A Walk With My Mother

            Her wheelchair supported both of us until I finally let go to sit on the bench. She rode in the seat and I hung onto the handles, gripping a bit tighter than necessary. If the migraine vision stole my balance or my hip dislocated, I could imagine what she might do to herself trying to rescue me, since that's what real mothers do.

            We had forty-five minutes to kill before the ambulance would return her to the nursing home. She called it the hospital but I think she knew the difference this time. She needed to pretend, the way I had the week before when I wheeled her to the dining room down the hall and called it taking her out to dinner.

            She tucked the surgeon's report between her leg and the side of the chair and used both hands to drink her diet Sierra Mist, screwing the cap back on after each sip. I wondered which excited her more, having a drink in a bottle instead of a Styrofoam cup with a straw, or realizing she had the dexterity to manipulate the cap without help. Her hands looked confident. Maybe she remembered how I had complimented her penmanship when she signed the forms in the office.

            She noticed how green the grass was despite the heat, and decided the thumping noise in the distance must be a large construction tool. It must have felt good for her to be outdoors. In the last year, she had been out only to pass from a car or ambulance to whichever railed, motorized bed she would occupy next. She smiled at a little girl passing with her mother, removed the cap to take another drink, and laughed when she realized it was ninety degrees and she was wearing a sweater. People would think she was crazy but she really wasn't even warm.           

           She remembered I had no air-conditioning in my car and apologized for making me come out. I reminded her I like heat, and said I was glad to be there. She mentioned knowing someone else was supposed to have been in my place and the nurse had to call me, but believed me when I said I wanted to be there.

            We talked about the good news from the doctor; the hip had healed and he released her to put all ninety-six of her pounds on it again. In her mind, that meant she could go home soon, and she proved once again that she was in her right mind by telling me in detail all the things she needed to do when she went home.

            I reminded her how much she appreciated the nurses and therapists at the hospital, and how she had saved every menu to show me the wonderful meals they served. She said those things were nice but she was still anxious to go home before she got too spoiled to all that pampering.

        I wanted the confused imposter to replace my real mother so I could avoid the rest of the conversation. Her eyes met mine and asked for the truth, as no one but a real mother can.

        Today, I hope she doesn't remember that I told her the truth