intricate crosshatch of deep creases and tiptoe toward the door. "Hey!" she yells, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickle to attention. She's wide awake. Her hands are cupped on either side of her mouth like a cheerleader's; the afghan drops in a heap on the floor. "Hey!" We stare at each other. "I have that lonesome-ness," she says softly. "I don't want to lose you."
* * *
It's Monday and I've come to the care center again after being away over the weekend. I didn't immediately go to see Margaret when I arrived, as I've gotten in the habit of doing. First I visited with Angie, Philip and Pinkie, a few of the other residents I know here, and so it isn't until late morning, almost noon, that I see her. She is alone, walking toward me from down the long corridor in the area where her room is located. I'm standing in the center of the building, writing on a clipboard at the counter of the nurses' station. I'm curious to know if she'll recognize me today, so I pretend that I don't see her. I don't even look up. She's well dressed in a sweater and slacks, and she looks great -- not shouting, not mumbling under her breath as she often does. She scuffs along quietly in her quilted slippers, teetering slightly as she walks, with the fingertips of one hand sliding along the wall. I keep writing, my head down as I make notes about the morning visits. She glides past me without a sound, pausing only long enough to reach out and pinch my hand. Hard. A ring of deep half-moons glows red in my skin. I jump back. "Margaret!" I gasp. "Why did you do that?" "I had to," she says. "Come on, let's go." I hesitate, but she grabs my hand. "Oh, come on! I can't get along without you. Let's just look around. It looks good to me. Where does this go? Come on, come on!" It's time for her lunch, so I get a steadying grip on her arm and we join the stream of residents appearing from their rooms and on their way to the dining hall. Angie is already there, seated by herself at the same table where Margaret's name is taped beside a placemat. Angie's head is bent low over her lap. She lifts it to smile at me, and I see where one cheek has been imprinted with circles by the button-eyes of a toy rabbit that is crumpled against her plump breasts. Angie catches sight of Margaret, glowers briefly, then quickly digs her nose into the plush of the toy again. "Goddamn shit-ass, atta, atta, atta," Margaret mutters as I pull a chair out for her on the opposite side of the table. "I hate that one, she's a goddamn shitass!" "Can I put a bib on you, Margaret?" I don't wait for an answer and she doesn't resist, so I slip one around her neck before she can think it over. "I'm breaking up a little bit at a time!" she shouts. "Shut up!" Angie hollers. "Don't pay her!" Margaret yells back. "Margaret . . . ," I begin. She spins around to face me, ready for a fight. Instead, lunch is served. The meal today is a meat and pasta casserole and carrots. It smells good. The food here always smells good to me, but the residents don't think much of it, and I've noticed that most of it never gets eaten. Care center occupants are picky eaters. Although they wait all morning to come to the dining room, they usually only nibble at whatever is served. Angie doesn't. She grabs a fistful of the main course and stuffs it into her mouth. "Use your spoon," I suggest. She watches me from the corner of her eye as her hand reaches out and digs into the scattered heap of noodles again. I unroll utensils from a napkin and slide a spoon into her sticky fingers. I turn back to Margaret, but when I approach her lips with a spoon-load of the casserole, her hand flies up and swats mine away. "I don't want it!" she shouts. Abruptly, she smiles. "I'm Margaret," she says. "Yes, I know, Margaret. I'm Judy. Would you like a drink of milk?" "No," she murmurs, politely. "It's a bunch of shit." I set the glass back down. "I'm spoiled rotten for a person," she continues as she picks up a fork and pokes around in the noodles, finally spearing a chunk of meat that she puts in her mouth. "Oh, that's strong!" she says. "Strong? You mean hot?" I ask. "Yeah." She lays the fork down, and I use it to stir the steaming pasta. "What's your favorite food, Margaret?." "Darned if I know," she replies and reaches for the catsup bottle on the condiment tray. She looks it over, then tugs at the flip-top cap. "I just want to see what it is," she explains irritably when it won't come off. I take the bottle, snap open the lid and squeeze a red blob on one of her fingertips. "Have a taste, Margaret." "Oh, that's good!" she exclaims. She licks up all the catsup, then licks each finger, one at a time, front and back, as meticulously as a cat grooming its paw. "That really is good!" she smiles. Across the table, Angie has finished everything and is now licking her dessert plate for the cake crumbs left behind. Her mouth is a dark circle of frosting, and the bunny she still holds crushed beneath her chin is a sticky mess. "Hey! HEY! Are you listening?" Margaret calls out. "What is it, Margaret?" "Gee whiz, gee whiz! Can I get up and do some cleaning?" "I think you should eat something first. Try what's on your plate. It's cool now." She stabs at another lump in the main course. "Oh, this is . . . this is ugly! I don't like this stuff! How can you stand this goddamn stuff. It's the first time I've had this in years, and I get stuck with it now!" Her shoulders shudder, then she smiles. "How are you doing?" she asks. "I'll comb your hair, and do all those good things." "I'm just fine," I smile back. "Try the cake." She pulls off a chunk with her fork. "It's all right," she judges. "Really. Not a bad job." With that, Margaret has eaten all she's inclined to. She pops up from her chair. "Oh my gosh, oh shit, atta, atta . . . I've got to get up and get somewhere. . . get somewhere. . . get somewhere!" I reach for her hand and guide her toward the open door. In mid-stride, she jerks free and heads for an empty table. "I don't think I can do that!" she yells back at me. "I have to go, Margaret," I call out. "If you don't come, I'll have to leave you here." Margaret glares, furious, and plops down on a vacant chair. "This is a hard world, isn't it?" she shouts. "You try to be a good person, and you get things, and you put them together . . ." I stand there, waiting. "Just do it!" she hisses. "Nobody cares! Just do it!" She leans back and crosses her arms defiantly, her lips pressed tightly together, and we stare at each other. I wonder if I really should walk away. I could. She could find her way back to her room, or an aide will take over. She doesn't really need me. If I left her, would she even care? Suddenly her heavy eyelids flick open, wide, startled, and her angry body relaxes. "I made that whole outfit you're wearing," she says quietly. "You did? I look down at my sweatshirt and jeans. "Really?" "Yeah, I did. I made it." A smile spreads over her face. Without another word, she stands and takes my hand.
* * *
The weeks crawl by, uneventfully except for occasional winter storms and lots of below zero weather. Margaret walks miles and miles through the hallways, many of them with me tagging along. She's growing weaker and is even more unsteady on her feet. Nevertheless, she won't sit still. If I don't go with her, she takes off on her own, so whenever I'm at the care center, I become a support for her to lean on. I don't know how she manages when I'm not there and the aides are busy, but she refuses to use the aluminum walkers. She has fallen several times. I get a good grip on her, her left arm tucked under mine, snug against my ribs, and I clutch her hand tight so she can't pull away. She takes tiny steps as before, but without the assurance she had when we first traveled together. Aides smile at us and call, "Hello, Margaret" as we pass. Margaret makes guttural noises in her throat but never replies. "Bitch!" or "Bastard!" she snarls when we are a few feet beyond them. She takes no notice of the other residents. In fact, she takes no notice of anything; she moves like a sleepwalker. I have to steer her around obstacles or she would plow right into them. Her eyes are always fixed, unblinking and apparently sightless, staring straight ahead. She dangles her free arm in front of her like a broken wing. There's no question of who is in the lead. All the corridors in the care center building end at large, metal exterior doors with brilliant red stop signs that warn, "An alarm will sound if this door is opened." Again and again, Margaret drags me straight for them "Come on!" she commands, towing me along or jerking free of my interference until she's standing directly in front of the sign. Her free hand flies up and strikes the door viciously with the flat of her palm. BAM! BAM! BAM! Metallic blows echo through the hallway. "Margaret! You're going to hurt yourself!" I shout. I can't stop her. BAM! BAM! BAM! "Stop it, Margaret!" When I struggle to pull her back, she whirls around, furious. "All right, go on!" she'll yell. "You goddamn stinking bitch! Get out of here!" and she'll slap me on the face and chest. If I'm lucky, aides will be nearby and rush to intercept her. Then, as abruptly as she starts, she'll stop. She'll turn around, her face colorless, as bland as oatmeal. Slowly, slowly, in tiny steps, we'll make our journey back.
II.
Spring arrives at last, almost overnight, surprising everyone with the brashness of its appearance. After such a cold winter, it's suddenly warm, too warm, almost hot, and there's just too much coming into bloom all at once. The scent makes me feel slightly drunk, overwhelmed with the sugary taste of flowering trees, bushes, hyacinths, tulips and more, all bursting with sweetness at the same time, stirring up a fragrant soup with the fetid, mushroomy broth of mud and soil just unleashed from cold storage. This morning a small group of residents has gathered outside to simmer in the sunlight for the first time this year. "Hey, there, what kind of trees are those?" Harvey asks and points with his cigarette. He leans his heavy elbows on a walker and grins tobacco-stained teeth as I approach. "Crabapple," I tell him. Harvey is unconvinced, or maybe he expected something more exotic. He shakes his head, tosses his cigarette butt into a patch of grass as green and flawless as Astroturf, and rolls his walker away. The main hallway of the care center is empty and seems unusually gloomy after the brilliant sunshine outside. I cross over it and head into the lounge. Margaret is the only one there, sitting stiff-backed on the edge of a satin-covered couch. She doesn't smile when she sees me, but when I get close, she reaches out and snatches my hand. "Oh, god!" she exclaims. "Your feet is frozen!" "You mean my hand?" "Yeah," she sighs as she closes it up in both of hers, and rubs it gently to warm it. "Have you been out, Margaret? It's a beautiful day --spring at last." "It's worse out there than it is in here!" "Not feeling good?" I ask as I sit down. "Oh, my knee is really chewing up, and my stomach is sore. Every damn thing is going wrong. I'm too old for this stuff. I'm damn glad I'm nearly at the end of this trip. I'm done. I'd like to get in one spot and stay there until I drop dead." She sighs again and is silent. Behind us there's a large window, and through it I can see a man squatting on his knees, at work in the garden. With muddy gloves, he pulls back the dead leaves and decomposing mulch, lovingly uncovering a cluster of daffodils that already are in full bloom. I point them out to Margaret, but she won't twist around in her chair to look. "That wall is nice, though." She nods her head toward the wall on our left. "That wall? Do you like the paintings?" I turn my attention to reproductions of Monet's water lilies. "Yeah," she says. So we look at them instead, quietly gazing at the shimmery pinks and blues, and don't speak for several minutes. A nurse glides into the room, pushing an empty wheelchair before her. She rolls it up and parks it in front of Margaret. "We're taking Margaret over to Psych Hospital," she whispers to me. "They're going to run some tests so they can adjust her medication." She leans over and smiles into Margaret's face. "Margaret," she says, "will you come with me?" "No! Goddamn shit ass! Eh, eh, eh, eh . . . " A young aide hurries in to help the nurse. She stoops down and hooks one arm under Margaret's elbow, the way I always do when we walk together. The nurse grasps her, too, solidly on the other side. The two of them manage to haul her up from where she's sitting. Margaret's face goes white. Her feet stick to the floor as if they're glued to is, and she refuses to approach the wheelchair. She slaps the women's hands away and aims her fingernails at their faces. After several minutes of struggle, the chair is abandoned. Margaret is scooted across the floor upright, her legs stiffly outstretched and her quilted pink slippers stuttering across the tiles while she shouts with outrage. I hang back and watch. An automobile is waiting just outside with the engine running. They lift her onto a seat. Margaret repeatedly unbuckles the seatbelt and opens the car's door as quickly as they can buckle her in and close it. "Goddamn, goddamn, atta, atta!" Eventually the two women decide they will have to order an ambulance. They call to me and ask if I'll sit with Margaret until it arrives. It's still a glorious day. I lead Margaret to a wooden glider in the garden beside the care center driveway and coax her to sit beside me. Margaret is terrified. Again and again she pulls herself to her feet, struggling against the unstable glider. As soon as she's up, her knees hurt and she sits back down. At last she gives up, sinks into the space beside me and quietly clutches one of my hands with both of hers. I begin to rock the glider back and forth. "What a nice breeze, Margaret. Smell the air, it's spring for sure. Feel it?" I rock some more, smooth and slow. "This is the kind of day that my mother would start taking the laundry outside instead of hanging it to dry in the basement. I bet you did that, too. As soon as the weather got warm enough so that the clothes wouldn't freeze solid instead of drying." I look over at Margaret's face. Her lips are pressed together so tightly they are as blue-white as bleached bone. "Remember that, Margaret? Remember how the wind would smack the cold wet clothes against your face and tangle the sheets around your legs when you tried to hang them on the line? Remember the smell of the wet clothes? I always liked that smell, didn't you?" She lets go of me and slides her hands down her thighs, smoothing the knitted slacks, and spreading her long fingers to grip her knees. "Once," I tell her, "I tried to help my mother with the wash and caught my hand in the wringer. I was just a little kid, but I still remember seeing my arm being grabbed up by the rollers. I was so scared -- and Mom was too. She ran over and pulled me out. I wasn't really hurt, just a little bruised. But I howled up a storm, and she cried too. She grabbed me up in her arms and hugged me so tight I couldn't breathe." I quickly glance at Margaret. "Really hugged me. She didn't often do that. It felt so good I kept crying just so she would keep squeezing me." We sit quietly, rocking slowly back and forth, and stare into a row of trees marking the edge of the parking lot. "Yeah," I say, "a breeze like this could sure get rid of the musty smells of the basement." Margaret's cheeks are pinker, almost flushed. She takes my hand again, lightly now. "Yeah," she sighs. "Look at all the seeds falling from the trees, Margaret." A sudden gust sends torrents of the little pinwheels spinning to the ground, fluttering past our faces and catching in our hair. "Already?" she asks, alarmed. "They're falling already?" "Just the seeds, Margaret, not the leaves. See, there's a sparrow picking them out of the grass. I'll bet she's got a nest." "Where? I don't see a bird," Margaret leans forward to look, but then collapses back on the bench. "I just want to go home. And walk around. And sit down. I hate this place." "I know," I say. We sit in silence then, and watch as a few clouds appear like muddy footprints in the clean blue sky. Then a few more crowd in, heavier ones. They clump together over the sun, and suddenly it is darker. The breeze turns cold. Margaret shivers and wrenches her body forward with another attempt to stand. "I have to pee. I don't want to wet my clothes. I have to go inside." But then she drops back again, her shoulder brushing softly against mine, and she closes her eyes. The ambulance, a van fitted for carrying wheelchairs, swings into the drive and stops in front of us. We wait while the driver climbs out, casts a cursory glance in our direction, and goes inside to announce his arrival. Soon he is back, the nurse and the aide beside him with the wheelchair. Margaret is up, heading for the door. "I have to go inside!" she yells. "I'm cold and I have to pee!" With the man's help, they are able to force her into the chair. Then a black strap is buckled around her waist, tying her to the seat. Her fingers claw at the belt; she kicks and the slippers fly off her feet. The chair is wheeled onto a lift, which raises it to the high door of the van. Margaret shrieks and clutches the edges of the opening with both hands, but they're peeled away. She refuses to lower her head, so the driver tilts the chair backwards to fit her through the door. She screams and screams, but at last she is inside. The nurse climbs into the van and sits down beside her. Margaret tries to push the woman away but the nurse is stronger. She wraps her arms around Margaret's quaking shoulders, squeezing her in a tight but gentle hug, rocking, cuddling, talking softly to reassure her. They lock the wheelchair into place with hooks on the floor. The engine starts, and the van rolls away.
* * *
Margaret has been gone more than a week and I've decided to visit her. I park my car on the eighth level of Tower Four in the huge hospital complex. I ask the gate-keeper which of the surrounding buildings is the Adult Psychiatric Ward, but he doesn't know. He shouts to the man in the next booth -- he doesn't know either, but he makes a few telephone calls and then points me in the direction of a doorway a short walk down the road. Inside, I get a visitor's pass at the information desk and the receptionist tells me to follow signs to a ward on the floor above. Off I go, down one corridor, turn left, down another corridor, turn left, another corridor, turn right, another corridor, turn left again, up an elevator, more corridors. I listen to the muffled padding of my feet as I walk along the thick carpet that covers the floor of the well-lit but windowless, empty halls, and wonder if I am now part it, being watched as I try to figure out this maze. Finally, I arrive at a heavy locked door with a sign, "Adult Psychiatric Ward." There is still no one in sight, so I press a buzzer and over an intercom ask to be admitted. I watch through a wire-mesh glass window as an aide approaches from the other side, unlocks the door, and lets me in. It's very quiet inside, hushed by more carpeting and closed doors. Silent, that is, except for Margaret. The only sound is her unmistakable voice. "Eh. . . eh. . . eh. . . atta, atta. . . goddamn, goddamn!" "I guess I have found the right place," I remark to the aide. She smiles stiffly, turns, and leads me down a long narrow corridor with closed doors on both sides, until we come to a wider, open area. Margaret is in the middle of the room, standing in a device I learn is called a "Merry Walker." It is a rather large cube made of white plastic tubing, with easy-to-roll casters that make it possible for Margaret to walk with no danger of falling. Also, it has a seat, so she can sit down whenever she gets tired. It's less restrictive than a wheelchair and gives her more freedom because she can move about unescorted. A good idea, I think. Just what she needs. Margaret hates it. "Goddamn shitasses. . . atta. . . atta. . ." She jerks the device off the floor and slams it down again, lifts her leg and tries to climb over the side. One of her hands swings through the air trying to smack the aides as they attempt to show her how the thing works. Then she sees me. She recognizes me. Her angry face softens into welcoming smiles. She lifts both arms and wraps them tight around my shoulders. "Oh, that's good, that's good," she says as I squeeze back the frail birdlike bones that make up her body. "My head is sick," she tells me.
III.
Last week, Margaret came back to the care center, and she's much quieter and more docile. It makes me sad to see the changes in her. Her strength has grown, but she stays alone in her room most of the time and stares into space. Her back is as straight as ever, though. When she does go out, the new walker goes with her, surrounding her like a birdcage. And now she walks with her face tilted up as if she's examining the ceiling for cracks. This afternoon when I arrive I find Margaret trapped by the Merry Walker in a corner of her own bedroom. Her body trembles with rage as she smacks the walker again and again into the angle of two walls. She won't look at me even when I call out to her. "No! It's tight," she hollers. "It's tight!" I give a little tug on the walker. "Margaret, why don't you come this way?" She plants her feet obstinately and jerks the walker out of my hands. When I reach to take her arm, she reels around, glares at me and aims one hand at my face, her fingers curled and jabbing like talons. "Don't you touch me, you goddamn bitch!" she warns. So I don't, but I manage to turn the Merry Walker so she faces another direction and isn't jammed in the corner. Still grumbling, bumping and scraping against the wallpaper, she rolls the walker slowly along the edge of the room. With each step, she reaches out and smacks the wall hard with her free hand. Eventually, she arrives at her bedroom mirror. She touches the glass cautiously, and her gaze at the ceiling drops down to stare hard at her reflection. She lifts one hand and touches the skin of her own face; she slides her fingers down her wilted cheek, moves over to trace the line of her nose, then down again, barely touching, across her lips and finally her chin. Her eyes are locked straight ahead; they never move, not following her hand, not even for a blink. BAM! Her hand lashes out and strikes the mirror. BAM, BAM! I grab the walker with both hands and haul her away from the glass, afraid it will shatter before I can stop her. "Uhn, uhn, uhn!" she grunts, curses and strains against me, but this time I win. "There," Margaret says calmly and resumes her walk. I follow at her side, watching her swat the wall again and again as she pads along, her eyes raised back to the ceiling. "Well, it's your fault," she says when we reach her doorway. "It is?" "Yes. You're a pain in the ass." "You're probably right," I concede. We leave the bedroom and continue down the corridor; eventually arriving at the lounge. Angie is already there, sitting on the couch nearest the door. She's singing, very loudly, in her husky, deep tremolo, "I love my baby, I-I-I lu-u-v-v my ba-a-a-be-e-e!" A wretched pink bunny with shiny button eyes is firmly planted under her chin. "Shut up! Goddamn stinking asshole!" Margaret snarls as we come into the room. I pull a chair up beside Angie and sit down, with a quick glance over at Margaret. I expect an outburst of some kind, but she doesn't seem to care. She rolls her walker a short distance away and sits on its built-in seat. "I lu-u-u-v-v my sis-ter-r-r!" Angie trills on, louder than ever. "I am not handy," Margaret announces from across the room. Angie interrupts her song for a moment and turns the rabbit around to face me. It's terribly shabby. The residue of dozens of meals cling to its matted, grimy plush. I can't imagine why she wants it. "See my baby? My baby likes me," Angie grins and answers my unspoken question. She cradles it back in her arms and rocks it adoringly. "WHAT?" Margaret yells. I look up but don't respond. She scowls pointedly and looks away. I turn back to the rabbit. "Hey, come on!" Margaret shouts. I ignore her and shake hands with the rabbit. Margaret stands and starts for the door. "Love you, love you, love you," she says softly. "Would you like me to come with you?" I call after her. "Kick your goddamn ass!" she snaps and continues on. "Come on!" she hollers back over her shoulder. We head out of the lounge and down the hall. Margaret is still trembling and unsteady but she manages to give the wall a hard slap with each step, and her eyes search the ceiling again until we reach the end of the passageway. Once again, she is stuck in a corner.
* * *
Margaret is losing ground. I don't need to ask the nurses about her, I can see for myself that her strength is going, and she's more disoriented every time I visit her. Today I arrive at the care center to find her alone in her room, sitting on the edge of a chair, her back as rigid as if her spine had become one long bone. She's awake, but she seems unaware of my presence even as I come in and sit beside her on the bed. She yawns, an open-mouthed, toothless yawn that, for a few seconds, softens the deep creases in her face and lets me imagine what she looked like when she was younger. Her gray eyes stare blankly ahead though, as empty as ever. Abruptly, she blinks. "I have to have a drink of water." I place a small paper cup of water in her hand and guide it to her mouth. She respond to it, so I tip it up and she swallows a small sip. I take my hand away, leaving her hand with the cup at her mouth, ready for another sip. I watch and wait as the seconds creep by, but she doesn't drink again. She sits with the cup suspended, forgotten. Finally, I lift it from her fingers and put it on the table. Her hand stays at her mouth, as if her fingers were still wrapped around the cup. Slowly her hand begins to drift downward, but stops in midair. I watch. Long seconds pass. Finally, I reach out and gently press until both our hands rest in her lap.
* * *
"I'm still here, Margaret," I whisper in her ear. She stirs slightly. She's lying curled up on one side, still in the blue recliner chair. She flies into a rage when anyone tries to put her in the bed. She's very groggy, not awake but not really asleep either, and I wonder if it's her illness or the medications they are giving her. One of her hands has a tight grip on mine, but I'm sure she doesn't know who I am. If she opened her eyes, she probably would pull away and object to my being here. It has been weeks since Margaret last roamed the care center. She's lost the strength she gained after her trip to the psychiatric hospital, now she's too weak to stand, and although it doesn't seem possible, she's lost even more weight. A plastic hose supplying extra oxygen hooked over her ears, and it dangles under her nose. It must annoy her; she jerks it away every few minutes and makes feeble attempts to get back on her feet. I keep replacing the tube. I pick up the photo album and leaf through its few pages. It's almost all that I know of Margaret's life, she never told me anything more. Her face is as gray as the old photographs now, and almost as still, an impassive mask of sharp bones and dark crevices covered by a tissue paper of skin. There's no softness anywhere on Margaret's body, no cushion at all. She's so thin I could probably wrap my hands, fingers to fingers and thumb to thumb, around her tiny waist. How has she lasted this long? Margaret gasps again, and I can't help but take the breath along with her. I hear a soft tap at the door, and a nurse slips into the room. "I'm just going to give your arm a hug," she says as she wraps the cuff of a blood pressure device around Margaret's arm. "Is that all right? Just a little hug." Margaret responds with a grunt but doesn't resist. The nurse makes some quick notations on a clipboard and smiles tight-lipped at me. She lifts one eyebrow while she shakes her head, then leaves us alone again. I gather up Margaret's afghan and tuck it more snugly around her shoulders, then straighten her pillow. It's suffocatingly hot in the room, but her hands are cold, so I wrap mine around them and sit on the bed where she refuses to lie down. I wish I could tell her what she has come to mean to me. Instead, I reach over and brush a few strands of hair off her face, hooking them behind her ears. "You're a tough one, Margaret," I imagine myself saying. I pretend that she understands and is listening. "Always leading with your chin up and your fists out. I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything that would help you. You've really had it rough; you've been so sick and so alone. I wish I could be as strong as you've been. I wish you really had known my mother, I think you would have liked each other. She was pretty tough, too. I thought she was terrific and I miss her. I wish I could tell her so." "I think you're terrific too, Margaret," I whisper in her ear. "I think you know that." Margaret might still hear, I can't tell. Her face strains just to force air into her lungs and push it back out again, her eyes flickering but closed. I feel her fingers twitch almost imperceptibly in mine, then she relaxes in sleep, and it is quiet. I touch her gently on the knee. She stirs but doesn't wake up. Carefully, I slip her hands under the rose-covered afghan and release her fingers. I lift the corner of the coverlet, examining the neat stitches. All the knots are securely tied, all the ends tucked out of sight. "This is all right, Margaret," I tell her. "Not a bad job."
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