101 Margaret

Yellowy sun rays shine past swollen clouds, nearly parallel to the floor. They leave long warped shadows on the lit white walls of the 14^th storey’s south side units. Mother sits out of their path; in a shadow, dark blue like a bruise.

I let myself in and put on tea for two. On the balcony – whipping winds and twenty-one degrees below zero bedammed – I avoid looking over the rail. Cigarette burned up; I slide back inside and talk to my mother.

She never says much any more. Nagging, guidance, and spunk: dispersed in gusts of ancient history.

“Drink your tea Ma.”

She sips twice, stares into my eyes - her part of the conversation – and fades out, vacant. Her head tilts towards the doorway. Steam curls in on itself as it rises out of tea into sunshine. Dust hangs in the air. It’s my turn to talk.

“Do you remember Ma? Remember when we went to Paris?" She says nothing. "How about the beach in Livorno and those girls?" Still nothing; "The view from the hotel in Davos?”

Family trips: How many single mothers take their kids on European vacations? That’s her line not mine. She doesn’t know to say it so often now, at all now, but she used to. Now I hear her say it; whether it’s out loud or not.

She starts rocking, then stops. Drinks her tea, rocks, then stops. I look away. Out the window, the sun dances behind clouds. The sky today is a shade, not a colour.

I imagine my life lived again. If I am obedient, compliant, and pay head to Mom’s spunk: where am I now? Where is she now? I see myself as she dreamt I would become back then: Female achiever, my brilliant career. I am a powerful, competent, well dressed bitch. My sister too. Ma is old and hunched, but inscrutably cunning, canny.

“Do you think, Ma…”

It’s no use to ask. How could she explain what caused it if the doctor can’t? I still believe she knows. Even if she cannot explain it. I know the reasons for my own fate. Even if I cannot explain it. I use ‘spunk’ now; I used ‘tyranny’ then.

I remember what did happen. My sister: tattoo, drop out, pregnant, gone. Me: tentative, tender, married, social work. Coming in the back door, mom naked on the floor squirting ketchup into tea cups singing All you need is love top of her lungs. Realizing I’m there, that sheepish look. I’ll never forget that sheepish look. She grew old as fast as she grew-up. Second childhood. Second innocence.

I stand and my shadow darkens the room. The reflection of my sweater tints the whole room aquamarine. I watch the shadow and follow it as it takes her empty tea cup. I leave the dishes by the sink. The nurse will clean these.

I couldn’t accept that she was so far gone at first. This woman, this…demon who hovered on both my left and right shoulders, my one and only coach, advisor, consul, and nemesis: evaporated. I thought it was symbolic, a message, I tried to decode the hidden viciousness implied by ketchups in tea cups. All you need is love. All you need is love. Dr. Morris: “No ma’am, I’m sorry, she doesn’t even know her own name…”

I put my shoes on and close the door forgetting to say good bye.

She can’t forgive me now. Even if she remembers, she is too innocent to forgive. I don’t need her to. This guilt is mine: my invention and my burden, until the wind takes it, until it fades away.