Chapter Thirty-One
“These chairs are ugly.”
I turn to Joe and cross my arms. “They aren’t ugly, Joe. They are brand new, and you’re just used to the old chairs. These are better. Trust me.”
Joe shakes his head. “They’re ugly.”
He stands by me and supervises as furniture is hauled into the nursing home, and the old furniture is brought out. While all this is happening, someone is painting the walls, and the residents sit around and watch. This is the most action that has happened in a long time.
The chairs are a walnut brown color with smooth upholstery, and they smell new. They’ll be a much better fit than the ones with upholstery that always looked dingy and smelled of urine.
“Sit in one.” I take Joe by the arm and lower him into one of the chairs. “It’s comfortable, right?”
He wrinkles up his face, but I can tell he’s comfortable. I poke him in the arm. “Come on, Joe. You know you like it.”
“I’m too old for change, Birdie.” He crosses his arms. “I liked the old ones.”
I guide the workers bringing everything in. I can’t believe how much Liam was able to get donated, and I’m not sure why no one thought of it before. We’re all so focused on the residents that there isn’t time for anything extra. But Liam is right. These small changes will make a difference, and we have too many empty rooms right now that should be filled. This lobby is the first thing prospective families will see. It’s important we give them a good first impression.
“Not bad, right?” Liam brings in a corner table, and Lucy holds the door open. “I may move in here. It looks so nice.”
“You’re a miracle worker, Liam. Look at this place.” Lucy puts her hands on her hips and glances around.
Liam puts the table down and grabs her shoulders. “All of your furniture had urine stains on it.”
She laughs and throws a towel at him.
He nods his head in my direction but makes no attempt to talk to me.
I head to the nurse’s station, and Lucy follows. My mom recently put offers out for two CNAs, and they should be starting soon, which means I can hopefully get off bath duty.
“So.” I glance up, and Lucy is standing there, staring at me.
“Yes?”
“You. Liam. How’d things go last night? Did you talk?”
I press my lips together. “We’re good.”
“Birdie,” Lucy says. “I can tell you like the guy. I can tell he likes you. Are you really not going to do anything with that?”
I like him too much to lose him.
“Birdie.” Will comes to the nurse’s station and beelines straight toward me. “Abigail isn’t doing well. She asked for you.”
“Thanks.”
I inhale a sharp breath as I walk to her room. I’ve been dreading this day since the moment I met Abigail. It’s dark, so I open the shades that look out at the courtyard. I roll a chair to her bedside and start taking her vitals.
“Hi, Abigail.” Her heart is racing, and she has a low-grade fever. Her abdomen is distended, and her color is the worst I’ve seen.
“Birdie.” She coughs, and a little blood comes up. I take a cloth and wipe it away. “Will you call my girls? It’s time.”
“I’ll go call Samantha right now,” I say.
I step into an office and dial. It rings a few times, and then she picks up.
“Yes?” she says.
“Hi, Samantha. It’s Birdie, from the nursing home. Your mom’s RN.”
“I know who you are. What can I do for you?”
“Your mom is dying, and she asked me to call you and your sister.”
There’s breathing on the other end. “Please don’t call Cara. It will only upset her.”
“If you want to see her one last time, you should come quickly.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
Now it’s my heavy breaths that I hear. There was no hesitation on her part at all. She’s probably been preparing for this day, too.
“Samantha,” I say. “Is there anything you’d like me to say to your mom?”
“Tell her all of her ‘I’m sorry’s’ won’t reimburse me for the decades of therapy I’ve needed.”
More deep breaths and then a loud sigh.
“Don’t tell her that. Actually, don’t tell her anything. Feel free to donate her stuff. I appreciate you letting me know, but you don’t need to call again. I don’t care what decisions you make from here on out, and you don’t need to let me know when she’s gone. I lost her a long time ago.”
There’s a pause, and then the phone goes dead.
Abigail is my patient and I do what she asks, but not one of the times she’s asked me to call her daughters did either of them seem happy to hear from me. They never asked me to stop calling. Until now.
Abigail’s eyes are closed when I get back to her room, and I grab her hand so she knows I’m here.
“Birdie,” she says quietly. “Can I share my worst day with you?”
“I’d rather hear about one of your happy days,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I need to say this out loud. It needs to be released.”
“If you want to, Abigail. I’ll listen.”
“It was Mother’s Day. The girls would have been about fourteen and twelve at the time. And Samantha, she always wanted to make me feel special. She made me this beautiful sign and hung it in the dining room. I decided to pour myself a glass of wine during lunch. After all, it was my day.”
Abigail coughs, and I prop the pillow under her head. “One glass turned into two, then the bottle, and finally I opened the vodka. I don’t even remember passing out. But I woke up, and the Mother’s Day sign was ripped to shreds. I have no recollection of any of it. When I sobered up, I went up to Samantha’s room, and she told me everything that had happened.”
Abigail chokes out a sob. “Apparently, I got mad because I tripped over something she’d left on the floor and raged. I ripped up the sign and then told her that she’s worthless. I don’t remember any of it. Why would a mother do that to her child?”
“Abigail.” My voice is weak, the sadness of it all heavy in my chest.
“That’s the story I come back to,” she says. “Every time I ask you to call my girls, and you come back without anything to relay, I remind myself of who I became to them. I deserve to die alone. I wouldn’t forgive me either.”
“You aren’t alone. I’m here.” I sit on the edge of her bed and stroke her shoulder. “You are also the person who danced in the snow with them, Abigail. That is you, too.”
“You’re too kind to me,” she says. “But if you were my child, you wouldn’t forgive me either.”
“Have I ever told you about my dad?” I say, and Abigail shakes her head.
“Well.” I clasp my fingers together. “He and my mom conceived me when they were seniors in high school. They married for a short time, but he couldn’t handle the pressure and left us both and moved west to work in an oil field.”
“Right before my fifth birthday,” I say, “he started writing me letters. He said he’d come to see me on my birthday. I couldn’t wait. I was in school now, and all of my friends had dads and I was so excited to show mine off.”
“I asked my mom to buy me the fanciest dress. A twirl dress, I called it. My grandma curled my hair, and I’d never been happier. I just knew this was going to be my best birthday. I waited on the couch for him, and every time I heard a noise, I’d run to the window.”
“Minutes turned into hours, but I refused to leave the couch. My mom, Grandpa, and Grandma tried to make me, but I sat there. That night, I went to bed in tears and refused to take my dress off. He never called or gave an explanation. I was seven when I heard from him again.”
“I don’t know,” I say, grabbing Abigail’s hand. “This world is full of imperfect beings. We bring all our ugly truths to the table. But what I’ve learned is my dad didn’t show up because of his problems. You weren’t the mom you wanted to be because of yours. All I know is the amazing person you are now, Abigail. I am so much better off because of knowing you. Thank you for sharing so much of your life with me.”
“Will you stay with me?” she says. Her grip on my hand is weak.
“I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
Abigail’s breathing gets shallow, soon followed by the death rattle. I used to think being at someone’s bedside as they passed was the saddest part of my job. But now I see it as an honor.
Dying is one of the more intimate things that we do.
Abigail opens her eyes and smiles. She points to the corner, and I look over my shoulder.
“My mom’s here.”
The room is now dark, day turned to night.
“She’s with an angel, Birdie. Maybe heaven will take me, after all.”
“Of course it will,” I say. “You’re going to go somewhere beautiful.”
I pick up her favorite book of poetry and read to her. The death rattle in her breathing settles in, but I keep reading. Poems about the grass. The trees. The evening breeze.
The moment life leaves Abigail’s body, I can feel it. The energy shifts. The room is empty. It’s just me left. I set the book down on the table and confirm what I already know. Abigail is gone.