Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [108]
“Why’s she in Nambé?”
No right answer came into Bonnie’s mind, though she took the question as another sign that her mother was continuing to make strides back toward health. Cognizance of what was happening around her, the doctors said. Engagement; recall. Her stroke had been finally assessed as a transient ischemic attack, known as a little stroke in euphemistic medical jargon. The electroencephalogram and CT-scan had revealed some unfriendly plaque, some thickening of her arteries, which Granna pronounced art of ease, knowing that Ariel would like the pun. Where was that girl? Her slur bothered the caregivers at the convalescent center, but her appetite for life seemed to have fully returned, and with it the rosy glow in her gin-blossomed cheeks. Back was the twinkle that had been subsumed under the dull cloud shadowing her eyes. Her smile was neither pinched nor crooked, as it’d been during those first days after the stroke. She was hampered but hardly stopped.
“Whereth Sarah?”
“I checked before, Mom. She hasn’t come in yet today.”
“Didn’d Ariel go … with her yestehday?”
This came as a surprise. Hadn’t she been asleep during all that? “Yes, she did. You want me to call them?”
Out of nowhere, she said, “Kip Calderth dead. She went to visit hesh grave?”
“We already told you, Mom. He’s not dead, and she’s in Nambé.”
Mrs. McCarthy said nothing. It was coming back to her now. Brice had flown out here a few years ago, hadn’t he? To meet up with his old friend. Less clear to her was why Ariel should have such a keen interest in Kip Calder, especially given that her grandmother was here in the convalescent center and missed her company.
“How long’s she going to—”
“It’s all pretty confusing. Let’s just focus on getting you home, why don’t we.”
“Whereth Brice?”
The impediment sounded biblical, which was just fine.
Bonnie Jean paused a beat, caught her breath. The problem of her private news brownout with Brice bothered her more than she would have liked to admit. To herself, her mother, anyone. Just when you’re supposed to pull together with your brother, she scolded herself, what do you do but chide him over something that isn’t, finally, your business? He was right, but also wrong about so much. More wrong than right, she thought, though she knew that this attitude wasn’t constructive, or even respectful of her invalided mother. Worst of all, it didn’t gratify whatever sibling demon lay behind the sentiment, hoping to chew on some tasty bone of contention.
“He’s very worried, and like I say, he’s coming as soon as he can get away.”
“He’ll come when he can.”
The sentence quite crisply spoken.
“I’m sure you’re right, dear. But let’s talk about you now. How are you feeling this morning?”
She nodded.
“Want to walk?”
“No.”
“They say you ought to walk.”
“I’d rather talk.”
“Let’s walk and talk at the same time.”
Daughter helped mother out of the chair, got her four-footed aluminum cane into her right hand, and, taking her thin left arm, escorted her out into the hallway. They strolled slowly, side by side. How well we know each other, Bonnie thought. She’s me and I’m her.
Only difference is a couple little nothing, everything things. Who made who—or was it whom? She could never remember. Who was old, and who was getting old? Different faces and bodies, somewhat. Different husbands—yes, for sure. Different taste in clothes, because look at her mother’s dislike of the housedresses that Bonnie Jean herself found both comfortable and rather attractive. Bonnie loved the Savior on Sundays, but her mother worshiped him every hour of every day of every week. Bonnie didn’t much care for alcohol—a watered-down mimosa on her birthday sent her as deep into her cups as she ever wanted to venture—but her mom just plain did. So, sure, there were differences. But Bonnie felt, this day, their kindredness, and said so. “I love you,” was how it came out. Very simple moment. The words felt good on her tongue.
“I love you,