is no real pain. I just can’t seem to move. My legs have gone to sleep. It is growing dark in the room.
I will wait a little longer and then try again. I need to drag myself just a few feet across the floor to where the phone is. Then I can call one of my grandchildren. I could convince Gracie to slip in here, help me onto the loveseat, give me an aspirin or two, and then slip out. Lila would be a little more risky; she might insist on an unnecessary trip to the hospital. I’ll make an appointment with Dr. O’Malley for tomorrow. No one here at the home needs to know that anything happened. I can just imagine the hubbub that would result if I was to be found lying on my floor by the staff. There would be whistles and sirens and a stretcher and everyone would crowd around to gawk. The girls on the hall wouldn’t even try to hide their glee that it was me and not them— not yet, anyway. There would be jokes about what good my exercise routine did me. And after I had been wheeled from the building, there would be bets made on whether I would be able to come back to this room, to this building where the fittest and the most able people in the center live. There are three buildings on the grounds, each with different levels of care and support. Most people start out in my building and then move to one of the other two. The girls on the hall would wonder—still thinking, Thank God it’s not me—whether I would be able to live as independently after this, whether I would still be able to take care of myself.
I hear a noise behind me and freeze so I can listen better. Someone dropped something in the hall, I reassure myself. But it’s not the right kind of noise for that, and it sounds too close to be in the hall. It is unmistakably the soft, swooshing noise of my door opening. The door is behind me, so I can’t see a thing. I fold my arms over my chest so that I look as together and respectable as possible. I pray that whoever is looking into the room somehow doesn’t see me, and goes away.
But he or she doesn’t go away and I don’t hear the sound of the door closing. This infuriates me. It means some person, or even more than one person, are staring in at me lying on my side like a child curled up for a nap. They might be laughing, or jeering at the sight.
Hello, I say, sharply, to put an end to this rudeness.
Sweet Jesus, Catharine. What in the world are you doing on the floor?
Mother? I look as best I can over my shoulder and see that my mother has stepped into the room and let the door shut behind her.
She walks around to the front of me and stares down, her hands on her hips. She has on short white gloves and a gray dress with a belted waist. She also wears a gray hat with a wide brim. Answer me, child. What are you doing on the floor?
I shake my head and try again to raise myself up. Again, I only manage to prop up my elbow. I use all my strength to stay there, feeling that this position has a little more poise to it, a little more composure. I fell, Mother. Will you please help me up?
My mother shakes her head under the wide hat brim. She actually steps back from me and sits down in the armchair. I don’t think I can.
Why not?
It’s just not possible.
I sigh. I’ve been lying on the rug for over an hour at least and I am growing tired. I have always found talking to my mother frustrating. Where’s Father?
He couldn’t help you either.
He’d find a way, I want to say, but don’t.
I am surprised to hear myself say, Do you know that I’m having a great-grandchild?
My mother has taken a piece of darning and a needle out of her purse. The darning looks like one of father’s black dress socks. I never even met my grandchildren, she says. It wasn’t fair of you to keep them away from me.
I didn’t keep them away from you. My arm has grown weak again, and I am forced to lay my head back on the floor. You lived