Mama Knows

As I sit beside Mama’s bed, my eyes fixate on the drool that begins to gather at the creases in both corners of her lips. Once a robust woman, the right side of her figure is now wilting. I reach into her purse for her lilac handkerchief embroidered in kelly green thread with the names “Hugh,” “Gwendolyn,” and “Dawn” and gently wipe the saliva from her mouth. I arrived at Carolinas Medical Center a couple of days ago, but it has been three years since the shea butter softness of her skin touched mine. Seeing that handkerchief reminds me of my childhood when the three of us – Baba, Ma, and I – no matter where we were, felt like home.

            Replaying our reunion in my head, my imagination becomes fogged with memories of the little things we left behind. I rarely held Mama’s hand during shopping trips, and I wondered what it felt like to fall asleep with my head nestled on her shoulder. I wondered if she would tenderly tuck my quilted camellia print blanket under my hips as I lay fearful of what would emerge from the crack in my closet door, only to realize she was never even there to comfort me. But Baba’s affections covered us both, a veil that was lifted upon their passing. It revealed to us how bitter we were without them. As soon as I graduated high school, I moved a few states away for college. They were the only reason why Ma and I loved the way we did.

            Baba always told us we had to appreciate the little things. Now, her brain is dissolving. She hasn’t been able to speak since the stroke. Only grunts and moans make up the sum of Mama’s ability to verbally communicate. The sting from unpleasant memories makes my eyes water. Unsure of what to say, I resolve to sit at her bedside in silence. I wonder if there is enough of her left that she too might be listening to the slowly dripping IV, the ticking of the clock half a minute too soon, the humming of the machines monitoring her vital signs, and the nurses bustling through hallways, stapling patient’s files.

            A nurse walks through the door, greeting me with one of those smiles you spread for politeness rather than sincerity.

            “Excuse me, nurse?”

            “Yes?” they reply.

            “Is it possible for me to see Dr. Ervin soon? I should be headin’ home tonight.”

            “I’ll let her know.” They exchange the bag of fluids connected to Mama’s arm and go over to the humming machines.

            “Thank you,” I say.

            As they exit the room, their stride slows and they turn to face me. “Try talking to her,” they say. “Tell her a joke, read from one of those gossip magazines, reminisce about something the two of you shared before all of this. Sometimes people think they can’t talk to their loved ones when they’re like this, but she’s listening. She’s absorbing your energy, so it won’t hurt to talk to her a little.”

            I pull the gray lounge chair closer to where Mama lays, her eyelids sagging low but still open enough for me to see the flinch her lashes make every time she blinks.

            “Hey, Ma.”

            I glanced over her body for a moving hand, a welcoming grunt, her head to raise, or her shoulders to perk up, but there was nothing.

            “Well…um, the nurse said I should talk. I ain’t sure, um…I mean I don’t know what you’d want me to say right now. These magazines are bullsh- I mean, I know you ain’t much into gossip.” The corner of the sheet draping over her body is frayed, so I begin pulling at the stitching, piece by piece. With a great sigh, I stand up from the chair and pace the room. I tap my lips as if to send Morse code to my mind to help me with what the hell to say next. I notice the wooliness of Mama’s hair; how each coil overpowers the next. The gray strands blend with the rust strands like mixing cinnamon and sugar.

            “It probably ain’t been brushed for days,” I say quietly, and just then, I make my way back over to the chair.

            “Do you remember how much time it used to take you to comb my hair?” I smile and look towards the ceiling, imagining the afro I had as a little kid hovering above.

            “I mean, I remember you tuggin’ at my hair, startin’ with the ends and workin’ your way through kinks. Each one was more nappy than the last ‘til you reach the root. I can hear it now; the way my hair whispered ‘shhh’ each time the comb snatched at the handful of strands.”

            “It’s funny, I don’t even know why I remember it so vividly. The way we had to sit for hours while you worked through my thick, tangled curls. You know what else I remember, Ma? You might even remember this.” I smile and inch closer. “After you’d finish and my hair was in two round puffs on either side of my head, you’d look at me and say ‘There ya go, Dawnie. Mama knows how to make that baby pretty,’ and I just remember gigglin’ and runnin’ off to show Baba the magic you’d done. Yea, I always thought of runnin’ to them when I felt good about somethin’. Shi-shoot, now that I’m even talkin’ about this, I realize those were the only times you and I spent alone.”

            I shake my head and fold my hands over my eyes. Clearing my throat, I uncover my eyes to see the index finger on her left hand bend into her palm. Without hesitation, I grab it. “Mama?” I inquire, scanning her body for signs that she is still here. Her fingers are chilled, so I cup my hands over hers, hoping the sauna inside me can warm her up, too.

            “Ma, I’m here. It’s Dawnie.”

            I reach for my purse and pull out a brush with thin black bristles and a wooden handle sturdy enough to grip tight coils and glide through them with gentle forcefulness. I prop myself up next to Mama, lift her head from the pillows, and lay it to rest on my bosom. As I slowly brush through her hair, all is quiet.