MARJORIE KEENE lives in California and has taken up writing again after a very long absence.

                                                               vacancy


I'm sitting with my mother in the game room of the Sunset Retirement Home. She's been here for nearly three months--an eternity for me, since I promised myself that I would never put her into one of these goddamn places.

We huddle together in the corner of the room--two refugees in an unknown and hostile land. Looking around me, I see the other residents in various states and poses: one woman is face down on the table in front of her, snoring loudly. A man is screaming for someone named Marcia. Another woman is whimpering softly as she sits in a wheelchair, her arms flailing around her as if to ward off an unseen assailant. I manage to keep a smile on my face as I pat my mother's hand.

"Mom, did you sleep last night?"

She looks right through me. She doesn't respond.

"Are you eating? You have to eat, you know."

Silence.

I lean back in my chair and take a deep, ragged breath. I need a cigarette. I need a drink. I need an affair.

No--I need my Mom!

But my mother is gone. All I have left is this empty shell that sits before me, the one that I visit everyday. The vacant stare, the trickle of drool that constantly flows from the left side of her mouth, the gnarled and useless hands--this is my mother now. The vivacious, gorgeous, life-loving woman who gave birth to me and my three older sisters has vacated the premises.

I'm angry. I'm angry at my mother for putting me through this. I'm angry at my sisters who are a million miles away and who call maybe once or twice a month. I'm angry at my husband and children for not being able to understand why I cry all the time. I'm angry at God for Her being such a bitch.

Most of all, I'm angry at myself for being such a lousy daughter...

"Charlene? Why don't you go home, honey. I'm alright now."

I'm startled by the words. I look up and see exactly what I saw before--a vacant stare. Am I losing my mind?

"Mom? Did you say something?"

Nothing. Things still remain the same. I sit in my chair for a few moments, too stunned to move.

Suddenly, I feel lighter. Free. I get up from my chair and kiss my mother on her cheek.

"Do you know how much I love you?" I ask her.

I walk out of the game room. I walk out of the lobby. I walk out into the parking lot, where the sun is shining and the air is crisp. Unafraid, I take another deep breath.

I remember the vivacious, gorgeous, life-loving woman from my childhood. I remember her and think about how much I want to be like her.

Maybe it's not too late. And maybe--just maybe--that's how I can keep my mother alive. ...


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© 2001 Marjorie Keene