Sue brought Mom home from the hospital yesterday with her new appendage, a portable oxygen tank that she’s supposed to use whenever she goes out. Later in the day a large not-portable oxygen tank for home use was delivered. One day she falls. She thinks she’s pushed. Her memory is sketchy, her oxygen low. A week later she is a person who will need oxygen pumped into her system for the rest of her life. I know she doesn’t want to be that person. She wants to be the strikingly beautiful woman who turns heads when she walks into a room.
I was supposed to hire someone to stay with Mom overnight, but I didn’t get around to it. Sue offered to stay with her, but I was worried Mom would start abusing her again, so I told her that if she could just do the daytimes that would be wonderful.
As soon as Sue left for the day, Mom called. She wanted to tell me about the two nice men who stopped by to drop off the oxygen tank and how they showed her and the lady who comes over how to use it. She invited them to stay for lunch, but the men were too busy. Mom managed to find out that one of them was single and she got his number for me, only she’s not sure where she put it, but when she finds it, she’ll give it to me. He was, according to Mom, very handsome.
“Thanks Mom, but I’m not dating now,” I told her.
“Why not? Did you get married again?” she asked.
“No, I’m still divorced and still not married.”
“What about me, am I married?”
“No, you’re divorced too,” I said.
“That’s right. I was married to your father. How is your father? Do you think I should give him a call?”
Less than an hour later she called again to tell me she was watching The Long, Hot Summer starring a young Paul Newman. She wanted to know if I had ever seen the movie.
“I haven’t.”
“You should,” she told me.
“Okay, I’ll watch it when I can.”
“It’s on now,” she said.
“I’ll watch it now.” I got off the phone and turned on Turner Classic Movies.
I was falling madly in love with Paul Newman when the phone next rang.
“Elise, I have to pee,” she said. “I have these things stuck up my nose. I don’t know what to do. Am I allowed to get up?”
“Take them out and go pee,” I said.
We hung up and I returned to Paul Newman and felt connected to Mom in a way I don’t think I ever had before. We were both in our bedrooms watching the same movie, no doubt falling in love with the same actor. I lifted my legs and bent my knees the way she does. I wanted to stop running from her. I realized I can be with her and feel strong feelings of love as long as I am 200 miles away from her.
Then she called back to say the oxygen tank was broken.
She found a phone number for emergencies and asked me to call it.
“I’ll call during a commercial,” I told her.
“Well, I might be dead by then,” she said.
So I turned down the volume and spoke to a cheery woman who informed me there was an on/off button on the top of the machine that Mom should try pressing. I called Mom back to tell her about the button. The one she must have pressed to turn it off when she went to pee.
“I don’t know how that got turned off, but it’s working again,” Mom said, and we hung up.
Two hours later, Aunt Rosemary called. She wanted me to know that she is a saint. “Someone should have explained to her how this thing works. We’re lucky that I live a twenty-dollar cab ride away and don’t mind schlepping out in the middle of the night.”
Mom was yelling out in the background. “We’re all set here, Elise. Your Aunt Rosemary figured it out. She’s a genius.”
“Your mother says I’m a genius.”
“You are a genius Aunt Rosemary. I’ll send you a check for the cab fare.”