Wishing
Pat Dixon
Moira Cavendish stared into her bathroom mirror, half aware that the fluorescent bulbs on either side were washing out her color.
A seventy-two-year-old woman stared back at her, appraising her face—its wrinkles, its thin mixture of curly white and black hairs, its tired eyes, its turned down mouth with half a dozen scattered whiskers below it on her chin.
“I wish my mother were dead,” Moira whispered. “I wish—I wish—I wish . . . .”
Clearing her throat with two little coughs, Moira sat on the side of the bathtub, her cell phone in her left hand, and carefully pressed the number of the New Jersey senior living facility that she called every morning around 9:30 a.m.
“Hello?” said a shaky, cracking voice. “Who is it?”
“Hello, Mother!” said Moira in a loud, cheery voice. “It’s me—Moira—your daughter!”
“I’m almost ready to start gettin’ myself up,” her mother replied. “What’s new—with you?”
“I’ve got my tickets, Mother! I’ll be down from Boston next Tuesday to spend your birthday with you—for a whole week! We’ll call it your birth-week!”
“My birthday is coming up? When is that?”
“Next Thursday, Mother! You’ll be ninety-five! How do you feel today?”
“How do I feel? How should I feel? I feel tired—and wor’ out. You would too!”
“But no worse than—yesterday? Some days I feel pretty tired myself, Mother. I guess that’s just—just life, hunh?”
“I—I’m havin’ my hair done at two o’clock today, so I better get started soon, gettin’ myself up.”
“Are you sure, Mother? You said yesterday that you were havin’ your hair done.”
There was a long pause, during which Moira counted to fifteen.
“Mother, do you want me to phone the hairdresser for you to check?”
“No—I’ve got it written down—some place.”
“I’ll be happy to phone. Why don’t I call you back in an hour or so to check if you’ve found where you wrote it down?”
After a seven-second pause, her mother replied, “That would be nice. We could talk again. What are you doing today?”
“Well—I’m going to the grocery market—an’ the shoe store—an’ the vet’s to get some more prescription cat food for Tessy, our ol’ cat—an’ probably go to the bank. An’ I’ll make some nice chicken soup for lunch—an’ get some salmon ready to have for supper. An’ I’ll scoop out the cat pan a couple more times—an’ do a load of laundry—maybe two loads—an’ a bit o’ work for the church.”
“Sounds like a pretty full day. How is—how is—how is—how is—your husband?”
“Floyd’s fine, Mother. He’s out in the yard now, out havin’ a bit of a smoke, I think, but he sends his love to you, too, Mother.”
“Well—I send my love back at him. I’ve always liked—I’ve always liked—your husband. Tell him I send my love.”
“I will, Mother! We both love you, too!”
“An’ love to your kitty—an’ to you, too—daughter.”
“I’ll talk to you later today, Mother. Bye for now! Love you!”
“Bye—love you.”
After rinsing her face, Moira stood next to the back door watching Floyd have his fifth or sixth cigarette.
When he had sucked it down to its filter, he flicked the filter into the high grass of the back lawn and turned to see her.
“Hey, Moira. How’s your mum? Any worse? Any better?”
“Just the same ol’ stuff, Floyd. I’ll be givin’ her hairdresser a bit of a call in a couple o’ minutes and then callin’ Mum again t’ straighten out what she’s doin’ today—or is not doin’.”
“Sheesh, Moira. Couldn’t you just let it ride f’ once? So your mum misses some dang appointment—or shows up without one—what’s the big whup? Am I workin’ for the phone company? D’ you know what these calls cost us? Every dang day?”
“D’ you know what it’d cost to move her up here? Or move her in with us? Or hire a ‘girl’ t’ spend eight hours a day with her?”
He lit another cigarette, deeply inhaled, and slowly blew the smoke upwards.
“You usin’ the car t’day?” he asked.
“I’ve got my errands. An’ I’ve got work at St. Michael’s Thrift Shop later today. Why?”
“I noticed we’re running low on Bud. Three or four more cases would be very greatly appreciated, if you’d be so good. Ask ’em t’ set the cases into the car for you. I don’t want you liftin’ ’em with your—your bad back an’ shoulder. I can lift ‘em into the house when you get home.”
“An’ what are your plans t’day?”
“Oh, I thought I’d just—I was thinkin’ I’d just slack off a bit t’day. Maybe watch the ball game on the TV this afternoon. Maybe have one or two o’ the neighbor fellas in, if they’re free. Ol’ Dennis was feelin’ poorly Sunday, an’ watchin’ a ball game just might be the ticket to improve his spirits.”
“That an’ havin’ three or four of our beers?”
Floyd studied the cigarette in his hand, took a final drag off it, and flicked it in the direction of over seven thousand other cellulose filters that gave their backyard the appearance, on moonlit nights, of a reflection of the starry sky.
“I don’t think there’s any call to be snippy an’ pickin’ on poor Dennis, now. We happen to be a little better off than Dennis is, an’ I think it behooves the likes of us t’ do what we can. If Dennis was better off, I’m certain he’d be keepin’ up more than his end o’ things.”
“An’ Bobby? An’ Ralph? An’ Simon? An’ some others who shall be nameless?”
“Now, now, Moira, we can’t be responsible for the global problems o’ the world, can we? But we can try to make things a bit better for them as is local, if it’s within our powers an’ means t’ do so. It’s just the Christian-like thing to do, say I.”
Moira, her arms hanging at her sides, clenched her right fist and then her left, wincing as her finger joints pained her.
“I’m going to make that little call down to Mum’s hairdresser now,” she said. “My mum—an’ all her problems—is my responsibility—for now at least.”
Floyd shrugged and lit another cigarette.
In the bathroom again, Moira pressed the phone number for her mother’s hairdresser.
“I wish,” she repeated softly, “—I wish my mother were—dead. An’ then I wish—an’ then—an’ then I’ll finally be free—finally—just—t’ go in peace—myself.”
