Read Online We Are All Welcome Here by Elizabeth Berg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Berg
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forget,” she’d said, “but sometimes I have dreams. And then I have to wake up.”
“What kind of dreams?” I asked.
She seemed reluctant to answer. But she said, “Well, I dream…it’s the simplest things, really. I’m waving. I’m hanging out the wash. I’m just walking down the street, and it feels like floating.” Then she said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Diana.”
This morning, my sorrow at my mother’s inabilities was tempered by my anger at her for biting me. I’d gotten up twice to assist her in the night, and beyond her telling me what she needed, neither of us had spoken.
“If you up, get on down here,” I heard Peacie call.
“I’m
not
up,” I yelled, and moved back into my bed.
“Get down here anyway; I need some help with your mother.”
I lay still for a moment, full of a flat kind of hate, then started downstairs. When I left here, when I lived on my own, I was not going to have so much as a cactus to take care of.
I found Peacie in the kitchen, washing dishes. I sat at the kitchen table. “Peacie? Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“We’re having a play tonight, and I wanted to know if LaRue could be in it. All he has to do is read a couple of lines at the end.”
She shut off the water and turned around. “You want LaRue? In your play?”
“Yes.”
She considered this for a moment, frowning, which was often Peacie’s way of smiling. Then she said, “He’ll do it. What time?”
I told her, then said, “But how do you know for sure he’ll do it?”
“I know him, that’s how. Since you so worried, I’ll call later and check with his
agent.
But right now I need you to help me.”
My mother was having her hair washed. Peacie always needed help with that; it was a difficult process. My mother would be wheeled into the bathroom and the backrest of her wheelchair lowered flat. Next, Peacie and I would each grab under an arm and pull her up so that her head cleared the chair and was over the toilet bowl. Then, while I held her head over the toilet, Peacie would pour water over her hair and quickly shampoo and rinse it. It’s surprising how much a head weighs; you never really think about it. But it becomes heavy when you hold it this way. And heavier still when you don’t want to look into the eyes of the person whose head you’re holding. At one point my mother said, “Stop, Peacie.” And while Peacie held aloft the battered pot we used to pour water, my mother said, “Are we not speaking, Diana?”
I said nothing.
“Diana?”
Reluctantly, I looked at her.
“I want you to snap out of it,” she said. “Susan Hogart’s coming here today. She called yesterday.”
“So? I’ll just get sent outside. That’s what always happens. She never talks to me.”
“She does sometimes. And she might today.”
I shifted my shoulders, tightened my grip at the back of my mother’s neck.
“Ow,”
she said, on her next exhalation, and I said nothing. But I relaxed my hands somewhat.
“So can I rely on you?” my mother asked.
“For what?”
“To say the right things?”
I sighed, and Peacie said, “That’s ’bout enough of y’all’s summit conference. Let me finish now, ’fore we all fall down.”
We washed my mother’s hair in tense silence. Then we straightened her up, wheeled her out to her bedroom, and while Peacie put her hair up in pin curls, my mother briefed me on what I should tell the social worker. “You’re doing fine; you like your caretakers—whatever you do, don’t suggest in any way that there’s no one here at night.”
“Why is that such a big deal? I know how to do everything.”
Peacie and my mother looked at each other. Peacie’s face was impassive; my mother looked worried.
“Because if you tell, we could get in a lot of trouble. Diana, you’re old enough to know this: We’re getting money for a nighttime caretaker. But I use it for other things—things for you.”
“And for
“What kind of dreams?” I asked.
She seemed reluctant to answer. But she said, “Well, I dream…it’s the simplest things, really. I’m waving. I’m hanging out the wash. I’m just walking down the street, and it feels like floating.” Then she said, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Diana.”
This morning, my sorrow at my mother’s inabilities was tempered by my anger at her for biting me. I’d gotten up twice to assist her in the night, and beyond her telling me what she needed, neither of us had spoken.
“If you up, get on down here,” I heard Peacie call.
“I’m
not
up,” I yelled, and moved back into my bed.
“Get down here anyway; I need some help with your mother.”
I lay still for a moment, full of a flat kind of hate, then started downstairs. When I left here, when I lived on my own, I was not going to have so much as a cactus to take care of.
I found Peacie in the kitchen, washing dishes. I sat at the kitchen table. “Peacie? Can I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“We’re having a play tonight, and I wanted to know if LaRue could be in it. All he has to do is read a couple of lines at the end.”
She shut off the water and turned around. “You want LaRue? In your play?”
“Yes.”
She considered this for a moment, frowning, which was often Peacie’s way of smiling. Then she said, “He’ll do it. What time?”
I told her, then said, “But how do you know for sure he’ll do it?”
“I know him, that’s how. Since you so worried, I’ll call later and check with his
agent.
But right now I need you to help me.”
My mother was having her hair washed. Peacie always needed help with that; it was a difficult process. My mother would be wheeled into the bathroom and the backrest of her wheelchair lowered flat. Next, Peacie and I would each grab under an arm and pull her up so that her head cleared the chair and was over the toilet bowl. Then, while I held her head over the toilet, Peacie would pour water over her hair and quickly shampoo and rinse it. It’s surprising how much a head weighs; you never really think about it. But it becomes heavy when you hold it this way. And heavier still when you don’t want to look into the eyes of the person whose head you’re holding. At one point my mother said, “Stop, Peacie.” And while Peacie held aloft the battered pot we used to pour water, my mother said, “Are we not speaking, Diana?”
I said nothing.
“Diana?”
Reluctantly, I looked at her.
“I want you to snap out of it,” she said. “Susan Hogart’s coming here today. She called yesterday.”
“So? I’ll just get sent outside. That’s what always happens. She never talks to me.”
“She does sometimes. And she might today.”
I shifted my shoulders, tightened my grip at the back of my mother’s neck.
“Ow,”
she said, on her next exhalation, and I said nothing. But I relaxed my hands somewhat.
“So can I rely on you?” my mother asked.
“For what?”
“To say the right things?”
I sighed, and Peacie said, “That’s ’bout enough of y’all’s summit conference. Let me finish now, ’fore we all fall down.”
We washed my mother’s hair in tense silence. Then we straightened her up, wheeled her out to her bedroom, and while Peacie put her hair up in pin curls, my mother briefed me on what I should tell the social worker. “You’re doing fine; you like your caretakers—whatever you do, don’t suggest in any way that there’s no one here at night.”
“Why is that such a big deal? I know how to do everything.”
Peacie and my mother looked at each other. Peacie’s face was impassive; my mother looked worried.
“Because if you tell, we could get in a lot of trouble. Diana, you’re old enough to know this: We’re getting money for a nighttime caretaker. But I use it for other things—things for you.”
“And for
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