The Friend

By Sharon Farnsworth

And the race begins.

Another Friday afternoon, and city traffic was horrific. I picked up my son from daycare and joined the throng of manic drivers, my thoughts racing faster than the traffic was moving.  Forty plus hours as a Probation Officer, and I was on overload. The windshield wipers whacking the glass in a rhythmic beat, I worried they might fly off their hinges into the pelting sheets of rain.

My two-year-old was singing along with the radio, “Don’t Worry Be Happy.” For the fourth time this week I was on my way to see my 78-year-old mother, an hour away.   Suffering from dementia, she was on the verge of no longer being able to live alone. 

Waiting for traffic to move, my mind, still racing from work, quickly reviewed what I had to do tonight when I got home; calls to make, dinner to prepare, bills to pay, and feeling anxious over never having enough money to cover everything.  I could throw some wash in while I called my sister-in-law to see how she was feeling, and decide what food to bring to my son’s friend’s birthday party on Saturday.

Just over an hour later, mentally and physically battle worn, I pulled in Mum’s driveway, took off my heels, donned my sneakers, got my son out of his car seat and hurried up the walk.  

She met us at the door.

“Hi dear, I didn’t know you were coming.”  she said, still in the same housedress as Wednesday; her gray, tangled hair uncombed.

“I called you this afternoon Mum, but that’s okay, let’s make you something to eat while we talk.”  

I kissed her on the cheek, and rushed through the door, toddler in my arms, and headed to the linen closet to get a towel; we were both soaked. I towel-dried Evan’s head and my own, since my umbrella failed miserably at keeping us dry.

“Sit down dear, you look tired” she said and patted Evan on the head.

“And who is this little boy you’ve brought today? He looks familiar.  My goodness, how cute, can he sit on my lap?”

“This is Evan, Mum, my son.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m sorry, I forgot.”  “He’s so cute” she repeated as she sat at the kitchen table waiting for me to put him in her lap, beaming as he looked at her.  

She cupped his small face with an arthritic hand of age spots and blue veins, and kissed the top of his young head. I cringed at the sight of her dirty fingernails.  Months ago she stopped cooperating with me and every bath time became a fight. Suddenly animated, she leaned forward.

“I have something to tell you.  I had company today, a new friend came to visit.  We’re the same age, and she’s very nice.  We talked about my jewelry collection and how much she loved it.  She has lots of jewelry too.”

My mother adored her earrings, bracelets, pins, brooches, pearls and necklaces stuffed in boxes on top of her bureau, keeping special pieces in the top two drawers. She bought most of it at F.W. Woolworths’s and JC Penney during her trips downtown over 40 years. A collector’s dream that reflected the fashion of each decade.  Sadly, she didn’t wear jewelry anymore.

“That’s so nice Mum, what’s her name, where does she live?”

“Uh, I forgot her name, but she said she would come again tomorrow to visit.  We know a lot of the same people, and we had such a nice conversation.”

“Okay, but make sure you know who it is before you open the door, we don’t want to let any bad people in” I cautioned.

I worried for her safety and was concerned she had let in a stranger.   Trying to cover all bases last year, my brother and I had the gas stove shut off, put lights on timers, hung the house key around her neck on a bright red ribbon, and alerted neighbors and the police to keep an eye on her.  We paid someone to prepare lunches daily, making sure she ate, wash the dishes and tidy up. It wasn’t enough, we were living on borrowed time. 

Lists and reminders didn’t work anymore, we had gone beyond that.

She made me promise her years ago that I would never place her in a nursing home, when I had no idea how bad it would get for both of us.  Visits had become more difficult for me, memories flooded back of our life together. I became angry and frustrated with this illness.  I was usually short on time, sometimes short on patience, but never short on overwhelming sadness

I said I would be out the next day to take her to lunch and if her friend was there, perhaps she could come along. That made her smile.

The next day I arrived and Mum told me I just missed her friend, and over the next several weeks, the woman always seemed to leave just before I arrived.  

On a Tuesday evening, many weeks later, she greeted me at the door with tears in her eyes.

“What Mum, why are you crying, has something happened”?

“Yes, it’s my friend.”

“Which friend? I asked.

“The one that likes my jewelry, I don’t know her name!”

“Okay, has something happened to her?”

“Yes, we had a big argument over the jewelry, and she told me she really hated it all this time because it was cheap and should be thrown in the trash!”

“We argued until we were both shouting and crying” she said, slumping in the kitchen chair.

“Mum, it’s just an argument over something silly, you two will be speaking again in no time.  I’m sure she’ll be back; you enjoyed each other’s company so much.”

“She’s still here!”  She won’t leave, she’s still in my bedroom.”

I hurried to the bedroom to find it empty.

“She’s not here, she must have gone.” I said confused.

“No, No!  She’s right there, how can you not see her?  She’s right in front of you!”

I quickly scanned the room.  

Searching, I looked into the mirror on top of the bureau, and as my mother stood behind me, looking at her reflection, it all made sense.

Sharon Farnsworth is a retired widow and mother to two chihuahuas.  Writing is her passion and at age 77 she has a lot to say!  Farnsworth lives outside of Boston, Ma.