Sponsor a story at EDF - Your message can reach thousands of readers for just $4
We gently pushed the glider back and forth with our feet, mine in sandals, hers in Velcro sneakers. Crickets began chirping as the light faded. Out of fierce sunlight, the Shasta Daisies and Hyperion Daylilies my mother had dug from her garden and given to me years ago seemed to glow from within.
Mosquitoes would soon find us, but I found it difficult to get up from the porch and face the drive back to the nursing home. I’d had to feed my mom her dinner, but she was happily spooning ice cream into her mouth all by herself. A pile of napkins waited on my lap like the ones she once carried around in her purse to spit on when needed.
“Doesn’t the garden look beautiful?” I asked.
She stopped with the spoon halfway to her face.
“You’re a nice woman,” she said. “What are you to me?”
“I’m your daughter, ma. You’re my mother.” I remembered her singing to me when I was sad, rubbing Vicks on my chest when I was sick, cheering for my tiniest victories. “You were a wonderful mother.”
“Your mother?” Her face became a cartoon of surprise. “How could I be your mother?”
“You had a baby. Patti. Do you remember Patti? Patti grew up. I’m Patti.”
“You’re my mother?”
Lightning bugs flashed over the garden. My flowers leaned this way and that, some of the little ones hidden under robust growers. My mother’s garden was always meticulously staked, in perfect size-place. When I’d returned home from California in an Indian print dress and ratty fur coat, she’d called me a disgrace to the family.
I patted her knee. “Isn’t your ice cream good? You should finish it.”
She put down her spoon and bowl.
“I want to go back. My husband will be worried about me.”
“It’s okay, ma. He knows where you are.”
“How does he know?”
“I told him.”
“You know him?”
“Yeah, ma. He’s my father.”
“How long have you known him?”
“All my life.”
I stood up and switched on the porch light, wiped her face. I didn’t spit on the napkin.
“Come on. It’s getting late. I’ll help you go to the bathroom.”
“I want to see my husband.”
“I know, but he went fishing. He’s on a fishing trip.”
“He went fishing?”
“Yeah. He won’t be back tonight.”
“I miss him.”
“I miss him, too.”
I walked my mom to the bathroom and helped her pull down her briefs and pants and sit on the toilet. I told her what to do with the toilet paper. I helped her stand and as I pulled up her clothes she asked, “Where is my husband?”
“He went fishing.”
“He went fishing?” She stared at me in the unforgiving florescent light. “You don’t look right. Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I held both her hands and looked down in her eyes. We used to be the same height. I’d brought her to the hospital to see her husband of sixty two years. When I told her the next day, she sobbed, saying, “I finally found a good man, and now he’s gone,” and I tried not to laugh. We didn’t bring her with us the day my father’s ashes spread over the surface of his favorite creek and floated away like a ghost.
“Ma, Dad got really sick. He got old and really sick.”
“Did he die?”
She looked so sad. I sighed. I nodded.
“Yeah, he died.” I watched her face start to crumple. “But he was really old and he had a good life and you loved each other till the end.” I squeezed her hands.
“He was really old?”
I nodded again, like it made all the difference. “He was really old.”
She didn’t cry. I put my arm around her shoulder. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
It was hard to see outside of the porch light. I held on to my mother as we slowly made our way to the car. I buckled her seat belt and got in the driver’s side and we sat in the dark. The garden had receded into grey.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you back to Haven Hill. Where you live.”
“I want to see my husband.”
“I know.”
“Will he be there?”
“Not tonight. He’s on a fishing trip. He won’t be coming home tonight.”
“I miss him,” she said.
“I miss him too,” I said.
I started the car and turned on the headlights. I took my mother’s hand, as if that could keep her from slipping farther away. Under the sound of the engine I barely whispered, “I miss you, too.”
Jeanne Holtzman is an aging hippie, writer and health care practitioner, not necessarily in that order. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Night Train, The Los Angeles Review, Every Day Fiction, Annalemma, elimae, Blip Magazine, JMWW and others. You may reach Jeanne at J.holtzman@comcast.net.
GD Star Rating
loading...
GONE FISHING • by Jeanne Holtzman,
loading...
Did you like this story?
A new and interesting story is posted every day.
A new and interesting story is posted every day.
Subscribe to the RSS Feed! (what is rss)
Don’t miss another story! Subscribe to Every Day Fiction via RSS.- Share on Facebook
25 Responses to “GONE FISHING • by Jeanne Holtzman”
Comments
« THE PROMISE • by Warren C. Easley | Home | Podcast EDF082: Ugly • by Meera Jhala • read by Folly Blaine »
September 9th, 2012 at 12:33 am
Lovely. Five stars.
September 9th, 2012 at 1:33 am
I found that the repetitions worked the first couple of times but became a bit repetitive. Also, perhaps in the first sentence you could have used ‘my mohter’s’ instead of ‘hers’ to establish the relationship between the two characters.
That aside, a poignant story of loss.
September 9th, 2012 at 2:52 am
Loved this story.,it captured me from the title on. I’ve lived this losing both my father and mother to Alzheimer’s. Keep writing. You have many more stories to tell.
September 9th, 2012 at 4:20 am
Jeanne,
“Her face became a cartoon of surprise.” !! Wonderful line in a superlative piece.
Congratulations on a poignant, unmawkish portrayal of loss. The loss of the living to dementia is terrible. The repetition works perfectly. People with dementia and certain mental illnesses (GAD, OCD) have perseverated thinking. It’s stuck in a belief that isn’t true and they return to it repeatedly regardless of what is presented to them. So they say and do things over and over and over and,(yeah I’m going to write it again) over again.
Bravo.
September 9th, 2012 at 5:54 am
That’s exactly the way it is. We lost my Grandpa to Alzheimer’s last year. You could patiently tell him the same thing every five minutes, and he would still ask: “When are we going home?” “We are home, Mac.”
I miss him.
September 9th, 2012 at 6:15 am
Just beautiful. Five stars.
September 9th, 2012 at 7:16 am
Yes, this is exactly how it is.
September 9th, 2012 at 10:28 am
touching… my grandmother, a humble woman, became very outspoken and said the first thing that came to her mind once the Alzheimers set in…
being patient with her and watching her struggle for a name, or a memory is tough, but she always manages to make us laugh, with her new found boldness.
Most days she knows that grandpa is gone…a few times she has asked… it is the most heartbreaking thing in the world to have to tell a woman her husband died. again.
September 9th, 2012 at 10:57 am
A very heart-breaking story. Moving and touching at the same time. Very well done.
September 9th, 2012 at 11:22 am
Nice work, Jeanne.
September 9th, 2012 at 11:26 am
A wonderful, true story. That’s exactly the way Alzheimer’s is. Beautifully written.
September 9th, 2012 at 11:46 am
Wonderful. Consider eliminating the soft opening and hook the reader from the get-go. That might seem gimmicky, but just imagine this piece with ““You’re a nice woman,” she said. “What are you to me?”” moved to the top, and some slight snips. It’s a great way for a talented writer such as yourself to ensure that even the most flighty of readers is going to have a chance to appreciate what you’ve written here.
September 9th, 2012 at 11:47 am
My heart breaks for both the mother and daughter. Your writing has moved me to tears, not so good for me and the inevitable headache I’ll get, but good for you that your words can bring out such emotion. Excellent!
September 9th, 2012 at 12:11 pm
Excellent piece
September 9th, 2012 at 1:19 pm
My mother died at 98 this past January… wonderful lady with dementia… in an alzheimer’s unit last 6 years. She was the Jeopardy champ of the unit… and had moments of great humor all along. She told me last year, “You know that poem, ‘Into you arms I will fly, and there I will gladly die?’ What a bunch of crap.”
September 9th, 2012 at 1:21 pm
Beautiful! What a great expression of kindness and empathy between a mother and daughter!
September 9th, 2012 at 1:50 pm
I could feel the loss. Great piece, Jeanne!
September 9th, 2012 at 5:47 pm
Love that it’s low key about heart-breaking facts. This is the way it is. This is how our lives are or will be, taking care of aging parents. Written very well.
September 9th, 2012 at 6:23 pm
Thank you all for taking the time to read and comment. I am moved that it touched many of you.
September 10th, 2012 at 3:55 pm
Perfect. In its authenticity and its expression.
September 11th, 2012 at 12:50 pm
So sad, and so true. Beautiful job.
September 11th, 2012 at 8:53 pm
Beautifully, heart-achingly poignant. Love the emotion in each and every line. Bravo.
September 13th, 2012 at 8:02 am
Beautifully written.
September 15th, 2012 at 9:55 am
I’ve come to this a bit late but have to say, Jeanne (as someone with MS already getting her son to help with personal things), thank you: my son and I both enjoyed this story.
It takes a truly gifted writer to turn a subject like this into something beautiful, and you’ve done it. Well done.
I’ll look out for more of your work.
September 18th, 2012 at 11:36 am
Fantastic story, Jeannie. Flawlessly written and deeply moving.