Growing Up (37 page)

“Hi there,” I said. “Having any good dreams?”

She tried to say something, but it was unintelligible. “Speak a little slower,” I said.

She tried again. The words were slurred whispers, senseless, inarticulate mumbles. I leaned over to put my ear against her lips and she tried again, and I was able to decipher it. “How’s Herb?” she was asking.

“Let me crank up the bed so you can talk easier,” I said. While
I was at it, the nurse came in. “Hello, Lucy,” she cried in a loud voice. “You’ve been getting your beauty sleep?”

My mother attempted a smile. “You know who this man is?” the nurse asked her.

My mother stared at me suspiciously for several seconds. “The preacher,” she said with sudden vigor.

“That’s not the preacher. That’s your son, come all the way from New York to see you. You know what his name is?”

My mother stared at me again as though trying to remember where she’d met me. “Sure I know his name,” she said.

“What is it?” the nurse asked.

“Mike?” she asked.

“Russell,” I said.

Now she smiled the ghost of an old smile I’d once known. “Hi, Russ,” she said. “It’s nice to see you, Buddy.” She squeezed my hand.

“I’ve been to see my new granddaughter,” I said. “I thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

“You’ve got a granddaughter?”

“You never thought I’d be old enough to be a grandfather, did you?”

“For heaven’s sake,” she said. “I didn’t know that. Did you tell Herb?”

“You’re a great-grandmother,” I said. “I bet you never thought you’d be a great-grandmother.”

“Is it a baby?”

“It’s a little baby girl. Next time I come I’m going to bring her in and let you hold her.”

“I’d like that.” She smiled again. A real smile this time. “I always liked babies.”

She closed her eyes and seemed to fall back into sleep.

“Are you tired?”

Her lips moved and there was a sound, but all the strength had faded out of her as suddenly as it had risen, and I couldn’t catch her words. “Lucy, don’t you go to sleep yet,” the nurse said.

Obediently, she tried to open her eyelids and to stare at me. “Who’re you?” she whispered.

“Russell,” I said.

Her eyelids closed again.

“You remember Russell,” I said. “And Mimi. You remember Mimi.”

Her mind seemed about to surface again. She got her eyes open. “Who?”

“Russell,” I said. “Russell and Mimi.”

She glared at me the way I had so often seen her glare at a dolt. “Never heard of them,” she said, and fell asleep.