5
Marie could tell from the smell of the meatloaf in the oven that it was almost done. It wouldn’t be long now, and she could finally have her dinner. She hummed along with the song on the radio, as she prepared instant mashed potatoes. They were quicker than peeling, boiling, and preparing the side dish, and she could measure out just enough for one person, then save the rest for the next time.
“Marie! I’m wet!” her mother croaked from the bedroom. Marie pulled her lips in between her teeth in frustration. Her eyes stared blankly out the window over the sink as she stirred in milk and butter. A little salt and the dish was done.
She put the small ceramic bowl down on top of the stove so the heat from the oven would keep the potatoes warm, grabbed a pair of gloves, and headed back to her mother’s room. She reconsidered the doctor’s suggestion that they put a catheter into her mother, to stop the constant wetting. Marie was going to allow it until Jane told her how often her other patients developed urinary tract infections, which could cause delusions and other problems in bedbound, elderly patients.
She didn’t need more problems to deal with and had refused the minor procedure. At times like now, when her dinner was barely done, she thought she’d made the wrong decision. Her mother had suddenly developed the problem, and at first, Marie had excused it as a new development in her mother’s disease. Normally, she’d ask for the bedpan and use it, but then she started to have accidents. Marie had noticed that it seemed to happen most often when she was in the middle of doing something for herself. Cooking, bathing, sleeping, were all interrupted.
Marie had timed her mother’s accidents once. She could go for hours without a single accident, but the minute Marie tried to do something for herself, her mother’s bladder would let go. Or her bowels. That was even worse. Her little experiment, spread over a week, showed that the only time Ruby didn’t call out for a bedpan was when Marie was busy. The rest of the time, she would be able to control her body’s normal functions and would ask for the bedpan.
Marie had even tried doing these tasks at different times, just to see if it was a certain time of day, and she’d just correlated the two activities to each other. What she found was, it didn’t matter if she took a shower at 5 pm or 9 pm, her mother had an accident. If she made her own breakfast at 9 am, or 11 am, her mother had an accident. If she went to sleep at 10 pm or 11 pm, her mother had an accident. Her experiment showed that it didn’t matter what time Marie did something to take care of herself, her mother would have an accident. If Marie sat in the room the entire day without eating, bathing, or trying to sleep, her mother would ask for a bedpan.
These episodes of wetting herself, then, weren’t accidents at all, but another effort to punish Marie. Marie knew all of this, knew that she had every right to hate her mother, but she couldn’t. Not completely. She was angry with her mother and wanted things to be different, but she didn’t hate her mother. Not exactly.
She gnawed at the inside of her cheek as she replaced the absorbent pads, wiped her mother down with extra-large wipes designed for adults, and replaced her nightgown. She could smell the acrid odor of her burning meatloaf over the scent of her mother’s body and tried not to be upset. Another burned dinner, but now her mother was dry at least. She turned her to her right side, checked her feet, and walked slowly to the kitchen. There was no need to run, after all, it wasn’t going to be less burned if she did.
A strange calm had come over Marie when she walked into her mother’s room. Jane’s words from earlier in the day came back to her. It won’t last forever. She’d looked down at the defiant gleam in her mother’s eyes, at the way she’d smirked up at her daughter, and thought about the words. Soon enough, this would all be over. It didn’t make her feel less angry, less abused, but it made her… calm.
She sat down to her burned dinner, slathered the meatloaf with ketchup, and slowly ate. She didn’t want to wish her mother dead, and she didn’t, but at the same time, she knew she couldn’t go on much longer like this. She really did care about her mother, and always had, but she couldn’t take much more.
Her life became even more meaningless when her mother’s illness progressed rapidly. To the government, she was a caretaker and employee. To her mother’s doctor, she was a caregiver, nothing more. To her mother, she was a slave. Jane had been the only person, or entity, that saw Marie as a person.
Marie was never asked how she was doing, and she rarely went to the doctor. Her mother was the sole focus of most of the people she interacted with. Nobody ever asked how the caretaker was, if the employee needed a break, a vacation that she never got to take. Nobody cared, except Jane.
Jane understood, but then she would, Marie thought. She did the same thing, only she did it for many patients, not just the one that Marie took care of. Jane saw how the daily practice of caring for patients wore down caregivers, though, and had sensed that Marie was nearing the end of her tether. Just that acknowledgment, that assurance that someone cared, was enough to make Marie emotional, even hours later. Her mouth flooded even as her eyes welled up with tears, all over again.
Someone had noticed her, had noticed the turmoil she tried to hide so much. Jane knew Ruby was a tyrant to her daughter. There was nothing Jane could do about it, but she could, and had, given Marie hope.
It wouldn’t last forever.
Marie put her fork down and stared at the meatloaf left on her plate without actually seeing it. Jane wasn’t the only person that had noticed Marie lately. That man with the car had too.
“Marie!” her mother shouted angrily. “What’s taking you so long? My program will be on soon and you left the remote too far away for me to get it. Get in here, girl! What the hell is wrong with you?”
Marie sighed, stood up, and decided she wasn’t that hungry anyway. Her mother had ruined her appetite.
“I don’t know what you’re doing in there, instead of being in here taking care of me,” her mother whined when she came into the room. “Always off doing something for yourself, never taking care of me. You want me dead, don’t you? So you can run off with men and act like a whore.”
“No, Mom, I don’t,” Marie whispered with resignation. “I was trying to eat my dinner.”
“I’d like to eat dinner, but I have this fucking illness, don’t I? I can barely swallow anything more than mush now, and I’m sick of it.” Ruby pointed her crooked finger at Marie and gave her daughter an evil glare. “Lazy bitch, always eating. You’ll end up fat, then no man will want you. As if one would want you now, anyway. Look at you, you haven’t even put on makeup for crying out loud!”
The words stung, as they always did, but Marie tried to ignore it. That didn’t work and the sting only spread through her chest which made her angry. “I don’t really have time to do my hair or put on makeup, now do I, Mom?”
She couldn’t help the words that slipped out. Her mother glared up at her, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Are you saying that’s my fault? You could get up earlier, you know, make an effort.”
Anger seethed inside of her as her mother’s words echoed in her head. “Earlier? I’m up at 5 am on the days when you actually allow me to sleep for more than an hour at a time. If I get up any earlier, I wouldn’t sleep at all!”