The Fourth Age
I sat with Megan’s mother the following afternoon, after lunch, just before her nap. She was sitting up in bed, gazing out of the window. Her head shook rhythmically from side-to-side in an endless negation. She didn’t notice me for a long time, even though I was holding her hand. I spoke softly to her. “Why did you do this to me? You must have known what would happen. You could have assigned the lawyer to oversee your health. Why didn’t you do that? Then you’d have been assured of your plan. Is it that you’ve won already? Is that what it is?”
The springtime afternoon sun streamed into the room. There were fresh-cut flowers on the bedside table. Their scent filled the warm air. Doves were cooing in the tree by the window.
I rambled on, no longer speaking to her but rather for my own benefit, trying to justify the action I had chosen for her future.
Then, in the stuffy sleepiness of her bedroom, she spoke to me, saying my name, her failing eyes looking at me, her head still shaking, in that eternal negation. I had to lean closer to catch the words.
“Do you remember I made a wish?” She smacked her lips as if she were sucking something, and I could smell the hint of decay on her breath. “When we made love...” she smiled, displaying the toothless gums. “On the rock in the bay.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t remember. When?”
“When?” She frowned. “I don’t know when.”
Fearful I had distracted her with my own inability to remember, and she had lost the train of thought, I urged, “You made a wish. What wish?”