I went to her, starting to cry. There was a chair by the wall, but I didn’t bother with it. I knelt on the floor and put my arms around her. She smelled warm and clean. I kissed her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. She raised her good hand and patted her fingers under one of my eyes.
Don’t cry, she whispered. No need of that.
I came as soon as I heard, I said. Betsy McCurdy called.
Told her . . . weekend, she said. Said the weekend would be fine. Yeah, and to hell with that, I said, and hugged her.
Car fixed? No, I said. I hitchhiked. Oh gorry, she said. Each word was clearly an effort for her, but they weren’t slurred, and I sensed no bewilderment or disorientation. She knew who she was, who I was, where we were, why we were here. The only sign of anything wrong was her weak left arm. I felt an enormous sense of relief. It had all been a cruel practical joke on Staub’s part . . . or perhaps there had been no Staub, perhaps it had all been a dream after all, corny as that might be. Now that I was here, kneeling by her bed with my arms around her, smelling a faint remnant of her Lanvin perfume, the dream idea seemed a lot more plausible.
Al? There’s blood on your collar. Her eyes rolled closed, then came slowly open again. I imagined her lids must feel as heavy to her as my sneakers had to me, out in the hall.
I bumped my head, ma, it’s nothing. Good. Have to . . . take care of yourself. The lids came down again; rose even more slowly.
Mr. Parker, I think we’d better let her sleep now, the nurse said from behind me. She’s had an extremely difficult day.
I know. I kissed her on the corner of the mouth again. I’m going, ma, but I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t . . . hitchhike . . . dangerous. I won’t. I’ll catch a ride in with Mrs. McCurdy. You get some sleep.
Sleep . . . all I do, she said. I was at work, unloading the dishwasher. I came over all headachey. Fell down. Woke up . . . here. She looked up at me. Was a stroke. Doctor says . . . not too bad.
You’re fine, I said. I got up, then took her hand. The skin was fine, as smooth as watered silk. An old person’s hand.
I dreamed we were at that amusement park in New Hampshire, she said.
I looked down at her, feeling my skin go cold all over. Did you? Ayuh. Waiting in line for the one that goes . . . way up high. Do you remember that one?
The Bullet, I said. I remember it, ma. You were afraid and I shouted. Shouted at you. No, ma, you Her hand squeezed down on mine and the corners of her mouth deepened into near dimples. It was a ghost of her old impatient expression.
Yes, she said. Shouted and swatted you. Back . . . of the neck, wasn’t it?
Probably, yeah, I said, giving up. That’s mostly where you gave it to me.
Shouldn’t have, she said. It was hot and I was tired, but still . . . shouldn’t have. Wanted to tell you I was sorry.
My eyes started leaking again. It’s all right, ma. That was a long time ago.
You never got your ride, she whispered. I did, though, I said. In the end I did. She smiled up at me. She looked small and weak, miles from the angry, sweaty, muscular woman who had yelled at me when we finally got to the head of the line, yelled and then whacked me across the nape of the neck. She must have seen something on someone’s face one of the other people waiting to ride the Bullet because I remember her saying What are you looking at, beautiful? as she lead me away by the hand, me snivelling under the hot summer sun, rubbing the back of my neck . . . only it didn’t really hurt, she hadn’t swatted me that hard; mostly what I remember was being grateful to get away from that high, twirling construction with the capsules at either end, that revolving scream machine.