I still recall the exact day Ethel shut her suitcase. It didnt shake me; it simply made the truth easier to swallow. She closed it with the same delicacy she applied to everything even when she was breaking me.
Did you take the toothbrush? I asked from the doorway of our bedroom.
She looked at me as if Id just asked what time it was while the Titanic was still sinking.
Seriously, George? Is that all youve got to say?
I dont know what else to say.
And that was the plain truth. By the third month every conversation ended the same way, on that fogladen lane that ran between my mothers cottage and the house we shared. It was as if love were a cake that could only be sliced one way.
My mother called me a meddler yesterday, Ethel said, folding the blouse Id given her for our anniversary. For the fourth time this week.
She doesnt know what shes talking about. She has Alzheimers.
I know, George. I know it well. But youve also been losing your own words lately what you feel, where my mother ends and I begin.
I sat on the bed, at her cold side, though she was still asleep there.
This is my mother, Ethel, I murmured.
And I am your wife. Or I was. Im not even sure any longer.
From the sittingroom, Mum called out something about thieves stealing her youth, probably still admiring her reflection in the hall mirror.
Must
Go, Ethel said, her voice so weary it ached my bones. You always have to go.
When I returned, after twenty minutes of soothing Mum with biscuits and a photograph from her younger days, Ethel was gone. On the pillow lay only a note:
I love you. But I can no longer love you from the waiting room of your own life. Look after yourself. Look after her.
I laughed. I laughed because otherwise I would have wept like a fool, and Mum was already confused enough.
Who left? Mum asked from the doorway, her sharp clarity flashing like a bolt of lightning.
Ethel.
The one with the long hair?
Yes, Mum.
Oh, she shrugged. She never liked me. Always watching the clock.
And there it was my whole world summed up in a single line from a woman who could not remember her breakfast but could recall every slight Ethel had ever dealt her.
The first months blurred into adult diapers, halfeaten plates and nights when Mum insisted I was her longlost brother from 1987.
George, why didnt you come to my funeral? she asked one evening.
Because I was busy being dead, Mum.
She frowned. Youve always been irresponsible.
Friends called me with the same tone one uses at a wake.
How are you, old chap?
Grand. Mum thinks Im her dead brother, and my wife left because I chose changing diapers over couples therapy. A dream, isnt it?
Did you try to speak to Ethel?
Yes. She told me that when Im ready to be her husband, not just my mothers son, I should look for her. Poetic, isnt it? Or devastating. I cant tell the difference.
One night Mum had a flash of clarity. While I was giving her her medicine, she looked at me and said, You drove her away, didnt you? Your wife.
My throat tightened.
No, Mum, I didnt drive her away. I just did what had to be done.
What had to be done? To ruin your life for someone who barely remembers your name half the time?
Mum
Im not stupid, George. Not yet. She blinked, tears welling. I changed your diapers when you were a baby. Its only fair you change mine now. But its not fair if it costs you everything.
You gave me everything.
And thats why you must have something to give back. She squeezed my hand with unexpected strength. Dont use me as an excuse not to live.
Thirty seconds later she no longer recognised me and asked if Id seen her son, George a fine lad, a bit scattered.
Ill look for him, madam, I replied. Ill tell him his mother is waiting.
Dont let him be late, she warned. Im beginning to forget Im waiting for him.
Eight months passed. Ethel never returned. Mums memory faded further, and I lingered in that limbo between filial duty and romantic love, wondering if the two were not the same thing dressed in different coats.
Last night I found a photograph of our wedding. Ethel beamed, I was a lovestruck fool, Mum wept in the front row because her baby had become a man.
I showed the picture to Mum.
Who are these? she asked.
People who loved each other very much.
And dont love each other any more?
I dont know, Mum. I think they loved so much they had to let go.
She nodded, as if she understood, though she was probably already forgetting the question.
Love hurts, she said suddenly.
Yes, Mum. It hurts terribly.
Then its real.
For the first time in months I truly smiled. It was right. That sharp pain, that guilt, that loss, that impossible choice it all hurt so fiercely it could only be love.
Love for Mum, who gave me life.
Love for Ethel, who tried to give it meaning.
And perhaps, someday, enough love for myself to realise that choosing one path does not make the others wrong. It merely means this was the path meant for me.
Now, as I brew Mums tea and delete unsent messages to Ethel, I cling to that pain. It is the only proof that I am still alive, that once I was loved by two remarkable women who deserved more than I could ever give.
George? Mums voice called from the sittingroom.
Yes, Mum. Im here.
Who are you?
Someone who loves you very much.
How lovely, she smiled. How lovely it is to have someone.
And as I hand her the tea, I think Ethel was right. Mum was right. And I, somewhere in the middle, am still trying to work out the correct answer to a equation that never truly existed.
