The Furious Spinner

Yesterday I was Slacker Queen, resting on the couch. I read a bit, watched a movie. Serena came over and did her homework on the floor while I did some library work on my computer. We talked a bit. We can talk to each other openly and honestly about Linda and not have to worry about walking around on tippytoes about the whole thing. Well, at least I feel that way. I hope she does, too. It is such a relief.

I called Linda about 1:30, and she asked me to come over. I grabbed some fruit and my hand mixer on the way out, in case I could talk her into eating a smoothie. She isn't eating a great deal. She was alone on the front porch when I drove up. Her caregiver had left. Between you and me, these caretakers are frustrating. I know they don't get paid much, but if you agree to the terms of a job, it seems like you should do the job. She doesn't like being alone right now, and there are only a few people she's comfortable having around. But she is okay when her caregiver is here—and he keeps leaving. He'll say he has some family issue, so he'll leave, and then he doesn't come back for hours. Linda is not as annoyed by it as I am.

Anyway, we sat on the porch together for a while. The dogs, Maggie and Jimmy, want to be very close to Linda, so they were right on top of us. These strange flies hovered in the air between us, their wings flapping as fast as hummingbird wings. We decided they were angels or faeries or reminders to laugh. I made her a small smoothie with a plum, strawberries, and a bit of raspberry sorbet in it. She was able to eat it all.

I called Evine, who hadn't seen Linda in a while, and asked if she wanted to come over. She did. So I left Linda alone for a bit, and I drove over to Evine's and picked her up. We went back to the farm. I let them visit, and I ran home to get a sandwich and pick up more fruit for Linda. Mario was there when I got home. I was so cranky and irritable. I was angry because no one seems to be visiting Linda. I was angry because her caregiver keeps disappearing. I was angry because my best friend is dying. I was just angry. And worn out.

I made a sandwich, ate half of it, then left for Linda's again. Once at the farm, I made her another smoothie. This one didn't have any strawberries, and it made her a bit sick to her stomach. I took Evine home and hurried back to the house. Linda and I continued sitting outside until her daughter and caregiver came. I tried to pin the caregiver down on when he'd be back. He couldn't say, but he'd be back before nine o'clock for certain. (It was 5:00 o'clock by then.)

Eventually Linda and I were alone again. We listened to the birds. Whenever I would hear a song, I'd ask her what kind of bird it was. She knew. I asked her how she learned so much about plants and flowers. She told me to get one of the books from a pile she'd set aside to give me. It was about shrubs and trees, with beautiful color plates illustrating the leaves and fruits. "I just studied books like these," she said.

We talked easily about her death, about the time during and after. I told her she didn't need to worry about me. If she died when I was there, I would be fine. She said she knew that. She said again that she wanted to do a map of her flower garden. She figures if the new tenants knew what the flowers were, they might take better care of them. She’s decided she wants the memorial at another place beside her house, that way Serena can be at the farm by herself and not have to worry about people coming there. (Serena doesn’t want any visitors at the farm.)

I showed her the cover for Broken Moon. She told me she really liked it. (She'd tell me if she didn't; she's an artist.) I told her about my plans to go to Santa Fe. She seemed excited by that. I said, "I don't know why I need to go back to the Southwest," I said. It was warm out as we sat in the almost closed-in porch. A slight breeze blew in from her garden. She looked and sounded as though she was in a kind of dream state. She said, "You used to live in the Southwest in a past life. You were the matriarch. That's why you're so interested in all that woman stuff." As she said this, I almost started to cry. It was so strange. For one thing, I don't even know if Linda believes in past lives, and I don't think I do. And normally I would have laughed about "all that woman stuff," but something about the way she said it was so profound and certain, even if it wasn't "fact."

I knew she didn't want to see any tears, so I batted away my tears and said, "I don't think I ever told you this, but after our year in Tucson, as we were leaving to come back to the Northwest, we stopped at a place called Betatakin. There's a cliff-dwelling there. It's inside this beautiful natural arch. We had to walk to it with a tour. When we got up inside it and I looked out—when I looked at what they would have seen every day of their lives—the river, the riparian trees, I remember I felt settled for a moment, grounded, and I remember thinking that I could live the rest of my life there, right there. I'd never felt that way before. As though I had known this place forever, as though I had come home. When we left, on the way back up, I had my first asthma attack." She nodded, as if she had known this all along.

I wanted to weep. All this grief welled up inside of me, but I couldn't cry. Linda doesn’t like crying.

At some point, I saw a shadow of something flying by her, but I couldn't see it because of the wall. I assumed it was a butterfly. Linda looked toward it. "A bat," she said. It landed on the door jam, just inches from her head. "Ooh, he's shivering. They need to be warm." I got closer to her so I could see the tiny black/brown mouse wearing a tiny Dracula cape. It was very cute. "He needs to be in the sun," she said. "He's shivering. But everyone would be afraid to move him except me." Since we were the only ones there, I knew she was calling me a fraidy cat.

I'm not afraid, I thought pushing away thoughts of rabies. "How would I move it?" I asked, really hoping she didn't want me to pick it up with my bare hands. "A glass," she said, "and a piece of cardboard." "Oh," I said, "like how we put spiders outside." I went and got a glass and piece of cardboard and carried it back outside. As I came near the bat, it flew away.

"There was a dead bat in the hallway this morning," she said.

"Maybe that was its mate," I said. "Or maybe it just wanted to say hello."

And so the evening went. I massaged her legs and feet, rubbed her back. She told me that she'd been thinking about how to give me a sign that she was okay after she died. She said it would have something to do with a bird, maybe taking something from my mouth. She wasn't sure.

Around 8:00 p.m., I helped her into the house. I really didn't want to go into the house for any length of time since I'd gotten so sick last time, but what could I do? I got her all tucked in her chair. Her feet were cold, so I rubbed them. We sat in the darkness together. Maggie wanted to be close by, but Jimmy stayed outside, sprawled on the driveway.

I made her some broth from a chicken thigh and leg. While it boiled, she told me what pictures she had painted that I could have. She mentioned the spinning painting. I told her it was my favorite, and she said I could take that one and one or two others if Serena didn't want them. Whenever we have these conversations, I want to scream, "I want YOU!" But I just listened.

Her caregiver did not show up when he was supposed to. I took the dogs for a short walk. Then I got out one of her Opal Whiteley books and read to her. After about twenty-five pages my voice was getting hoarse, so I stopped. We both enjoyed this very much.

The caregiver showed up about 10:30. I'd been there for over eight hours. I was furious, but I didn't say anything to him. For Linda's sake, I can't alienate him. I made him promise he would stay until Serena got back. Then I left. I was very glad I'd gotten to spend the time with Linda. It was a wonderful day. I kept telling myself that being angry with the caregiver was pointless, since it had all worked out. If he had shown up on time, I would have never gotten a chance to read Opal to Linda. She is gifting me all her Opal books, which mean a lot to her, so it was even more meaningful that we got the time together. I supposed I was mostly angry because she is sick and dying, and I want her to stay here.

As I turned off the state highway to drive up toward home, the car headlights ran across a black cat just sitting in the brush off the sidewalk. You'd think it was Halloween with all the bats and black cats that were showing up. (Okay, only two showed up, but that’s a lot in one day.) I said a little blessing to the beautiful black cat and drove on home where Mario awaited with water (I hadn't had any in eight hours) and food.

Life goes on. Thank goodness. 0 comments

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