Page 18 of All We Thought We Knew
Her wet hand found mine. “Listen to me, Martha Ann. No doctor or medicine or procedure could add a single day to my life. God’s Word says all our days are recorded in his book before we’re born.”
I sniffled. “But—”
“No buts, sweetheart.” She sank a little deeper into the water and closed her eyes. “Now, tell me about California. What do the beaches look like?”
For the next thirty minutes, I talked about palm trees, the sound of the ocean, and anything else that came to mind. But all the while, guilt settled on me like a farrier’s anvil. I’d felt justified in my leaving, with anger at my father the driving force. I’d claimed grief over my brother’s death kept me from returning home. He was my twin, after all. We were connected in a way other siblings weren’t. How could I go home knowing he’d never be there again?
But being here with Mama now, looking into her eyes and knowing my absence had hurt her, I recognized my actions for what they were: selfishness, pure and simple.
How could I have done that to her?
When the water grew cool, I helped her don a clean nightgown and assisted her back to bed. She panted as though she’d run a marathon.
“I’m as weak as a newborn kitten these days,” she said with a slight chuckle. “Who would believe I used to lift hay bales and drive a tractor?”
“You rest, Mama.” I fluffed her pillows and tucked her in. “Are you hungry? I can bring up some lunch.”
She shook her head, her face pinched. “Your father brought me some soup earlier. Tell him I need my medicine, will you please, dear?”
Before I could answer, Dad spoke from the doorway. “I’m here, Ava.”
I stepped back as he moved in close to the bed. With his work-rough hand, he smoothed Mama’s puffy cheek. She smiled up to him with such adoration shining in her eyes, I had to look away from the private moment.
“With Mattie’s help, I’ve had a nice bath. Now I’m ready for a nap.”
Dad took a pill from a bottle and helped her take it with water. Mama shut her eyes and didn’t say more.
“What is that? The medicine, I mean,” I asked quietly.
“Morphine.” He didn’t look at me. “It’s a low dose for now. The doctor will prescribe something stronger if... if she needs it.”
“Is she in a lot of pain?”
He didn’t answer right away, his focus never leaving Mama’s face. “It comes and goes, but the doctor said it will get worse. She didn’t want to take anything for it at first, but...” He didn’t finish. “Nash made sandwiches. You go eat. I’ll stay with her a while.”
I left the room, my emotions confused and raw. I’d never witnessed my father like this. Tender. Helpless. He wasn’t a man of many words, but I’d never thought of him as weak, either in body or mind. He worked hard from dawn to dusk, maintaining the farm by himself for the most part. Mark had helped, especially during haying season, and we’d both had chores in the barns and stables. I didn’t mind helping when I was younger, but after I started high school, time with my friends and special boys was far more important.
That’s when Dad and I began to clash.
The kitchen was empty when I arrived, but a plate of chicken salad sandwiches sat on the counter. I took a bite while I stood, and it immediately carried me back to warm summer days, eating lunch here in the kitchen with Mama and Mark. Mama had a secret ingredient that made her chicken salad stand out amongall those brought to church potluck dinners: dried apricots from our own trees. Where most of the other ladies used apples or even grapes, the bits of apricot Mama added gave it a unique sweetness the other dishes lacked. I was surprised to taste them now, knowing she wasn’t the cook responsible for it.
I poured myself a glass of cold milk, something I hadn’t enjoyed since I left home, and settled at the table. Dad joined me a short time later.
“She’s resting. Thank you for helping with her bath.”
I nodded.
“Doc Monahan or one of his nurses comes out to check her once a week.”
Frustration rose in me. “I don’t understand why he didn’t keep her in the hospital and treat the disease. They’re making all sorts of advancements in the medical world these days. Did you get a second opinion? Surely there was something they could’ve done. I can’t believe they would just send her home to die without a fight.”
Accusation laced my words. I prepared myself for his angry rebuttal, but he just sat there, looking defeated.
“Doc said we could stay in Nashville and try radiation and chemotherapy, but he warned it would be hard on her. She’d be very sick, and it probably wouldn’t change the prognosis.” His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “She wanted to come home, so I brought her home.”
“And that’s it? You simply agreed?” I snapped. “You’re just going to sit by and watch her die? Well, I won’t. My brother was killed because you wouldn’t talk sense into him and keep him from going to Vietnam. Now you won’t do everything you can to convince Mama to go to the hospital in Nashville. I can’t understand you at all.”
He didn’t respond.
