Friday Afternoon

En route to cousin Ann’s house, relegated to the back seat, I keep clicking clicking, trying to catch perfectly son and mother. But what’s more telling is the visit.

We’re met by Ann at her front door. I’m right behind Mom, ready to grab at her if she topples. “Now you’re a spring chicken!” I announce to Ann, because it’s Mom, not Ann, who’s 95. Spring chicken relatively speaking, I mean, because being around somebody ancient makes you suddenly young. I’m practically a chick today. But right away Ann, her round eyes a-sparkle, lets out that she’s 91. Oh my. Paulson and I didn’t realize.

As we navigate past her, what else flies out of her mouth is a Bible verse, although for all I know it’s Ben Franklin. “They that compare themselves among themselves are not wise,” she chortles. Paulson loves it. I love it. We laugh and laugh. She’s always been a wit. Clearly she still has it in her.

Circumlocution is such a bear at this age. An outing like this, away from the nursing home, it’s constantly on everybody’s minds: the minders’—ours—because, any spill, we’ll be culpable—and the minded’s, because scary. Before long, Mom has latched onto the topic. “I’ve had five different falls,” she says almost pridefully, “and I have a story to tell with each one.”

Paulson escapes the house, goes for a saunter around Ann’s daughter’s gardens. Eventually, back inside, he’s across the room from us, on the floor, snoring. I don’t do things like that—I’m always trying to pay attention, seize the moment. But that’s wearing and I realize, suddenly, that I’m exhausted. Mom, meanwhile, her attention zoning in and out—her muddlement, since our previous trip to PA, has worsened—is growing antsy.

“What time is it?” she asks. She’s worried about supper. We’re taking her to Gus’s Diner in Mt. Joy, though maybe she’s forgotten. She can’t be hungry, she barely eats, but her schedule is the thing her mind snags on. It’s the part she can grasp—well, grasp at. “Oh, you’ll get fed,” I say, airy about it. I’m shouting, too—have I mentioned the deafness?

Ann brightens. “One of my favorite verses—” she begins. Her face goes motionless, doll eyes wide. “Now I can’t think of it!” But a piece of it surfaces, whew. “So shalt thou dwell in the land,” she quotes, merry again, “and verily thou shalt be fed.”

Soon enough, Paulson’s ready to get us off. Ann moves to the porch with us but I don’t want her tripping. She only laughs at that, and while Paulson maneuvers Mom back into the car, Ann launches into a story about how she crumpled to the floor one day, who knows why, and the chair she tried to clutch at, to brace herself and get back up, wouldn’t stay put. So she yelled for help. She yelled and yelled. The daughter’s family didn’t come. Ann had to lie there, waiting.

The family showed up finally, she says. I’m still hovering, solicitous, concerned about her getting back indoors safely. She says, “They said, ‘We heard you. We thought it was the cat.’” Mom is probably missing this, unable to catch the story from the car. Paulson, too—some of it. But I’m gasping with laughter. Eyes twinkling, Ann tacks on, “But a cat doesn’t say help.”

I’m nearly rolling on the ground.