Madelaine

My mother loves us in a way that defies this world.

--

I glimpsed the woman’s face from the far side of the curtain, wisps of gray hair and haunted eyes and hollow cheeks. No privacy in hospitals, as my mother often says. No grace.

“What happened to me?”

Poor thing, I remember thinking as they loaded the woman onto the bed. Waking up in this place. In a body that won’t do what you want. Loaded really was the word, like pallets from my father’s warehouse. She had no say in it.

“You’re alright.”

“I’m being discharged,” she decided firmly as the nurses helped each other settling her in. Adjusting her bed just so. Pulling down the coverlets.

“Would you like me to look into that for you?” Their voices were bland. Polite. This wasn’t the first time they’ve had that conversation.

“I’m not supposed to stay here.”

“She has problems,” my friend whispered as the nurses walked away. “Something about an avocado.”

She has cancer, I thought. The thin hair. The gauntness. Did they treat people for cancer on regular floors of regular hospitals? Did they let them share space with regular roommates?

“Annie, do you want me to check on that wheelchair for you? They sometimes forget.”

“Oh, you’re leaving too, are you?” the old woman called beyond the curtain that divided us. To Issac and I, awaiting only Annie’s discharge papers and a wheelchair for the hall. To the nurse who was already gone. “Fine then.”

Isaac shrugged at me. “You should have heard her earlier.”

“Should I talk to her?”

He shrugged again. “Do what you want.”

“Madelaine?” Her voice was soft and then insistent through the curtain. “Madelaine.”

Annie grabbed up the rest of her bags. Her glasses. Her earbuds. “It must have been a really bad avocado.”

And I drew the curtain back. They would take forever with that wheelchair, anyway. They always take forever with the discharge wheelchair. “Who is Madelaine?”

“My daughter.” She looked right at me. Lucid, green eyes that understood everything. “You sound like my daughter. My daughter will take me home.”

“We have your wheelchair, Miss. For Annie.” The nurse’s silhouette, colored like the curtain. I took the wheelchair from her.

And even as we left, the woman’s eyes were locked on me.

--

Isaac watches me closely, from the comfort of Annie’s apartment. “Did visiting the hospital remind you of your mom?”

My daughter will take me home.

“Not as much as I thought it would.”