When all is said and done, killing my mother came easily. Dementia,
as it descends, has a way of revealing the core of the person
affected by it. My mother’s core was rotten like the brackish water
at the bottom of a weeks-old vase of flowers. She had been beautiful
when my father met her and still capable of love when I became their
late-in-life child, but by the time she gazed up at me that day,
none of this mattered.
If I hadn’t picked up my ringing phone, Mrs. Castle, my mother’s
unlucky neighbor, would have continued down the list of emergency
numbers posted on my mother’s almond-colored fridge. But within the
hour, I found myself rushing over to the house where I was born.
It was a cool October morning. When I arrived, my mother was sitting
upright in her wing chair, wrapped in a mohair shawl, and mumbling
to herself. Mrs. Castle said my mother hadn’t recognized her that
morning when she’d brought the paper to the door.
“She tried to slam the door on me,” Mrs. Castle said. “She screamed
like I was scalding her. It was the most pitiful thing imaginable.”
My mother sat, a totemic presence, in the flocked red-and-white wing
chair in which she’d spent the more than two decades since my
father’s death. She’d aged slowly in that chair, retiring first to
read books and work her needlepoint, and then, when her eyes began
to fail, to watch public television from dawn until she fell asleep
in front of it after her evening meal. In the last year or two, she
would sit in the chair and not even bother to turn on the
television. Often she placed the twisted skeins of yarn that my
older daughter, Emily, still sent each Christmas, in the center of
her lap. She petted them the way some old women might pet cats.
I thanked Mrs. Castle and assured her I would handle everything.
“You know it’s time,” she said, turning toward me on the front
stoop. “She’s been in the house alone an awfully long while.”
“I know,” I said, and shut the door.
Mrs. Castle walked down the steps of my mother’s front porch with
three empty dishes of various sizes she had found in the kitchen and
that she claimed to be hers. I didn’t doubt it. My mother’s
neighbors were a godsend. When I was young, my mother had railed
against the Greek Orthodox church down the road, calling its
parishioners, for no reason that made sense, “those stupid
Holy-Rolling Poles.” But it was this congregation that had often
called upon its ranks to make sure the cranky old woman who had
lived forever in the run-down house got fed and clothed. If
occasionally she got robbed, well, it was precarious to be a woman
living alone.
“People are living in my walls,” she had said to me more than once,
but it was only when I found a condom lying beside my childhood bed
that I’d put two and two together. Manny, a boy who occasionally
repaired things for my mother, was bringing girls into her upstairs
rooms. I had talked to Mrs. Castle and hired a locksmith. It was not
my fault my mother refused to move.
“Mother,” I said, calling the name only I, as her sole child, had
the right to call her. She looked up at me and smiled.
“Bitch,” she said.
The thing about dementia is that sometimes you feel like the
afflicted person has a trip wire to the truth, as if they can see
beneath the skin you hide in.
“Mother, it’s Helen,” I said.
“I know who you are!” she barked at me.
Her hands clasped the curved ends of the armrests, and I could see
how hard she pressed, her anger flaring up and out at me like
involuntary claws.
“That’s good,” I said.
I stood there a moment longer, until it felt like an established
fact. She was my mother and I was her daughter. I thought we could
go forward from this into our usual unpleasant encounter.
I walked over to the windows and began to draw up the metal blinds
by the increasingly threadbare cloth tape that bound them. Outside,
the yard of my childhood was so overgrown it was difficult to make
out the original shapes of the bushes and trees, those places I had
played with other children until my mother’s behavior began to
garner a reputation outside our house.
“She steals,” my mother said.
My back was to her. I was looking at a vine that had crawled into
the huge fir tree in the corner of the yard and consumed the shed
where my father had once done carpentry. He had always been happiest
inside that space. On my darkest days, I had come to imagine him
there, laboriously sanding the round wooden globes that had replaced
all his other projects.
“Who steals?”
“That bitch.”
I knew she was talking about Mrs. Castle. The woman who daily made
sure my mother had woken up. Who brought her the Philadelphia
Inquirer and not infrequently cut flowers from her own yard and
placed them in plastic iced-tea pitchers that wouldn’t shatter if my
mother knocked them over.
“That’s not true,” I told her. “Mrs. Castle is a lovely woman who
takes good care of you.”
“What happened to my blue Pigeon Forge bowl?”
I knew the bowl and realized I had not seen it for weeks. In my
youth it had always held what I thought of as imprisoned food – walnuts
and Brazil nuts and filberts that my father would crack and
dig out with a tiny fork.
“I gave it to her, Mother,” I lied.
“You what?”
“She’s been so wonderful and I knew she liked it, and so I just gave
it to her one day when you were napping.”
Help doesn’t come free, I felt like telling her. These people owe
you nothing.
My mother looked at me. It was a horrible bottomless look. She
pouted first, her lower lip jutting out and then quivering. She was
going to cry. I left the room and walked to the kitchen. Whenever I
came, I found good reason to spend many of the hours I was supposed
to be with my mother in every room of the house but the one in which
she sat. I heard the low moan begin that I’d been hearing all my
life. It was a moan the notes of which were orchestrated to elicit
pity. My father had always been the one to run to her. After his
death, it fell to me. For more than twenty years, with greater or
lesser diligence, I had been attending to her, rushing over when she
called saying her heart would burst, or taking her on increasing
rounds of doctors’ visits as she aged.
Late in the afternoon of that day, I was in the screened-in back
porch, sweeping out the straw mat. I had left the door open a crack
so that I could hear her. Then into the cloud of dust that
surrounded me came the unmistakable odor of shit. My mother had
needed to go to the bathroom but couldn’t get up.
I dropped the broom and ran to my mother. She had not, as I may have
momentarily hoped, died and suffered the resultant loosening of
bowels. Dead in her own home as she might have wished. Instead, she
sat in her chair, having soiled herself.
“Number two!” she said. This time, the smile was different than the
smile of Bitch. Bitch had had life to it. This smile was alien to
me. It held neither fear nor malice.
Often, when I recounted to my youngest, Sarah, the events of a given
day, she told me that no matter how much she loved me, she wasn’t
going to strip and diaper me when I grew old. “I’ll hire someone,”
she said. “I’ve never heard a better incentive for hitting the big
time than avoiding that.”
The smell had filled the room within seconds. I walked back to the
porch twice to take in huge drafts of dusty air and could think of
nothing else but presenting my mother in the way she would have
wanted to be seen. I knew I was going to have to call the ambulance.
I knew, as I had for some time, that my mother was heading out of
this life, but I did not want her arriving at the hospital caked in
shit. I should say I knew she would not want that, and so what had
mattered most to her throughout her life – appearances – became what
mattered most to me.
I took a final breath out on the porch and walked back to her. No
longer smiling, she was agitated in the extreme.
“Mom,” I said, certain as I said it that she did not recognize the
name or the daughter who said it, “I’m going to help you clean up,
and then we’re going to make some calls.” You’ll never make a call
again, I thought, and I didn’t mean it cruelly. Why is it that
pragmatics are so often interpreted this way? Shit is shit and truth
is truth. Done.
I knelt down in front of her and looked up into her face. I hated
her more than I’d ever hated anyone. Still, I reached up, as if I
were finally allowed to touch a precious thing, and ran my fingers
down her long silver braid. “Mom,” I whispered. I said it because I
knew it would be still in the air. No reverberations, no response.
But the wetness was making her unhappy. Like a snail trapped in
sunlight, say – anxious to get away from an element that caused
pain. I went from kneeling to half bending over. I placed my
shoulders against her shoulders, careful not to put any weight on
her. I leaned in like a football player on a tackle and then lifted
up. She was both lighter and heavier than I’d expected.
I got her to standing with ease, but once she was upright, she
collapsed in my arms. It was all I could do not to drop her,
bringing both of us to the ground. As I adapted to the balance of
holding her full weight, I could not help but think of my father,
how year after year he carried the burden of her, apologized to the
neighbors, dried her copious tears, and how this body had folded
into his over and over again like so much batter until the two of
them became one.
I felt like weeping myself then. We were near the end of us and of
the secrets of the house. I was forty-nine and my mother was
eighty-eight. My father had been dead for almost the entire lifetime
of my younger child – a few months after she’d turned four. Sarah
could never know the full measure of his sweetness, or play in the
workshop among his thrice-glued carpentry. I thought of the mutant
rocking horses rotting in the shed, and my arms, with my mother in
them, weakened dangerously. How the house and my life had changed
after his death.
I dragged my mother, with her trying, I could feel, to help, over to
the staircase leading up to her bath. I questioned my sanity. How, I
wondered, did I think this feat was possible? She had to weigh at
least a hundred pounds, and despite my midlife fitness regime, I had
never lifted more than sixty. It was not going to work. I collapsed
onto the stairs, with my mother soiled and damp on top of me.
I panted on the carpeted steps but did not give up. I was determined
to clean my mother and to dress her in fresh clothes before I called
the ambulance. As we lay there and her weight grew familiar, like
the strange feeling of being pinned by a dozing lover, I thought of
the alternatives. I could bring her to the bathroom in the back and
try to wash her from the sink. There was also the kitchen. But where
would I prop her up? How to hold her and wash her at the same time,
not to mention the mess of water all over the floor and the
potential for slipping and cracking both our skulls.
My mother began to snore. Her head tilted back over my shoulder so
that I could see her ancient mottled face and neck. I looked at her
cheekbones, as sharp as they had always been – almost painful now in
her cadaverous flesh. Who will love me? I thought, and then banished
this question by looking out at the birch leaves in the fading
sunlight. I had been there all day. I hadn’t even called to cancel
at Westmore. I saw the empty space on the platform in Life Drawing
101 and the students, at their easels, staring at my absence, the
useless charcoal in their hands.
I knew that if I did not move, my mother might sleep for hours, and
darkness would come. I pictured my friend Natalie looking for me in
the halls of the art building, vainly querying the students in
class. Natalie would call my house – perhaps drive over alone or
with Hamish, her son. The doorbell would ring in the empty house,
and then Natalie would imagine that something must have happened to
me or to Sarah or to Emily.
I lifted my arms up under my mother’s arms and raised them slightly
off the carpeted stairs. First one and then the other, like
manipulating a life-size doll. To have controlled her as easily as
that, impossible. I had to get through this without calling my
daughters. This was something to be done on my own. I twisted out
from under her, and she moaned like a collapsing bag of air. I sat
by her body on the stairs. The house had a weight and a force that I
knew could crush me. I had to get out of there, and I thought,
suddenly, of the bathtub among the rocking horses in the shed.
I left my mother dozing and turned and ran up the stairs, darting
into her cluttered bedroom for blankets, and the pink powder room
for towels. In the mirror over the sink, I checked myself. My eyes
seemed smaller and even bluer than they had been, as if the
intensity of the situation affected color and its perception. For
years now I’d kept my hair so short that I could almost see my
scalp. When I’d walked into my mother’s house, she’d taken one
glance and said, “Don’t tell me you have cancer too. Everyone has
cancer these days.” I explained that my haircut made life easier,
from exercise to gardening to work. It was the ambiguity that got to
me – would she have cared if I had had cancer or would it have just
been competition for her? Her intonation pointed toward the latter,
but it was hard to believe this of one’s own mother.
I stood at the top of the stairs with the blankets and towels. I
kept at bay my realization that she would never see these rooms
again and that now they would become, for me, empty shells littered
with possessions. I noticed the hush in the upstairs hallway and
looked at the pictures on the walls, pictures that would soon be
gone. I imagined the dark squares they would leave behind them where
no sun had reached for years, and the echoes that would resound from
the curtainless storm windows and the thick plaster-and-brick walls.
I began to sing. I sang nonsense. Cat-food commercials and childhood
songs, the latter a habit that had been handed down from my mother,
a way to stave off the onset of nerves. The need for noise
overwhelmed me, but as I headed down the stairs, I grew quiet again.
I saw that my mother had slumped down and lay on the floor, her body
on the old wine-red Persian rug.
“No, Mother, no,” I said, realizing as I did so that it was more
useless than talking to a dog. A dog cocked her head. A dog gave you
a soulful look. My mother was a passed-out bag of bones who reeked
of shit.
“Why like this?” I asked. I stood over her body with my arms full of
blankets and towels, and I began to weep. I whispered a prayer that
no one would knock on the door, that Mrs. Castle would not think to
check on us, though right about now Manny the handyboy might help me
tote and haul.
I placed the towels on the bottom stair and took my grandfather’s
red-and-black Hudson Bay blanket, spreading it out on the floor
beside her. It extended into the dining room. Then, so the wool
would not scratch, I put a white Mexican wedding blanket down on top
of that. I was not thinking sanely; I was wrapping fish or making
spring rolls; I was thinking, Super Giant Mother Burrito.
I bent down, taking air in and neutralizing my spine – thank you,
Stella, at World Gym – and put my arms up under my mother’s armpits.
Her eyes snapped open.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I blinked. With our faces reversed to each other, I felt she could
suck my eyes into her mouth. The rest of me, like the tail of a
lizard or the end of a flat noodle, would swoop in and be gone in
mere seconds. I kept my arms tense. Would she ever be powerless?
“Daniel!” she brayed. “Daniel!”
“Dad’s not here, Mom,” I said.
She looked up at me, her face dimmed and then reignited again, like
a match flaring in the dark.
“I want that bowl,” she said. “Now!”
To be that close to her. To be holding on to her and to see her
brain open up like that, its scrambled insides, it was all I could
do to keep to my task. As she spoke about things – Emily, the
“pretty baby” (Emily had just turned thirty and had babies of her
own); the kudzu near her father’s cabin that had to be cut back with
a scythe (the cabin was on land that was at the base of the Smokies
and long out of our lives); and the stealing, conniving,
not-to-be-trusted neighbors – I placed her body in the blankets and
made an open-ended package with her talking head sticking out. Then
I rested the towels on top of her chest and breathed slowly,
counting to ten before I spoke.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from The Almost Moon
by Alice Sebold
Copyright © 2007 by Alice Sebold.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Little, Brown and Company
Copyright © 2007
Alice Sebold
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-316-67746-2
