Moonglow by Michael Griffo Page A

world or visit us—and if those were her two choices, there’s no doubt in my mind that she would visit us every day. Worst case, she would definitely be out of pain, and The Retreat would have an available room. But with her in this state of suspended unanimation, the only choice is for us to visit her, sit by her side, and wonder if she can hear a single word that we say or if she can even feel our presence. It isn’t that I resent coming here, that I resent having to squeeze visiting my mother into my social calendar. Hardly. I resent that her choices have been removed, that someone is running her life for her and it isn’t fair.
    Her hand is as soft as it was the day before she was rushed to the hospital, the regular one and not this halfway house between life and death. A thought brings tears to my eyes: Maybe it’s part of Nadine’s job to rub lotion on her hands. Could she truly be so kind and compassionate? She does want to be a nurse, and such a profession requires empathy. Tracing the lines on the palm of my mother’s hand, I wonder if I would have the strength to touch the hand of another child’s mother, rub cream on her skin so it would remain smooth and wouldn’t start to crack. I hope I have that much kindness inside of me, but lately I’m not so sure.
    â€œHey, Mom, how are you?”
    That’s always my opening question. It’s stupid and lame, but it helps me find my voice to begin a conversation, which come to think of it is really a smart thing to do, since the only dialogue we’re going to have is one-sided. I call it the comalogue. Bad at math, pretty good at making up new words. So if I can’t find my voice, the comalogue will never get started, and we’ll be trapped in silence. Tonight, the thought of that possibility is unbearable.
    â€œLooks like they’re treating you okay,” I say, examining the insides of her fingernails. “You look clean.”
    When I realize what I’ve said, I shake my head. From everything my father’s told me and from everything I’ve heard people say who knew her, telling my mother she looked clean would have been an insult. Suzanne Robineau didn’t strive to look clean; she aimed to look perfect. And based on our photo albums, she achieved her objective every time.
    â€œAnd beautiful,” I add quickly. “Your hair looks terrific; I think somebody cut it.” Gently, I run my fingers through her hair. It’s soft and shiny and looks like it’s just been washed. A few strands fall out when I pull my hand away, and I watch them fall to the floor. The blond hairs lie on the dark mahogany floor, looking like pieces of spun gold. “A bit shorter than you used to wear it,” I say, “but you’re older, so shorter hair comes with the territory.”
    That comment is not at all insulting. My mother had no problem with aging; my dad told me it was a French thing. In France, older woman don’t sprint to the nearest plastic surgeon like many American women do when they turn the big 4-0 or at the sight of the first wrinkle. Instead, they embrace their age and consider every facial line well-earned and the narrator of a fascinating story. I used to agree with that way of thinking, but that was before I found hairs growing on my face where hairs are not supposed to be. I may be French, but I’m clearly not that French.
    â€œIt, um, seems like I’m having a minor hair problem,” I say. I glance at the door to make sure no one is peeking through the vertical windowpane and then pull my hair up to show my mother my latest imperfection. And my mother opens her eyes.
    â€œMom!”
    My half-dead mother is staring right at me, and I can feel all the blood inside my body start to warm up and my breath escape me. It’s an amazing feeling, and now I know that there was a reason why I came here tonight; there was a reason why I had to see my mother.