Chapter Two

Tea Cups

     The steady shrieking of the tea kettle whistle seemed to snap Patricia Kraft from a stupor at the kitchen table, technically a breakfast nook, she supposed. Once the sound penetrated her thoughts she automatically got up and removed it from the back stove burner and onto an unlit front burner. The sound of her mom's voice talking back to the television set, some day time talk show on Court TV or similar no doubt, seemed finally enough to shake the cobwebs out of her head and bring her back into the here and the now.

     “Why do you watch this stuff, Ma, when it just upsets you?”

     “ Doesn't upset me. This... jerk, though, I can't believe he's defending her.”

     Patty looked over the counter at her mom, Mary December Hollins, legs up in the recliner, fingers pressed into the arms of the chair, as if her fingernails could inflict damage into the upholstery. Mary was in her nightgown and wrapped in a blanket. On the TV was apparently some lawyer in a court room, with voice commentary being provided by a newscaster from a studio somewhere. Patty recognized the trial quickly.

     “They're going to find her innocent, I bet.”

     “How can she be innocent? She killed her daughter.”

     “Still, proving it in a court of law is different. You don't remember O.J.?”

     “Oh don't bring that guy up to me. That was another stupid court.”

     “Yeah, well, that's what I mean. Maybe this girl is innocent too.” Patty by now had two cups with tea steeping in them on the counter.

     “She's not innocent. Why do you have to fight me about this?”

     “I'm not fighting you. I'm just saying you guys have convicted her on TV again. You're already sentencing her and this guy is talking about what... Vampire flies? In the trunk?”

     “You're not watching it everyday. That's all.” The phone rang now and it was her aunt, Margaret, calling no doubt to talk about the latest info on the bugs found in the trunk with the duct tape and who knew what else was going on in the case. Patricia fished out the tea bags and added sugar to both, a splash of milk in her mom's cup and brought them into the living room. With the sound of her mom's conversation in the background she opened her laptop and checked her various email accounts and social media sites. By now the trial was over for the day and the conversation between sisters shifted from the woman on the TV screen to the cancer inside of Mary. Patricia mentally recorded the one-side of the conversation she could hear.

     “I'm so tired, Margaret.”

     “Yeah but why? I can't even walk.”

     “But my legs move. I'm moving them now.” Patty looked up to see her mom lifting her legs up and down. “Why can't I walk on them?”

     “It's alright. How's Thomas doing?”

     “And Debbie?” The pause was longer now. Debbie was another aunt, another family member dealing with the C word. Patty wondered herself how Debbie was doing.

     “Well, I can't breathe now. I'm so tired.”

     “I will.”

     “I will.

     “You too.”

     “Okay. Bye.”

     “Bye bye.”

     Patty stifled a giggle. Ma always had trouble hanging up the phone for some reason. She would keep saying bye until you hung up on her, and she looked over now at her mom, the phone drooping from her chin now that her arm had dropped. Her mom's eyes were closed already, mouth hung open. The tea sat untouched on the side table. Patty got the phone from her mom and set it down beside the cup. She kissed her mom's forehead and went outside on the front porch to smoke and to cry quietly.

     All in all it was a typical day for Patricia and her mother. The past two or three months seemed to be a cycle of rest and shortness of breath followed by bouts of laughter and deep conversation. Replaying the moments of the summer led Patty to realize how strong, how accepting her mom really was. And with summer winding down Patty and the entire family seemed a bit on edge, wondering when things would turn for the worse; loving each other and holding spirits high in the face of all that was going on, of course, but still curious when it would finally be over. Mary Hollins held the family together like she always had; with a fierce Irish determination and a dry wit that outsiders would deem somewhat inappropriate.

     Patricia Hollins-Kraft wasn't one to mull over her life or to spend too much time in contemplation of any type. Ruminating on bad decisions was really a weakness of spirit in her eyes; it meant the dissatisfaction of one's current life and a searching of reasons to explain it. And reliving your golden years was no better, to her way of thinking at least. To sit there and think that the best years had gone by, that all was downhill now, your existence waning, was even more of a defect to Patty Kraft. Patty remained in the moment, as best as was possible, and in this moment, this summer of moments, contained her and her mom in an almost endless cycle of rare conversation and sleep. So an hour later it was as if there was no lapse in their window of time, between one TV court reality show and the next hours newscast. And to be fair about it, with her mom's television on all the time to this one particular station, things could tend to run into one continuous loop on the screen. But aside from that, it was as if Patricia herself was going through some form of sympathy cancer, as evil as that sounded. She would rest as her mom did, and sort of come to again without a real concept of lost time between them, and very similar to when she came to earlier in the day and turned off the screaming kettle, Patricia awoke again from a haze in the middle of fixing a meal for her mother.

     The family matriarch was herself doing her best to rise, not from a slumber, but from the electric recliner that took up most of her time. Her feet were planted on the ground but the walker was just out of reach to her left. As she contemplated making a reach for it Patricia sensed her mom's needs and came from the kitchen to help.

     “I need to pee.”

     “Yeah well the exercise will probably do you good.” Patty had the walker in front of her now, between the chair and herself. Her mother lifted her left arm, the one who's fingers were lifeless now due to some mini stroke, and placed it, palm up, onto the walker handle. The right arm came up on the other side and grabbed hold as was proper.

     “You gotta lock the wheels first, ma.” Patricia refused to help, not out of anger or spite, but knowing that her mother needed a sense of independence. “There ya go” patty stated as her mother locked first the right side then the left. Even with a gimp hand her mother somehow managed to push down on the brake.

The effort of bringing herself to a standing position winded her. Patricia saw it in her eyes and knew there must be at least some unspoken pain involved. But always, after a couple of steps forward, the determination took hold and it was as if there was nothing wrong aside from the shortness of breath.

     “Why can't I walk?”

     “You are walking, mum.”

     “I'm not walking. I'm using this walker. Why can't I walk, walk?”

     “You're just tired right now, ma.” They were making their way toward the bedroom and the bathroom beyond, Mother walking ahead and daughter behind her just in case she lost her balance.

     “I can't lift my legs. I can do it sitting down though. How come?”

     “You're doing great. Look, you're walking. You're just using this for balance, see?”

     “I am?”

     “Yeah you are.”

     “Well, let me walk to the bathroom. I gotta pee. Then we can go outside?”

     “Sure ma.” Regardless of what knowledge Patricia had of the situation; knowing full well how much energy would be burned up just going to the bathroom and back, and understanding how quickly her mom, and probably herself, would again be asleep, she would not hint at that to her mother.

     “We gotta feed you, too ma.”

     And so time continued to pass, it seemed, for Patricia and her mother, and even though there were other people involved, and her own life lived between these moments, everything felt on auto pilot, and everything just wavered in and out of these glimpses of herself and her mother. As if nothing else mattered but these moments, life occurring in the fast lane around them while they took their Sunday drive around the country side. And no matter how cherishing these moments and how grateful she remained to have them, always in the back of her mind was the thought of when this would finally be over.