John passed Exit 329, his old favorite where they sold the Indian River oranges and grapefruits. One visit, many years ago after Mom and Dad had moved down to Tybee Island, he’d gotten them a bushel of grapefruit. Mom’s fat round body had jumped up and down with a big “Oh, goodie!” and Dad had smiled and laughed, “I love grapefruit.”
Thank goodness he’d gotten the progressives last week. Now he could read the speedometer and see the exit signs before being on top of them. What timing, eh? And he could drive at night, even as late as five in the morning. He stopped at Exit 267 for a late dinner – very late, indeed – and gotten mushy chicken with stale cheese and watery green beans. He’d eaten every last morsel. Now, on to Tybee Island. He’d be there by seven.
They’d reach the Savannah hospital by eleven. John wondered whether Mom was still alive. Dad had told him, come quick, she’s in surgery after the cerebral hemorrhage – don’t know whether she’ll make it through the night. But if she does, Dad said, she’ll probably make it. John wondered if it’d be worth it. As bad as that stroke was, what would she be like?
Today, two years later, looking back on that overnight drive, John sighed. He knew what Mom was like. She could talk, lift her right arm, but that was about it. And no end in sight, John thought – in that dreadful Savannah nursing home where no one smiled. Not really, not those big broad smiles of joy and delight that used to light up that impossible woman’s face, not the laughter that enjoyed all sorts of jokes, except those about Republicans – none of those, just subdued courtesy and a harsh, gravely voice that spoke over the damaged vocal cords. So how long would this last, John asked himself …
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