lunch with mom
by julie abbott

“Mom, do you mind if we stop by the library before we have lunch?”
“Fine with me, as long as it doesn’t take too long. I’m starved after being at that doctor’s office all morning.”

“Me too. It’ll only take a few minutes, I promise.”

Outside the library we walk past the usual gathering of the downtown regulars. One of the men, neatly dressed today in faded jeans and a purple t-shirt with a brightly colored parrot on the front, approaches fast as we turn up the walkway. “Could you by chance spare a couple of dollars, ladies? Somebody stole my wallet this morning.”
Mom interrupts before he can continue his story. “Oh you poor thing,” she says to the man then turns to me. “You know, someone stole my entire pocketbook once, my favorite one, the brown alligator skin with the matching pumps. Remember that one? I loved it so much, and I never got it back.”

Mom pulls a five-dollar bill from her brown leather wallet where she keeps her bills perfectly organized in ascending order within the cash pocket. “Here you are young man. Take this and buy yourself something good for lunch and don’t worry about paying me back. And that’s a lovely parrot on your shirt.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” says the man, stuffing the bill into his jeans pocket. God bless. You have a nice day.”

As the man’s eyes meet mine, there’s a spark of recognition and he quickly turns away. I see him nearly every time I’m downtown. He seems to have a hard time keeping up with his wallet. Another downtown regular I call “the whistler” strolls by and nods in our direction. Mom says, “That’s nice, that man whistling. When I was a little girl, my mother, your grandmother, used to whistle around the house when she was cooking and cleaning. She stopped whistling after Papa died. I never heard her whistle after that. I wish you could have known my father. He was such a fine man.”
“I wish I could have known him too, Mom. I’m sure it was hard for you growing up without your father.” She loops her arm through mine and sighs as we make our way into the library.

Mom’s gait is slow and halting at times, and has gotten much worse in the past several months. “My arthritis is acting up again,” she says as if reading my thoughts. “I’m slow as Christmas, but I always get there.”

Inside the library, I guide her to a table beside the magazines. “I’ll just be a minute, Mom. I’m going to look for a book. Would you like a magazine? How about Southern Living?

“That will be fine, honey. I’ll be right here until you find your book. You always did like to read,” she says, smiling up at me.

“That’s because you used to read to me so much when I was a child,” I smile back and gently hug her shoulders. “Back in a minute.”

I don’t find the book I’m looking for though the computer tells me it should be on the shelf, so I go to the desk for assistance. The clerk, a woman I recognize from a writing group, checks another branch and says she’ll have it transferred for me. “The 36-Hour Day should be here within 48 hours—Thursday by noon. I’ve read it. It’s very helpful.” She glances at my mother and back at me. Her smile fades. She seems about to say something else but stops herself.

“Good to see you again. Thanks so much,” I say hurriedly, not wanting to engage in further conversation.

As I turn to leave the desk, I see that my mother has sorted her money on the table and is frantically rummaging through her purse. I rush over and sit down beside her.

“Mom, what are you doing?”

“Oh, dear. I seem to have lost some money. I know I had another five in here somewhere. I can’t find it. Help me find it, please.”

“It’s OK. Let’s count and make sure.” I’m aware of people staring at us and stifle the impulse to shout at them to mind their own damn business. I count the bills and try to reassure her. “Mom, I think it’s all here. You gave the man outside a five-dollar bill, remember?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, me. I feel so silly. I’ve just had so much on my mind lately.”
“I know. It’s OK. I forget stuff sometimes too.”

“Tell me again what that doctor what’s-his-name said this morning. I was so nervous I can’t remember all he said. And what about those silly questions he was asking me, like, ‘Who is the president?’ I knew the answer, but I just couldn’t think. George W. Bush. Everybody knows who the president is. Does that ever happen to you?”
“Sure. It used to happen to me in school all the time. I’d get so anxious about being called on, my brain would freeze. It was embarrassing. I would know the answer, but someone else, usually that know-it-all Johnny Williams who pretended he was Mr. Spock on Star Trek, would raise his hand before I could get up the nerve to raise mine.”

“I never knew that, honey. You were always so smart and made such good grades. I didn’t know anything made you so nervous. And you’re right about that Johnny. He was a know-it-all, just like his mother.”

I laugh, wondering if Johnny Williams ever became a brain surgeon. “Johnny probably became a plastic surgeon specializing in Spock ears.”

Mom fidgets with a button on her sweater as if she didn’t hear me. Her hands are shaking so she can’t get the button into its hole. She clasps her hands together to steady them. “I want you to tell me something,” she says, looking me straight in the eyes.

“What is it?”

“I want to know what the doctor said while I was in the bathroom. I know he was talking about me while I was out of the room. I noticed how the conversation stopped when I walked back in.”

“He just said that he’ll know more after he gets the results of the blood tests. You know how these doctors are. They’re so vague until all the test results are in.” I take her hands in mine and give a little squeeze. They feel cold and bony. Fragile and vulnerable like a baby bird. “Not to worry, Mom. Worrying will get us nowhere. It will give us warts! That’s what Grandma used to say, remember?”

“Yes, and I used to be terrified of breaking out in warts! But I have a feeling that doctor is not telling me everything. I don’t trust doctors anymore after what happened to your daddy.”

“I know what you mean. If you don’t feel comfortable with Dr. Barnes, we can talk about finding another doctor.”

“All right then. We’ll see. Just promise me you’ll tell me everything he tells you. I don’t want to be kept in the dark about anything.”

“OK, Mom.”

I hear the neurologist’s dreaded diagnosis delivered in a flat monotone, over and over again inside my head. “Dementia—probable cause: Alzheimer’s. Her brain is shrinking. The CT scan shows significant atrophy. The disease causes irreversible degeneration of the brain tissue. There’s really nothing we can do.”

Mom looks around the library, then back at me with a puzzled frown on her face. “I think maybe we should go somewhere else for lunch. The service in this place is really slow.”

Julie Abbott does freelance writing from her river cottage near Mars Hill, North Carolina. She is passionate about horses and enjoys gardening, photography, hiking, and solitary time in nature. “Lunch with Mom” is an excerpt from a collection of family stories set in upstate South Carolina where she grew up. For the past four years, she has been a student in The Great Smokies Writing Program.