Mother is a crazy foreshadower

In those days I took my midday meal with Mother.  She had degraded before our eyes.  In the time it took to build the Barn, and all of its hidden subfloors, Mother had forgotten how to dress and feed herself.  We converted the parlour of the house into her bedchamber and had the handymen build a door into it off the main hallway, where otherwise someone could peer into her room from there as they passed.  She had privacy in a parlour that was made to look just like her bedchamber upstairs.  Her bed was placed where the pile of round, throwing stones once was.

The handymen also installed a main floor water closet and tub where Mother could bathe without needing to climb stairs.  The foreman proffered the idea when I was directing him to replicate her bedchamber in the parlour.  It was a stroke of genius, because within a month there was no possible way Mother could climb stairs.  A month following that, Francie and I made our bedchamber where Mother’s once was.

That was a fact that the older nurse didn’t favour.  She took up the matter with Doctor Greene who took the matter up with me.  Apparently it was inappropriate for Francie to take up house with me while providing care to Mother.  I remember the good Doctor had trouble broaching the subject with me.  I listened to him bumble and moan for a moment, thinking he had more bad news about mother.  I was relieved when he said, “Nurse Farrington has an issue with your relationship with Francine.  She believes I should too.”

As Dembe noted, I had become more and more like my father, for good and bad.  “Replace her,” I said.

“But, I…”

“Do you share her misgivings?” I asked.

“I am too well compensated to have misgivings,” he said.

“Then replace her, and make sure I don’t see her again.”

And he did.  I never saw cranky nurse Farrington again.  On the day Dembe accepted the name Harder Security, a new nurse was feeding mother her midday meal.  She was in her early twenties, beautiful, and African.  She smiled shyly at me as I sat with her as Mother ate.  She listened intently to me as I spoke to my Mother about the weather, the meal, and the progress we were making with the winery.  Each time I looked at the beautiful Ghanaian nurse, she smiled.  It was fairly obvious that the good Doctor Greene intended to prostitute as many pretty nurses as it took to keep his fairly rich compensation package.  It never occurred to me to set him straight.

“The vintner says it looks like the majority of the vines can be saved,” I said.  She looked at me and chewed her food that the pretty Ghanaian was spooning into her.  It looked to be runny porridge or rice pudding.  Whatever it was, chewing appeared to be redundant.  “The Barn is finished,” I said.  She looked at the nurse who feed her another glop of mush.  “It seems Dembe has invited the first guest to review our operation,” I said.  She said nothing, chewed, and looked vacant – most likely anything she was seeing was in her mind’s eye.  “Hopefully he will become a customer.  Dembe is hopeful, but I’m not sure.  I haven’t spoken with the man yet.”  She smiled for no reason.  No reason related to what I was saying at least.

“Have you spoken to Jeremy?” she asked.  I sat there confused, and said nothing.  I had discovered the hard way that she preferred me interloping in her delusions than interrupting them with logic or current events. 

“I haven’t for a while,” I said by way of compromise.

“He is planning to go away to university.  You should think about going with him.  This is no place for a young man.  Too many awful things are going to start happening.”

“That is good advice Mother,” I said.  The young nurse smiled at me.  I smiled back, politely rather than flirtatiously.  The last thing I wanted was to anger Francie by creating the potential for any kind of triangle – perceived or real.

“America is where to go, before war comes.”

“Indeed.”

“Listen to me!”  Her eyes were bulging and gruel and spittle was running out of the corner of her mouth.  “I don’t want you to die.  I need to tell you not to die.”  She started to yell and work herself into a lather, “Don’t die.  Don’t die.  Timothy, don’t die on me and leave me here.”  The nurse stood up and did what she could to console her.  It made matters worse.  I noticed how short the nurse’s uniform was and how long her legs were.  She was bending to console Mother and wipe her face and was just nearly reaching the end of the uniform’s ability to preserve her modesty.  It diverted my attention from my yelping, thrashing mother, who wasn’t my dignified, stoic mother anymore.

“I’m not going to die,” I said calmly.

“You’re already dead,” she whispered.  It put a chill into my soul.