I’LL BE GONE BY THEN

ERIC LAROCCA

It doesn’t creep into my mind the way it might for others who have known their mother all their life—a gentle realization of mortality when her hair begins to gray or when her hands start to prune with wrinkles.

It isn’t delicately planted somewhere, like a beloved perennial to flower more amply each year until I realize the inevitable. No, instead it comes barreling into my thoughts like a home intruder; a masked assailant spraying the place with anthrax and laying carnage as I suddenly recognize the unavoidable: my mother is an affliction I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

I make the horrible recognition as soon as one of the airport gate agents wheels her over to me while I wait at the baggage claim.

She’s smaller than I remember from when I had seen her last. Although perhaps old age has robbed her of some of her stature, I can hardly recall such a loathsome scent shadowing her—a stench as vile as rotted flowers. I almost plug my nose, but I don’t out of courtesy. Her skin is as transparent as parchment paper, her hair silky like cobweb. I notice her easily frowning mouth wrinkles slightly as she sees me, her lips puckering almost as if she recognizes me. I wonder if she does, but I’m answered immediately when her eyes begin to drift off and dim drowsily.

The gate agent flashes a hideous grin at me when she approaches, the imitation of joy etched into her face seeming to scream, “Please let this be over soon.” She’s dressed immaculately in a slim-fitted, powder blue pantsuit with a scarlet chiffon scarf draped around her neck like an open wound. As she approaches, grinning, I can’t help but stifle a small laugh and wonder if her mouth hurts from smiling so unreservedly.

“Miss Vecoli?” the gate agent says, weaving through the crowd of passengers and finally arriving at me.

I slip my phone in my pocket and give her a halfhearted nod.

“Your mother was an absolute angel,” she says, passing my mother’s leather handbag to me. “Still a little sleepy from the flight. But we adored her.”

“Is this it?” I ask, gesturing to the purse.

“Check Carousel Eight for any other bags,” the gate agent says, already tiptoeing away from us. “Her flight from Rome was delayed a bit, but they should be delivering baggage there soon.”

I search my mind, struggling to invent another question—anything to keep the young woman from leaving us. After all, once she leaves, the moment I’ve been dreading will finally arrive: my mother and I will be left alone.

“I was told she needed medication—?”

The gate agent is already backtracking and heading toward the escalator leading back to the main terminal. “Sorry. I wasn’t told anything about meds.”

Before I can utter another word, the gate agent climbs onto the escalator and disappears into the crowd.

It’s finally here. The moment I’ve been quietly dreading for three months since my younger cousin in Vicenza phoned me at three in the morning, crying hysterically and apologizing that they could no longer care for my mother. It’s an apology I certainly never deserved. After all, I’m the one who left Italy, abandoning my family in search of literary fame that never appeared even after nearly fifteen years of writing. Nearly two decades living in the States and I had a handful of literary magazine credits to my name, two maxed out credit cards, and an on-again, off-again liaison with a barista at one of my favorite local coffee shops.

I can’t help but wonder if my mother still knew enough to resent me as she stirs slightly in her wheelchair. Whether her eyes avoid me out of spite or merely out of the disorientation that seems to cloud the elderly, I can’t be certain.

Steeling my resolve, I kneel in front of her and place a hand on her lap.

“Hi, Mom,” I whisper as if I were coaxing a fawn out of hiding. The word “mom” feels strange to say. “Did you have a good flight?”

My mother lifts her trembling head slightly to meet my gaze. I notice her eyes are dimmed and glassy like two small bowls of milk. Her lips quiver, as if trying to say something.

“A good flight?” I ask again, louder this time.

My mother lowers her head, eyes drifting as she stares off into the little crowd surrounding us.

“Sono stanco oggi”, she says, her eyelids shrinking.

Even though I can understand what she says, it’s something I don’t care to encourage. I had left the language when I first abandoned my mother and father years ago. Even though the accent stalks me from time to time, I’ve done all I can to shrug off any indication of being a foreigner. I once read somewhere that people tend to not trust foreigners as eager as they trust their own kind.

I recall how an editor had once emailed me, telling me how he had adored the piece I had submitted, but that my surname was far too ethnic sounding to be included in his publication. That’s why I’ve chosen to not only abandon the Italian language, but to also adopt a pen name. I had swiped at any opportunity to escape my past and yet here came a permanent reminder of everything I had tried to avoid, charging at me like a Gatling gun.

“Good flight?” I asked once more, as if hoping it might prompt her to respond in English.

She says nothing. Instead, she shrivels like a wreath of ivy abandoned in daylight.

I steer her toward Carousel 8 where we wait for the rest of her luggage. She dozes in and out of sleep like a drowsing toddler. I’ll be damned if I’m going to wipe the saliva drooling from the corners of her lips. However, it’s then I notice that people have begun to stare, children tugging on their mother’s sleeves and pointing at the seemingly comatose woman. I fish in my handbag for a napkin and dab the threads of spittle trickling down my mother’s chin.

After we collect her baggage from the carousel, I shepherd her from the terminal and into the nearby garage where I’ve parked my car. Once I’ve cleared the empty take-out cartons and empty coffee cups from the passenger seat, I unstrap her from the wheelchair. She fusses quietly but doesn’t seem to object to my manhandling. Loading her into the car like a bag of groceries, it feels strange to hold her as if she were a child. She squirms as I lift her from the chair and buckle her into the passenger seat.

We amble out of the parking garage and are on the highway heading toward Henley’s Edge in a matter of seconds. I’m so absentminded I nearly forget my turn signal when changing lanes, and a middle-aged man wearing glasses driving a Subaru Outback glides past, flipping me off. My mother doesn’t seem to notice. She’s drifting in and out of sleep, her head lowered as if deep in prayer. I can’t help but wonder if she still wears the same rosary pendant around her neck she wore when I was little—a necklace I once treasured unlike anything else and then quickly despised when I began to think for myself.

I wonder what’s to be done with her—all the arrangements I’ll need to make for her to live comfortably in the States with me now. I’ll have to schedule a preliminary doctor appointment to assess her properly since my cousin was less than enthused with the doctor from Venice she had taken her to. I’ll have to schedule a dentist appointment considering the fact that she probably hasn’t been to the dentist in almost ten years. After my father had perished unexpectedly during oral surgery in his late eighties, my mother had been adamant about not regularly attending a dental hygienist despite my cousin’s pleading.

Something will certainly need to be done about her clothes as all she seems to wear is expensive-looking black. Then, of course, there’s the issue of her citizenship if she’s to stay with me. Thankfully, my cousin did most of the legwork when acquiring my mother’s visa to live with me. But now that she’s here, I can’t help but wonder if she’s even coherent enough to apply for citizenship if it came to it.

People with brothers and sisters don’t have to worry about these things. It’s a shared burden between siblings; a mutual hardship as they inherit their parents’ legacy. What exactly am I to inherit? A few measly rosary pendants and a trunk filled with clothing as foul-smelling as embalming fluid. Not to mention, the slew of debts trailing my mother and her deceased husband from when they rented an apartment in Padua. I had always thought parents were to open doors for their children. Mine couldn’t even be bothered to open a window.

“Io ho fame adesso”, my mother says, stirring from her sleep. Her voice is brittle-thin and damp-sounding as if fluid were collecting in her throat.

“In English, Mom,” I remind her, gripping the steering wheel. My fingers flick the radio switch and music blares through the car speakers.

As we sail down the highway, the yellow arches for McDonald’s drift into eyesight.

My mother points at them, her whole body straightening as if suddenly very much awake. “Cibo”, she says. “Cibo”.

I roll my eyes. I wonder if I should pretend I don’t hear her—perhaps that might motivate her to speak English. After all, my cousin told me she was teaching my mother English words for when she was to eventually move here. Although she had only been quizzing her for three months, my mother had to have picked up on something.

I glance over in the passenger seat, and I notice my mother’s attention glued to me, her eyes wet and shining. I certainly can’t pretend I don’t see her.

With a flick of my wrist, I nudge the turn signal and drift over into the exit lane. We drift down the rampway and meander into the McDonald’s parking lot. I park near the trash cans and swing my arm over the seat to grab my purse.

“What would you like?” I ask her.

She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on the teenagers skateboarding underneath the nearby streetlamp.

I nudge her again. “Mom. Food?”

She stirs slightly, her eyelids shrinking once more.

“I’ll get you a burger and fries. A Coke to drink? OK?”

She doesn’t respond, her mouth open and her breath gently whistling.

I fish my wallet out of my purse, haul myself out of my seat, and make my way into the restaurant. Even though it’s mid-afternoon on a hot summer day, there’s hardly anybody in the place. I’m about to go order my food when I realize I’ve left the windows of the car rolled up and the A/C off. The dreadful thought suddenly dangles itself like a jeweled fishing lure in my mind—my poor mother will overheat and die. I imagine paramedics prying open the locked car door, my mother’s sun-wizened body sliding out and splaying on the sidewalk. I imagine the scrutiny from strangers— “How could you leave the poor woman locked in a car on one of the hottest days of the year?”

I’m about to turn and sprint back out to the car to turn on the AC when I realize I’ll no longer have to take care of her. She’ll be a thing of the past, a distant memory. Of course, I’ll have to handle a fair amount of scrutiny from the local authorities for leaving her in the car in the first place, but isn’t the reward far greater than the adversity? It won’t pain her. She’ll merely fall asleep while death’s fingers squeeze the life from her. She won’t suffer. More importantly, I won’t suffer.

The cashier’s face scrunches at me, bewildered. “Did you want to place an order?”

I’m brought back to reality at the sound of her voice, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum tiles, and the overhead lights whirring at me.

“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks heating red. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

“For here or to go?” the cashier asks, her fingers flicking across the register’s screen.

My eyes once again drift to my car parked beside the trash cans, my mother’s head barely visible above the passenger head rest.

I return to the cashier. “For here,” I say.

After the cashier slides a tray filled with a cheeseburger, a small carton of fries, and a large drink across the counter toward me, I make the trek over to the window overlooking the parking lot. I have a perfect view of my mother residing in her little tomb. I catch her reflection in the rearview mirror, her head lowered, and eyes closed like an abandoned marionette doll. She resembles an encaustic portrait of a martyr in the act of supplication—so gentle and so exposed.

I unwrap the burger and take a bite, imagining how it might feel for her when it happens. I wonder if she’ll struggle, clawing at the door handle or beating her fists against the glass. Or perhaps she’ll been swaddled in a blanket of heat and gently rocked to sleep. I wonder how long I’ll have to wait for it to be over. Maybe thirty, forty minutes at the most. I certainly don’t want to return to the car too soon and be greeted with a task I’ll have to finish myself if she’s only half-dead.

My mind begins to wander as I snack on a handful of fries, and I think about the moments we had shared when I was growing up. Tender moments outside of Holy Mass were few and far between, unfortunately. Quite suddenly I’m reminded of slicing pomegranates in our apartment kitchen while my mother brings a pot on the stove to a boil.

“Grenadine never tastes as sweet when you have to cut the pomegranates yourself,” she used to say in Italian.

I was never allowed to have a taste as her homemade grenadine was usually paired with a fine liqueur after dinner; however, over the years, I’ve come to reflect on what she said. Essentially, it translates to “taking care of others is a thankless burden.” I can’t help but wonder if that’s why the bitch had me cut the pomegranates in the first place.

Just then, as my eyes drift out the window, I notice a middle-aged couple swerve into the parking spot beside my car. The wife seems to be pointing at my mother as she dozes in the passenger seat, her husband nodding as if in agreement that they have to do something. They crawl out of their idling car and approach mine.

That’s it.

I’ve been caught.

I swipe my wallet from the counter, knocking the food tray onto the floor. Fries scatter everywhere. I can’t be bothered with that right now. I sail out of the restaurant and sprint across the parking lot toward my car. The husband notices me immediately.

“Is this your car?” he asks me, lifting his sunglasses.

I’m out of breath, trembling. “Yes. Sorry. I ran in quickly. Forgot to leave the car running.”

“Yeah, we were going to call the police,” the wife says, circling the car and cornering me.

“No, it’s alright,” I assure them. I press the key fob, unlocking the car, and climb into the driver’s seat. “She’s OK. Right, Mom?”

My mother says nothing, her face flushed.

The man circles in front of my car, his eyes scanning the license plate. “Are you sure?” he asks me.

“Yes. Fine,” I say. “I’m sorry. We’re late for an appointment.”

I shove the keys into the ignition and twist, the engine whirring alive. I’m backing out of the parking lot and veering onto the highway in a matter of seconds until the couple in the McDonald’s parking lot are but a distant memory.

After the two-hour drive from the airport to Henley’s Edge, we arrive at the small carriage house I’ve been renting on my landlord’s property. As I lurch out of the driver’s seat, I spy the remnants of the backyard swing set drowning in weeds behind my house—the place where my landlord’s daughter used to play with her friends and remind me of the childhood I had robbed from me.

I haul my mother’s wheelchair out of the trunk and prepare her throne. After I’ve finished loading her into her seat, I wheel her up the front pathway and steer her into the house. She doesn’t seem to pay much attention to the papers scattered all over the floor or the half-eaten containers of Chinese food piled on top of one another. I notice her nostrils twitch, fingers plugging her nose at the stench waiting for us in the entryway. I had almost forgotten about the poor rodent that had met his untimely demise somewhere in the scaffolding behind the kitchenette.

“Sorry about the smell,” I say to her. “Landlord’s sending out pest control sometime next week to clean up the . . . remains.”

There’s a small, quiet part of me that hopes she won’t be here next week.

Once I wheel her over to the window beside the couch, I clean the armchair of the bottles of soda and beer.

“If you’d like to sit,” I say, gesturing to the empty seat.

My eyes suddenly dart to a pair of lavender-colored lace undergarments I had draped over the bathroom door. I snatch the underwear, tossing them into the nearby hamper.

I stare blankly at my mother, as if expecting some sort of penance for the ordeal in the McDonald’s parking lot. She says nothing. In fact, she won’t even look at me.

“I guess we’ll order out for dinner,” I say to her, shoving my hands in my pockets. “You still hungry?”

My mother’s eyes close, as if distant and dreaming. She’s probably lost somewhere in an insipid fantasy where she’s accepting the Holy Eucharist from Christ, himself. I notice how her lips pout—her mouth like an untreated scar—as if she were being serenaded by a Requiem. There’s no telling what’s going on in her mind. After nearly fifteen years, it’s like meeting her for the first time.

Part of me even wonders if she really is my mother, or rather if she’s some monstrous creature wearing my mother’s skin as a disguise. I think of pulling on her chin as if I were about to wrench away a mask of flesh and reveal a gruesome face pattered with blood beneath. I abandon the thought as quickly as it comes to me.

After we eat dinner in silence for what feels like hours, I show my mother to the sofa in the guest room where I explain she’ll be sleeping until I can afford to buy a small bed. She looks at me with disappointment but doesn’t say anything. Instead, my mother shuffles into the room and sits at the edge of the sofa, staring down at her patent leather shoes.

I watch her for a moment as if I were carefully studying an extinct animal. She’ll never be happy here. I can’t provide for her the way they’re expecting me to. And why should I? It’s not like she ever really took care of me.

I have to get rid of her. But how?

It’s then I recall a news story I had seen printed in the local newspaper about a four-year-old who had been left by their mother at a laundromat a few towns over. The mother, probably unwed and young, was never heard from and couldn’t be identified despite the authorities attempting to reunite mother and child. That’s what I’ll have to do. I’ll have to leave her somewhere like a neglectful mother abandoning their child.

My mind races, imagining all the possible scenarios of somehow being reunited with her after I’ve left her. They can try to question her, but she can’t speak English. Even if they brought in a specialist and he was able to communicate with her, she’d never be able to remember where I live. Then, I wonder if somehow they’ll be able to trace her by her fingerprints. Yes, perhaps that’s how they’ll identify her. But what can I do? Burn each of her fingertips until they crisp black. No, I could never. I could barely stomach leaving her in a locked car in July heat. How could I possibly do physical harm to her?

They’ll never be able to associate her with me. Even if they checked Italian dental records or fingerprints and finally identified her, they would never bring her back to me. I’ll be long gone by then. Besides, I don’t plan to waste away my life in Henley’s Edge forever.

They’ll send her away to some nursing home where she’ll live out the remainder of her days feeding on mashed potatoes and Jeopardy reruns.

It’s then I make the decision—tomorrow morning after we have our breakfast, I’ll take her to one of the parks in Hartford and leave her there.

I can hardly sleep at night. I imagine what it might feel like wheeling her to a secluded spot in the park, inventing some excuse to step away for a moment, and then never looking back. I wonder how long she’ll sit there before she realizes I’m not returning. Maybe some good Samaritan will intervene, struggle to communicate with her before he telephones the authorities. Whatever the scenario might be, it won’t be my problem any longer. I’ll be gone and she’ll be my gift, my burden, for the world to receive.

The following morning, I prepare some eggs and bacon. She doesn’t eat. As usual, we don’t speak. I go through her trunk and locate her capsule of pills, shoving them in her pocket.

“You’ll need these,” I remind her.

I’m not a monster. I’d never leave her stranded without her heart medication.

After I explain to her that we’ll be taking a short trip to run an errand in Hartford, I steer her toward the car and load her inside. The hour-long drive there feels almost unbearable. The radio hisses the latest Top 40 hits, but I’m lost somewhere in my mind, inventing scenarios of how it might transpire—how somebody might see me with her and then come looking for me. What if they describe me to the police? What if they somehow connect me to her?

As quickly as these thoughts arrive, I shoo them away and turn the radio dial up higher. Finally, we arrive at the small park hidden just beyond the highway. There aren’t many cars in the parking lot today and I quietly thank God for little mercies such as that.

I pile my mother into her wheelchair and maneuver her through the portico leading into the park. We drift by the fountain arranged at the entrance—a statue of some obscure New England patriot, sword unsheathed, as he charges into battle. We pass by the small lily pond, a few swans gliding across the mirrorlike surface. Eventually, we come to a small apron of greenery curtained from the remainder of the park by a column of well-groomed hedges.

“Let’s sit here, mom,” I suggest.

I wheel her beside the bench and kick the wheels so that they lock properly. We sit for fifteen or twenty minutes. Each moment that passes, I wonder if I’ll finally get up and leave. Finally, the moment arrives. I can’t bear it any longer.

“Mom, I’m going to find the ladies room,” I say to her. “Wait here.”

She doesn’t respond. When she’s not looking, I swipe her leather handbag from the wheelchair’s handle and begin my way down the path away from her. My pace quickens as I steer through the hedges and, finally, she’s out of eyesight. It’s done. I’ve finally done it. She’s gone—a mere memory as she was once before.

I wonder if she’ll tremble with fear, wondering when I’ll return. Maybe she’ll try to come looking for me. It won’t matter. I’ll be gone by then.

I’m back at my car in a few minutes, hurling myself into the driver’s seat and tossing my mother’s leather handbag into the passenger seat. Just then, the bag spills onto the floor and something heavy rolls out. I peer over the center console and see it—a small pomegranate. There’s a piece of paper attached to it.

I swipe the pomegranate from the car floor and peel open the small note. Written in my mother’s cursive handwriting are the words, “For my darling daughter” scrawled in Italian. I sense my mouth hanging open, tears webbing in the corners of my eyes. I don’t even bother to wonder how she managed to sneak the piece of fruit through airport customs. Instead, I crumple the note, slamming my fists against the car horn.

“Fuck,” I scream until I’m hoarse.

Without another moment of hesitation, I leap out of the vehicle and make my way back into the park. Weaving through parents with strollers and young children playing games in the grass, I hurry down the path and toward the hedges where I’ve left my mother. I skirt around the corner of the shrubbery, and I see the empty park bench. My mother nowhere in sight.

My head swivels in every direction as I scan the nearby area. I don’t see her. I don’t even see the little indentations of the wheels of her wheelchair in the gravel where I had left her. It’s as if she was never even there.

I notice a young couple approaching, and I ask them if they’ve seen an elderly woman in a wheelchair nearby. They offer apologies and explain they haven’t. Once they leave, I approach a pair of middle-aged gentlemen playing chess beside the fountain. I ask them if they’ve seen my mother. They both shake their heads, bewildered by my inquiry.

I wander the park for an hour or so before finally giving up and going to the police station. I file a report and fill out all the necessary paperwork. I give them her passport, her birth certificate, everything I have in her wallet. They tell me all I can do is wait for a response. So, I wait by the phone for their call.

But they never do.

It’s been nearly three weeks since I first lost her, and I’ve found comfort in few distractions. The nights are hardest when I invent horrible scenarios of what might have happened to her—how some leering predator might have spirited her away and drained her body until it was limp and bloodless. Or perhaps some kind, gentle soul had discovered her and took her in as if she were their own.

I can’t decide which thought hurts more to think about.

During my days off, I visit the park and wander the hedge-flanked paths like a specter. I carry the small pomegranate so that if, by some miracle, I find her she’s able to recognize me. Sometimes I stay until after sundown—until the sky is a black velvet curtain scabbed with specks of tinfoil—calling out to her and waiting for the dark to answer.