After the visit of the helper, and the call around 12:30 in the afternoon, her phone is off the hook, a busy signal.  Her smartphone goes straight to the answering machine without a ring.  I call her through the night, but get the same busy signal.

I eat the food I've cooked, I turn to rest on the couch, fall into a nap, later awake as light comes up between the blinds.

My smartphone rings, around ten AM.  I'm half awake, I see who's calling, yes, I answer, how are you...  "Okay.  It's cold out."  We have a little chat.  "No, I didn't work last night, no, Mary was there to visit you yesterday..."  "Well, I've tortured you enough."  "I'll call you later," I say.

I fall back into sleep, wearing eye shades.  And then the phone, on my bed, rings again.  It's about one.

Mom is very anxious and upset.  "I've got a big problem," she says.  "The cats aren't eating."  Oh.  "They're going to starve!"  All of a sudden, she is shouting.  "I don't have anymore cans!  What am I going to feed them?

Wait, what...  Mom, you only have one cat, and he's fine eating kibble.  That's what they were feeding him, he was happy with that.

"I'm always wrong, I'm always wrong, I'm going to kill myself."

Jesus, I knew it.  I knew.  She had been placid, calm, content, appreciative and happy with the book I sent her, a day early, before Valentine's Day, Shelby Foote's ode to Gettysburg.

I ask her if she has any wine.  I don't know! she shouts.  Uh, maybe look in your fridge, along the door...  Maybe there's some in the rack.  "I"m not the village idiot,"  I hear her sobbing in the distance.  She comes back to the phone.  "I'm going to kill myself."   She hangs up.

I go into the kitchen to look for some tea...

She is calling again.  I pick up.  She is sobbing again.  More of "I'm going to kill myself."

If I tell her to look in a particular place in her kitchen, the cupboard near the stove, where there might be a few cans stashed away.  More of the same...   "I don't know where I even am anymore," she sobs.

Mom, do you have any wine?  Maybe in the fridge, in the door, or in the rack, by the phone...  I know where the rack is!  There's a bottle of Beaujolais...  Have it on the rocks with a splash of Pepsi, like the Spanish do...



Later on, she calls again.  It's evening by now.  I've arranged a grocery delivery.  She was calm.  Around five.  Now it's another problem, how am I going to get home, is Mary coming over tomorrow.  Mom, it's midnight, don't call Mary now...

 I rest for awhile.  On the couch.  I get up and go to bed, hopeful of solid rest, sleep.  The workweek starts soon.  Then she is calling again.  People are stealing my clothes, she says.  Can you come by tomorrow and get me.  Yeah, sure, I'll come by tomorrow, I say.

It takes a long time, but I finally get to bed, just as light is coming, deep blue in the sky beyond the next apartment building and the elm tree on the avenue when I'm able to fall asleep.  The phone ringer on silent.


I get up, finally, Sunday after noon, my Monday morning...   The green tea, second steeping, left out over night in the old clay teapot is not very good.  I prepare some fresh tea, take care of a few dishes.  When I have a cup of fresh tea, chilled with an ice cube, I call her.  How are you, Mom.  "I'm not doing so well."  She sounds better than yesterday, at least.  "Yeah, I'm not doing so well myself," I mumble.

She hears the discouragement in my tone.   She still can't find any wine, only a little Beaujolais, lollipop juice, she calls it.

"Well, I gotta go to work."  It's about three in the afternoon.  I take my shower, shave, drink my tea, feed myself chicken curry, re-heated in the toaster over, fold a shirt, gather my things, get a few minutes of sunshine before the bus comes.

The bar is a bit of a mess, to be expected after  Valentine's Day, but still the disorganization is a disappointment.  I put things together, but right as the door opens, people are coming upstairs.   In syncopated rhythm.  Do they want a drink here, and then go downstairs?  Happy Hour 'til seven.  I say.  Terrible service up here, I mumble.  I've just got a text from my aunt about mom calling, with the usual jumble of things.  The bar closing itself takes a while.  I'm beat.  I need to eat.  A friend, Ashley, military employee, had come by the bar, watching my show of running around like a chicken.  The clock goes by.  We go down the street for cheese steaks.


I wake up the next morning with anxiety, awake, but not feeling like getting up out of bed.  I rest more, fall into sleep with dreams...  Wake again, still anxious.  The price for running my salon...  the good conversation about church going of various sorts is a heavy weariness.  Make my tea.  Call mom, she's probably out with her helper.  It's President's Day.  Back to work again.  Reheated Merguez sausages, tea, some water with lemon, the day starts to come back into focus.  Doable.  Worries over the American Express bill recede, and it's back to getting ready, and then off to work itself.