A Life Too Long

"Mom just called," Ruth said. "Seems Father Dearest is having a crisis," she continued as she stepped onto her sister's porch. "She knows we don't care to see him, but said it could be the last chance."
Carol stepped back into the house and retrieved another glass of sweet tea. "Well, I wouldn’t want to miss that. What do you want to do?"
"I think for her sake we should go. Maybe we can at least be some help to her."
Carol's old black and white cat sat on the railing, tufts of hair clumping under the perpetually moving, sandpaper tongue. They both stared at it, each knowing what the other was thinking. More than fifty years now, and the sound of the gun still rang in their minds, real enough to make them tremble at any unexpected sound. That day the kitten had fallen into their laps, bloody and not yet dead, convulsing and trying to get up and run from the horror inflicted on its body. Their father smiled from the porch, shotgun at his side, staring at them. They knew they could not say anything. Their tears had to be silent.
"Well then, I guess we should pack a bag and stay the night," Carol said. "What exactly is the problem this time?"
"Pneumonia. A complication from the emphysema, of course. He refuses to be hospitalized; that might give Mom a break and he certainly can't have that."
The cat stood up on the railing, arching its back in a leisurely stretch the way cats do. This one was old, and the last of many Carol had had over the years since marrying and moving into her own home. You're the last, Carol thought. At my age I never know which one of us will live the longest.
"I hope he dies before we get there," Ruth said.
"Don't count on it."

Arriving at the old house did not make the sisters feel any better about coming. Their mother came out the door as soon as she heard the car.
“How old do you suppose that dress is?” Carol asked. “It’s hard to even tell what color the flowers are.”
“If you didn’t already know because you had seen it all your life, you wouldn’t be able to guess,” Ruth said. “Look how long and stringy her hair is. She still lets him have his way about her hair.”

“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling? You look like you need some rest,” Carol said as they stepped up onto the porch. “Why don’t you sit down and let us take care of dinner and Dad.”
“That would be a welcome relief,” she replied. “It is so good to see you both. Sit with me a few minutes.”
The three sat in silence, looking at the small yard with the well-kept garden and petunias lining the warped wooden steps up to the porch. Paint peeled from the old house, and the yard was noticeably empty of animals, except for the few chickens their mother had been allowed to keep. After all, Roy did love his eggs, and if he decided a chicken was not laying enough, he had no problem killing it for his wife to cook. A large black pot in the back yard was set up for her to scald the dead chickens, which she then plucked. Her hands showed a lifetime of that hard work, and her eye reflected a lifetime of sadness.
“So, Mom, what makes you think Father might not make it through this crisis? He has had so many,” Ruth said.
“I guess that’s why,” she answered. “So many, and each gets worse. It’s what you two are hoping for, isn’t it?”
“I sure won’t deny it,” said Carol. “You must feel the same. He’s spent your entire marriage blaming you that we weren’t boys. And making you wait on him as though he were a king. I know you didn’t feel you had choices while we were young, but why did you stay after we offered you a way out?”
“I don’t know how to answer that. Maybe it’s my generation, but I felt I married him and needed to stay. He never physically hurt me, you know. The worst thing was the way he treated you girls. I’m surprised you ended up with any self confidence at all. I do hate him for that. And I wanted you to have your lives without me in the way.”
“You would never have been in the way,” Ruth said. “We would have loved it, and you could have built a new life. You still can, when this is over.”
Their mother looked down, and they couldn’t tell if she had tears in her eyes. But then, as always, she looked up and smiled. “Let’s go cook,” she said. “And then you can go in and see him. He should sleep for a while longer.”
She walked to the garden, straightening the sign they had given her with her name on it—JEAN’S GARDEN. She picked two tomatoes, then a green bell pepper. “Quinoa with veges?” she asked. “We will have to blend a vanilla shake for your dad out of the nutrient drink. It has to have ice cream so he doesn’t know it’s nutritious.”

The kitchen was the same. The table brought bad memories of meals with their father wolfing his food, egg dripping down his chin, and snorting noises that didn’t belong inside a house. All three managed a few jokes about that. But there was comfort and familiarity, too, in the remembering of baking cookies and trying new recipes when the three of them were alone together. They agreed these good memories were too few, and out-weighed by the anticipation of their father arriving home from work via a bar.
The meal was perfect and peaceful, and conversation about future meals with just the three of them seemed agreeable to all. But the time came, and they rose to visit their father. They waited at the door while their mother went in with the vanilla milk shake and gently woke him.
“Roy, the girls are here to see you,” she said.
He opened his eyes and stared at them, but didn’t say anything. Jean adjusted the bed so that he was propped up, and held the shake to his mouth. He took a sip, and gasping with each breath said, “I…bet you…two like…this…scene…don’t you.”
“We are here to help Mom,” Ruth said. “And that means helping take care of you.”
He sneered, which led to a coughing spasm. Jean pulled him forward and began to lightly pound his chest. Carol reluctantly came forward to help, replacing the nasal cannula that supplied oxygen into his nostrils.
“Turn it up just one number,” Jean said. Ruth turned the dial to four, while Carol straightened the sheets and bed clothes. He began to relax, and Jean helped him to finish the shake. His eyes closed and he relaxed back into the pillow.
“If you two will step out,” Jean said, “I will help him with the urinal.”
“We’ll get the kitchen,” Carol said.
“This must be the cleanest old run-down kitchen in Texas,” Ruth said. “I bet there aren’t too many houses left with this wallpaper.” She ran her hand over the blue teapots on the dingy cream-colored background.
“What else does Mom have to do? She can’t go anywhere now, and even before she didn’t have much freedom.”
“Or money.”
Jean walked in and went to the sink to wash the glass.
“Hey, Mom. Why don’t you go get some new shoes, my treat,” said Ruth. “We’ll be fine here. Just tell us what else might need to be done.” They were all staring at Jean’s white sneakers with stains of several colors.
“I’d never be able to walk in new shoes, but I’ll take you up on the offer to get out so I can go to the store. I’ve had to ask neighbors to pick things up for me.”
“Okay. Maybe you can come up with something else to do, too. What do we need to know about how to take care of him?”
“He’s sleeping a lot right now,” Jean said. “What you just saw is about it, except for the urinal and bathing, and I’ll take care of that. Just check on him every thirty minutes or so.”
Jean picked up her purse, and looked back at them. “I love you girls,” she said. They watched her walk out, stumping her toe on a loose porch board. “I’m okay,” she said, laughing at herself.
The girls sat down on the sofa and turned on the old black and white. “Which of the two channels do you want to watch?” Carol asked.
Before Ruth could answer, they heard their father having a coughing spasm. They looked at each other without moving. It got worse, so Ruth made a move to get up. Carol grabbed her arm. “Wait,” she said. “Maybe he’ll choke to death.”
Ruth sat.
“Jean,” they heard him call in a weak voice. Then a cough.
“Okay,” Carol said. “Let me go.”
As she entered the room, his face changed to a sneer. “Jean…not…you,” he said with effort.
“I’m what you have. Mom has gone to the store. What do you need?”
“Get…out.”
“Why are you so mean, old man? Why do you hate your children so much?”
“Girls!” he said loud enough to make him cough. “No…boys”
Ruth was coming in the door. “You mean creep. I am so sick of you controlling Mom’s life. It’s not enough that you messed ours up. Why don’t you just die.” She yanked one of the pillows from beneath his head. “Oh, is it harder to breathe when lying flat?” she said as he gasped for air.
Carol stared at her as the coughing worsened, turning to gasps. Ruth looked back at her and their eyes locked. Without a word Carol reached down and slowly removed the other pillow from beneath her father’s head. The fear in his eyes reminded her of the look she had seen in her mother’s so many times.
“Too long,” she said to him. “Way too long.” And she placed the pillow over his face. He began to struggle with a strength she did not think possible. She pressed down harder on the pillow. Ruth placed the other pillow across his chest and held him down with it. The struggling finally stopped. They held the pillows down for a few seconds longer, then Carol lifted it off his face, replaced the nasal cannula, and placed the pillow under his head.
Without a word, and as if planned, they pulled him up onto both pillows, closed his eyes, and straightened the bed.

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