Early Warning

ON TUESDAY, Lillian had called Debbie and told her about driving herself to the doctor — she sneaked out when Arthur was down at the bottom of the property, digging up bulbs, and went by herself, and felt fine. Didn’t Debbie think that was a good joke? Debbie did, in a way, but then, on Wednesday, her father called her and said that she had better come, and bring Carlie and Kevvie, and Debbie kept saying, almost yelling, that she couldn’t believe this, she couldn’t believe this, and her father was horribly patient, and said that Dean would pick her up at the airport, and Tina was coming Saturday. But she got herself together by dinnertime — she told Hugh quietly enough so that he wouldn’t think she was going crazy, and then she sat with the kids on the couch in the living room, and said that she had something to tell them. Carlie understood — she nodded, and she tightened her grip on Debbie’s hand, but Kevvie just stared at her, his arm looped around his Funshine Bear and his thumb in his mouth. Hugh, standing in the doorway, said, “That’s why they have to go, Deb; they have to see it.”

And so they did, and because it was Lillian Langdon Manning who was counting out her last hours, it wasn’t that bad, and Debbie did not have to take over, which was always her instinct. She could sit in the kitchen and chat with anyone who passed through, give and accept hugs, offer everyone the food that people brought over because they couldn’t think of anything else to do. The weather was beautiful for January. The kids relaxed and played with the other kids; Carlie was solicitous and maternal with Eric, Dean’s two-year-old. She read him an old Raggedy Ann book she found in Tina’s room, and she was willing to read it over and over, which made Debbie proud in a melancholy sort of way.

Yes, Lillian had driven herself to the doctor on Tuesday, but then, Tuesday night, something broke, some little membrane or wire or bolt (depending on how you imagined the brain), and the hallucinations began. She woke up Wednesday morning, turned to Arthur, and said, “Have you seen Arthur?” Arthur had patiently reminded her over and over that he was right there, and now, as she lay in her bed, looking at the windows or at the sunlight on the ceiling, she would say, “Is that a lake?” or “Did you hear that Henry my brother died?”

Her father would pat her mother’s hand and gently say, “No, darling, that’s the ceiling; I’m right here; Henry is fine, you’ll see him tomorrow.” And her mother would nod and say, “I suppose you’re right.”

Allegedly, there was little if any pain, and if pain should begin, there were painkillers, but her mother had told her father weeks ago that she wanted to be conscious as long as she could be.

She had greeted Debbie with a kiss and asked if Carlie and Kevvie were hers and what their names were. Debbie had made a strenuous effort not to compare how her mother processed her presence with how she processed Dean’s presence, or with the number of times she asked if anyone had seen Tim. Her mother had been precisely and exactly herself for Debbie’s entire life, thirty-six years now, and Debbie had found her too disorganized, too yielding, too wrapped up in her husband, too focused on Tim, too affectionate with Janet for most of that time. But since Carlie’s birth, she had liked her better (liked her — she had always loved her to pieces) and had talked to her almost daily, sometimes asking advice, but mostly just listening to the soothing sound of her voice. In fact, it was the sound of her own voice that Debbie heard most when she made those phone calls, but she could not help checking in, seeking the how-are-you’s, the yes-honey’s, the that’s-a-good-idea’s, the love-you’s.

The calls were over, dead as of Tuesday. Now, every couple of hours, Debbie slipped into the bedroom and listened to the strange conversation between her parents, knowing that she would never forget it and maybe she should not let this be her last indelible memory.

The rest of the time, she arranged the funeral, because someone had to. She called the funeral home, chose the dress and the shoes, wrote the notice for The Washington Post and the local McLean paper. She went through Lillian’s address book, trying to judge who would need to know. She cooked, she washed dishes, washed more dishes.

Her father was perfect — endlessly kind, loving, and reassuring — and her mother seemed to take this for granted (and even as Debbie had this thought, she knew it was stupid). Dean and Linda did the driving-around errands. Linda was nice. Debbie could not object to her in any way, except when she went into Lillian’s room, and Lillian said, “Linda. I would know you anywhere. You are very pretty, do you know that?”