Sweetgrass. Mary Monroe Alice

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ casseroles than I can freeze. Everyone’s been very kind. And yet, no one seems to have the time or desire to go to the hospital and sit with him. It’s so important that someone just be with him, you see. He’s so helpless. Like a baby.” She hesitated. “You…you’ll be surprised when you see him. I hate to leave him there alone. You hear horror stories of mistakes being made in the hospital, or of things overlooked in the charts. I drive downtown every day and stay as long as I can, but it’s not enough.”

      “I’ll go.”

      She patted his hand fervently. “Thank you. It will mean so much to him.”

      “When will Daddy be getting out of the hospital?”

      “That’s undecided.” She drew her hand back and leaned against the chair. She glanced over to the kitchen counter where she saw the cookbooks spread open and the shopping list—all preparations for Sunday dinner. For all the joy of Morgan’s homecoming, she knew there would likely be another round of debate once the family gathered.

      “What’s the matter, Mama June?”

      She looked at his long, thoughtful face and flashed to the boy who once sat at this table beside her wolfing down cold cereal, swinging his legs as he looked out the window, eager to get outdoors. He’d always been tenderhearted. Yet she’d rarely talked to him about things that plagued her, unlike with her daughter, Nan, with whom she used to talk freely.

      “I’m so confused,” she said with new honesty. “I don’t know what to do.”

      He sat straighter in his chair, appreciating the confidence. “Are you worried about taking care of him? I’m sure the staff at the hospital will teach you what to do. And you can get help once you bring him home.”

      “That’s just it. Your aunt Adele tells me I should not bring him home.”

      “Oh.” He paused, his eyes shuttered. “Really?”

      There had always been an odd tension between Preston’s sister, Adele, and Morgan. His tone told her that time had not diminished the coolness.

      “Adele is worried that he won’t get the care he needs here. She thinks we are risking his recovery if we don’t place him somewhere he can get professional treatment.”

      “Like a nursing home?” he asked, aghast.

      “More a residential treatment facility. The costs of home care will be very high and…” She waved her hand. “Oh, it all makes sense when she explains it to me. She’s done a lot of homework and went over the numbers with me. I can’t remember half of what she told me—except that I should sell Sweetgrass.”

      “Sell Sweetgrass…” Morgan exhaled and leaned back in his chair. “Wow. I hadn’t, I mean, I never considered that a possibility.”

      “Adele says that selling Sweetgrass would free me to provide for Preston and myself without worry of becoming a burden.” She looked at her hands and fiddled with the plain gold band on her left hand. “We’ve never wanted that, you know. To be a burden.”

      “You’re not a burden.”

      “No, not yet. But according to Adele, we could be. Quite quickly.”

      “Adele always deals in absolutes. You know that.” He rubbed his jaw in consternation. “If the stroke doesn’t kill Daddy, selling Sweetgrass will.”

      “My thought exactly!” she exclaimed. She took great heart that someone was finally understanding her point of view. And that the someone was her son.

      “What do the doctors say? Can Daddy even be moved?”

      “They feel he can come home, provided we get assistance, of course, like an army of therapists, an aide and equipment.” She could hear the hopefulness in her own voice.

      “Hiring support will cost money.”

      “Yes.”

      “Can you afford it?”

      “For a while. Maybe a very little while.” Mama June sighed heavily. “I don’t know why I keep fussing about the decision. Adele was pretty clear about what I should do. Sell Sweetgrass and move. Hank and Nan agree.”

      He considered this a moment, then asked, “What do you want to do?”

      “I have to think about what’s best for Preston.”

      “That’s not what I’m asking you right now. I’m asking what you want to do.”

      She sat back against the ladder-back chair. It occurred to her that in all the many conversations with Adele, Nan and Hank, with the doctors, with the banks and lawyer, everyone had told her what he or she thought Mama June should do. No one had ever asked what she might want to do. No one, except Morgan.

      “To be honest, I don’t really know. When your father had his stroke, I was unprepared to make even small, everyday decisions concerning Sweetgrass. Now suddenly I’m thrust into the position of making all the decisions. Preston is going to need a great deal of care before he gets well—if he gets well. I’ve tried to think what’s best for him, and for all of us and…”

      “You’re veering off again,” he said gently.

      “Oh, Morgan, I’m sixty-six years old. I’m too old to start over. I’ve lived in this house for nearly fifty years. This is where you were raised. This is our home. We’ve been happy here and…” She raised her eyes to his in mute appeal for understanding. “All my memories are here.”

      “Mama, what do you want to do?”

      Mama June reached up to pat his cheek affectionately. Dropping her hand, she said, “I can’t separate the decision of what I want to do for myself from what I must do for the family. To my mind—and to your father’s—the Blakelys are Sweetgrass.”

      “You’re beginning to sound like Daddy.” He brought his face closer. “What do you want to do?” he persisted.

      She found his pressure exhausting and lowered her forehead into her palm. “I don’t know.”

      He leaned forward and this time kissed her cheek. “Don’t fret, Mama. I’m not trying to annoy you. I was just hoping to hear what you wanted, for a change. Tell you what. You stay home today and mull it over. I’ll go downtown to this hospital and check on Daddy.”

      3

      During the days of slavery in the Old South, men made large work baskets from bull rush because this marsh grass was strong and durable. Women made functional baskets for the home using sweetgrass, which was softer and abundant. Today’s baskets are made with sweetgrass, bull rush and long-leaf pine needles bound together by strips of the unopened center leaves of palmetto trees.

      NAN’S HAND RESTED ON the telephone receiver as she gathered her wits.

      “Close your mouth, Mama. You’re catching flies.” Harry jabbed his younger brother in the ribs as they laughed. They were gathered around the table, waiting on dinner.

      Nan snapped her mouth shut only for as long as it took СКАЧАТЬ