Starry Starry Night

By Lisa

I should have mentioned that Mother Mary is living with me for the summer. We’re in Day 16, which is now a countdown, like the Iran hostage crisis.

I’m waiting for the cable company to rescue me.

Until they get cable to the cottage, Mother Mary watches TV at my house, with the volume on eighty-six. That’s the highest number of the volume on my TV, and it’s not a number you should know. It’s like having a car that goes 130 miles an hour. You don’t need to drive that fast.

Mother Mary does.

UNDERSTAND?

ALSO, ARE YOU GETTING UP?

So, here’s what I’ve learned:

Matlock starred Andy Griffith, not Dick Van Dyke. I had previously thought they were the same person, but they’re not.

There are still shows with laugh tracks, and Mother Mary loves every one.

The fake laughter on the laugh track of Everybody Loves Raymond erupts in bogus hilarity every thirty seconds, like manufactured waves at a water park. If you’re trying to work while the show is on, let’s say if you’re a writer, you’ll find yourself waiting for the next wave, like a dripping faucet.

And the joke will be on you.

Ha-ha.

If House is on, Mother Mary has already seen it. This is also true of Seinfeld, Two and a Half Men, and Law & Order, regardless of whether the victims were special.

Oddly, that’s a good thing.

Mother Mary will watch only shows she’s already seen. If you ask her why, she’ll say, “DON’T QUESTION ME.”

But you will, anyway.

Because YOU HAVE A HARD HEAD.

Last night, so she could see something new, I suggested that we rent a movie on TV. She likes comedies, and The Hangover was on, so we sat down to watch it together. If you think that a movie with profanity and nudity might not be appropriate for my mother, it’s time you knew the truth.

As soon as the movie begins, she asks, “IS THAT A REAL TIGER?”

I answer, “YES.”

Next question, “IS THAT A REAL BABY?”

“YES.”

Third question, “IS THAT BABY REALLY CRYING?”

“NO. HOLLYWOOD WOULD NEVER MAKE A BABY CRY FOR MONEY.”

“BUT IT LOOKS LIKE IT’S REALLY CRYING.”

“THEY DO IT WITH SPECIAL EFFECTS,” I tell her, because it’s okay to lie to your mother if it will prevent a cardiac event.

She looks at me sideways. She’s hard of hearing, but she’s not stupid.

Ten minutes into the movie, it strikes me that The Hangover is not a great choice for her plot-wise, because she asks, “WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT GUY’S TOOTH? WHERE DID THE CHICKEN COME FROM? WHY IS THAT GUY IN THE TRUNK NAKED?”

I want to say, “DON’T QUESTION ME.”

But I answer, and we spend the remainder of the movie screaming questions and answers at each other, after which we’re both exhausted, so we call my brother to have him FedEx her hearing aids.

Then it’s time for bed, and it turns out that Mother Mary likes a beer before she goes to sleep. I have no problem with this. She survived throat cancer and The Depression, and if she wants a brewski before bedtime, it’s fine with me. She drinks Bud Lime, the choice of frat boys everywhere, and that’s okay too.

So we sit in blissful silence, petting the dogs while she drinks her beer, and I feel torn. I could let her sleep upstairs in my house, but then she wouldn’t get used to sleeping in the cottage, which is right in my backyard. The time it takes her to drink the beer gives me a chance to think, and I decide I have to stick with the plan. So I get her into her lab coat, which you might remember from previous books is her favorite outfit, and walk her down to the cottage, holding her bony little hand so the dogs don’t trip her. And she makes her way through the grass, which is wet and soaks her sandals, and there’s a chill in the air, under a night full of stars.

I point them out, and she looks up and smiles agreeably, though she can’t see a single one.

And I get her inside her cottage, turn on all the lights, and make sure she can lock the door from the inside, which she does. Through the window, she gives me a brave thumbs-up, like an octogenarian astronaut.

“LOVE YOU, MOM,” I tell her.

She can’t hear, but she knows what I said.