Mother (33 page)

“Claire!” Mother said between slugs of coffee. “Be respectful!”

“A broken leg is not in Dr. Putnam’s venue,” Hopper said.
 

“My baby is.”

“Your son is fine. Happy and healthy.”
 

Mother smirked. “Your secret’s out, dear.
 
It’ll be so nice to have a little boy around the house again.”

Claire ignored her mother. “I want Dr. Putnam. Why is she suspended?”

“Just an administrative matter. She’ll be back soon.”

“I want to talk to her.”

“Honey, please! Calm down.” Mother spoke as if Claire were yelling, even though she had carefully kept her voice soft and low.

“I am calm, Mother.”

“Since Dr. Putnam isn’t available right now, won’t I do?” Hopper pulled his long face up into the semblance of a smile. “After all, I brought you into the world and saw you through your appendicitis, influenza, and all those accidents.” He shook his head. “My, you were a terror on your skates and bicycle. Why, I’m amazed you survived those monkey bars.” Claire remembered the appendicitis and the flu that had turned into pneumonia. She even had dim memories of wearing a cast on her arm one summer after a fall she couldn’t quite recall. She knew the scar on her upper arm was from running into a glass door at home, but she couldn’t remember any details.
 
It’s normal to forget things that weren’t any fun.

“You broke your arm, Claire?” Jason sat on the edge of the bed and gently pushed a stray hair from her cheek. “You never told me.”

“I was a tomboy,” she said lightly. “I was always getting into scrapes.”

“She certainly was,” Mother said. “Evidently you never grew out of it, did you, dear?”

Feeling sleepy again, Claire gave her a weak smile.

“I remember that arm. Compound fracture. Nasty,” said Hopper.

“Well,” said Mother. “I hope you’ll be more forthcoming about your health issues in the future, Claire. You could have really been-”

“I
know,
Mother. I already heard it from Jason.”

“What’s done is done,” said Dr. Hopper. “The important thing is that you’re okay. You’re lucky. The breaks were clean, but you fractured both your tibia and fibula.” He looked her over. “I’m not anticipating any problems, but since your pregnancy is already high-risk, I’m putting you on bed rest for the next six weeks.”

“But-”

“Your leg needs to heal,” said Dr. Hopper. “And we don’t want to add any extra stress to the baby.” He nodded at Mother. “You’re lucky to have a live-in nurse. She’ll take good care of you and her new grandson.”

Mother beamed. “I’ll get your old room all ready for you!”

“I’ll stay in the apartment. We’re moving in two days! I don’t want-”

“You can’t get up and down those outdoor stairs, Claire. And it would be dangerous for Jason to try to carry you. Why, he could fall and break his neck, and yours.” Mother looked to Dr. Hopper for support.
 

“There are no stairs at our new house,” said Claire.

Hopper looked from Mother to Claire and nodded. “Your mother is right. You need to take it easy for a while, stairs or not.”

Claire looked at Jason. He read the question in her eyes:
What about the move?

“It’s just six weeks,” he said. “After that, we’ll resume as usual. I’ll let Paul know.”

A great sinking feeling overcame Claire, but she nodded. There was nothing to argue about. Getting out of Mother’s house wasn’t worth risking the baby’s health.
It’s just six weeks. Just six weeks. Maybe less after I talk with Dr. Putnam.
Her eyelids started to droop.

“Now, then,” said Hopper. “I believe our patient needs some rest.”
 

Smut and Blue-Gray Bruises

The days that passed were a haze - a blur of fragmented moments between long bouts of drug-induced sleep.

Mother had returned Claire’s old bedroom to a semblance of its former self - her childhood nightstand stood beside a comfortable bed with a new mattress. Even some of her old posters hung on the walls and her beloved teddy bear, Mr. Anton, watched her with button eyes from the dresser. The drab peach carpet had been vacuumed, but it was stained and pockmarked from years of sitting under Mother’s junk.
 

In fleeting moments of clarity, Claire glimpsed Mother fluffing her pillow, giving her water to take with her pills, and dithering about in attempts to make her comfortable.

In the evenings, Jason brought Claire dinner and they ate together, watched some television, and then - despite Claire’s protests that the bed in the apartment would be more comfortable for him - Jason slept with her, ignoring Mother’s disapproval. She was grateful he stayed with her during the nights.

The light streaming through the curtains was dim and gray and fading. She struggled to sit up, her head feeling heavy; the drug fog was getting old. She glanced at the clock and saw it was just after four. Jason wouldn’t be much longer now.

The pain in her leg was little more than an ache, though that might have been because of the drugs. Of other discomforts, however, there were plenty. Her shoulder, which had always been given to aches, was in agony from oversleeping. Her back ached and the skin under her cast itched furiously. She reached for the chopstick Jason had brought her and pulled the sheets down. Her thigh, knee, and hip were still bruised, though the purple had faded to an ugly blue-gray, and the swelling appeared to have gone down substantially. She slipped the chopstick inside the cast and wiggled it around. A moan of ecstasy escaped as she found the right spot and the chopstick did its work.

There was a tap at the door and, instinctively, she withdrew the stick and hid it under her leg. Mother had warned her about the dangers of scratching herself with stories of everything from rashes to staph infections.

She opened the door without waiting for Claire to reply and, beaming, held out a silver tray. “Oh! You’re up!” Her voice was far too chipper for Claire’s taste. “I brought you some toast and tea.”

“I’m not hungry.” She hadn’t been hungry since the accident.

Mother frowned. “Well, you need to eat just the same, young lady.” She bustled over to the bedside, withdrew a TV tray and began arranging the teapot and cups, a plate of toast, butter, a butter knife, a small glass of orange juice, and an assortment of jam and jelly packets - the kind restaurants provided.
 

But, Claire had to admit it smelled good. She sighed and sat up straighter and Mother hurried to position the pillows behind her for support. As she fluffed and batted at them, a heavy hit of that dreadful perfume ruined what little appetite Claire had. “It’s fine, Mother.”

Mother drew back and smiled. “I just want to be sure you’re comfortable.” She looked tired. Her hair, which Claire had never seen out of place in her life, had a few renegade strands poking out. She looked frailer somehow, as if she’d lost some weight, and Claire wondered if perhaps caring for her husband all day, and now her daughter as well, was taking a toll.
 

She decided to be pleasant. “Thank you, Mother. I appreciate it. All of it, I mean.” She saw the flash of surprise at her kindness.
 

“Of course, dear. That’s what mothers are for.”

Claire glanced at the jellies and jams. They didn’t appear to be too old - they weren’t even dusty.
 

“I know you like strawberry, apricot, and grape, so I brought you all three.” Mother carefully placed a bed tray over Claire’s lap. “The tea is green, which is good for clearing out toxins and speeding the healing process.”
 

Claire hated the taste of green tea but refrained from saying so.
 

“Oh-” Mother reached into the pocket of her flower-print apron. “And I brought you some sugar.” She placed several packets - probably filched from some unsuspecting restaurant - near the tea.

Claire looked down at the golden toast, the jellies and jams, the packets of sugar. Her mouth watered for the first time in days.

Mother brought something else from another apron pocket. “And we mustn’t forget these, of course.” She placed two large pain pills on the tray. “I also wanted to tell you I’m taking a trip to the library tomorrow. Is there anything you’d like me to pick up for you? One of those mystery novels you used to like so much, perhaps?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Mother waved the comment away. “I’m going anyway.”

No doubt to collect more books you’ll never read.
Mother probably had late fees with the library that would make American Express envious. When Claire was younger, she remembered her mother checking out books, skimming them, returning the ones that didn’t interest her, and claiming to have lost the ones that did. The keepers went straight into a box where they undoubtedly sat, untouched, to this day. Eventually, the library stopped asking questions and just sent a monthly bill.

“That might be a good idea,” said Claire. “I haven’t done any reading in a long time. It might be nice.”

“Of course it will. Are there any titles you want me to get, or should I just use my best judgement?”
 

Claire, not willing to be bombarded by books on religion and politics, wracked her still-foggy brain. She’d loved Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone books, but had no idea where she’d left off in the series. “Get me anything by Agatha Christie.” She’d only read a handful of Christie’s books but couldn’t remember the titles. It was a pretty safe bet Mother would return with something she hadn’t read.

“Oh,” said Mother. “I’m certain I have several of her books already.” She beamed.

Of course you do.
 

“I can make a quick trip to the basement and get one for you.”

Claire had no idea how the woman kept track of the things she owned, but she had no doubt Mother knew exactly where to find it. “Okay,” she said. “Whatever’s easiest for you.” Her leg began to itch but she resisted scratching. Her eyes watered with the urge.

“I’ll be right back, then.” Mother slipped from the room and Claire took a small bite of her toast. It was warm, buttery, and blissful. She opened the tub of grape jelly and slathered the whole thing on a single piece.

As she spread, she heard Mother’s footsteps disappear down the hall, then, when she heard the sound of the basement door opening, she grabbed the chopstick and began digging under the cast. It was better than sex.

The itch was as satisfied as it was going to get, which wasn’t enough, but Claire still marveled at the lack of pain. She glanced at the pills, wondering if she might be fine without them. It would be nice to be lucid enough to go back to work.
 

When Mother’s footsteps approached, Claire slipped the pills under her hip next to the chopstick and drained some orange juice. Mother entered, brandishing an old war-torn book. “I found it!” Plunking the book down next to Claire, Mother scanned the tray and said, “I brought your pills, didn’t I?”

“Yes. I took them already.”

Mother’s eyes lit on the juice glass. Satisfied, she said, “Well, be sure to eat all your toast! You shouldn’t take them on an empty stomach.”

Claire took a big bite of toast and the worry in her mother’s eyes dissolved.

“Good girl,” said Mother.

Claire cringed, but smiled. “Thank you for the book.”

“Of course.”

Claire looked at the novel. Stamped across the edge was, “Snapdragon Public Library” just as she’d suspected. It looked to be about as old as Agatha Christie herself, and the back cover was stained by something dark and questionable. She considered asking Mother if she knew where any of her own old Kathryn McLeod romances were, but Mother had never approved of those books.
Smut,
she’d called them.

“If you need anything else, just yell or send me a text.”

“I will, thank you.”

Mother gave her a warm smile and smoothed Claire’s hair with a gentle hand. “I’m so sorry about your accident, Claire. I know this puts your plans on hold.”

Claire, startled by the rare show of affection, almost choked on her toast. “It’s okay. Really.”

Mother’s eyes welled with tears, and for a moment, Claire felt very sorry for the tired woman. “I’m just glad you’re okay, sweetie.”

“I really am.”

Mother smiled. “I know. You’ve always been so strong.” She kissed Claire on the top of the head, and turned to leave. At the door, she said, “If you need anything, I’m just downstairs.” She paused. “Do you want me to help you to the bathroom?”

“No.” Claire glanced at the crutches beside her. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Of course you aren’t.” Mother left the room, closing the door carefully behind her.

For a long moment, Claire stared at the door, then she returned to her toast. As she chewed, she picked up the book.
A Cat Among the Pigeons.
It was, of course, one of the few she
had
read.
Probably this very copy.
She decided to have Jason pick her up some new Kathryn McLeod books. She could easily hide them along with the pain pills and chopstick.
 

Claire didn’t realize she’d dozed off while reading the Agatha Christie novel until she heard Jason’s shave-and-a-haircut knock. “Two bits” she called, glancing at the clock. It was nearly six p.m.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jason said. “I stopped at Wokamundo. It was packed.”

“Mmm. It smells like it was worth the wait.” Claire smiled. Her leg wasn’t any sorer than it had been a couple of hours before and that told her she was right - she didn’t need the pain pills anymore. “What’s in your other hand?”

He held out a white box of See’s Candy. “Chocolates from Paul. He says they’ll help your bones knit.”
 

“He’s such a sweet guy,” she said, as Jason handed her the box. While he dished orange chicken, chow mein, and rice onto paper plates, Clair opened the candy. “Mmm. Nuts and chews.” Stomach growling, she snagged up an almond cluster and popped it in her mouth.

Jason brought her a plate, pulled up a chair, and grabbed his own laden dish. “Good thing your mother didn’t come up and catch you ruining your dinner with candy.”