ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 141
Stroke
"Lorraine is my daughter." The voice is one I have not heard before,
deep and gutteral, the words spoken with a visible effort.
"I'm Lorraine," I say, trying to summon a smile. "I'm your daughter."
But the eyes, the clear blue eyes I have never really noticed before, stare at
me, starkly beautiful in the contorted, time-ravaged face, without recognition.
"No," she says, then repeats, slowly and with a sad conviction, "Lorraine is my daughter."
How many times in the ensuing months we are to repeat, word for
painful word, this dialogue. In between, during those moments when we are
living in concurrent time, she knows me. And I in turn come to know her as
I have never known her before, venturing with her into every stage ofher life.
A life in which her dominant characteristics had been strength and an indomitable desire for independence that have kept her active and useful until
that morning in the end of March when, at 92, as late winter snow gently
blanketed the world around her, she was, perhaps for the first time in her life,
unable to push aside her blanket and rise from her bed.
A stroke! My mother, the epitome of strength, has had a stroke. The
hospital room in which she lies looks out upon a suddenly spring-burst day.
The unseasonable snow is gone. In its place I see the green earth turning
young again, starting over, and I can't-I won't-believe the cycle of my
mother's life is nearing its end.
Near the foot of my mother's bed hangs a white canvas drape that
serves as a divider for the double room. This white expanse has become a
large viewing screen on which she is able to project the scenes ofher past. She
can still move her right hand, little else, and with it she describes a graceful
arc as she points out to me the curving driveway, the wooded entrance to a
homestead she says used to belong to the parents of her daughter-in-law. I
agree that the scene is lovely. I wish I could see it along with her.
Later, while she sleeps, I study the screen. As I gaze at it, I recognize
a scene from my early childhood. I am only two years old. My brother, three
years older, and I have been playing in the basement. One ofus has turned
on the water faucet and we are both hilariously wet. The fun ends abruptly
when my father comes upon our scene of revelry and decides to punish my
brother by spanking. I have not seen my mother angry before. I can hear her
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