I awoke in the dark to a stabbing pain in my belly. I drew in my knees and cradled my abdomen, scraping the stapled scar above my pubic bone. I’d feel better with more drugs, but I needed to eat first. I squinted at the alarm clock, surprised it was late, almost seven p.m. Sore, hungry and needing to pee, I pushed myself up to a sitting position and slid off the bed, shuffling to the toilet like an old woman. With nothing to help ease myself down, I hovered over the bowl, lifted my nightgown and hoped for the best.
I flipped on the bedroom light, and wished I hadn’t. The room was a mess, with breakfast dishes piled on the nightstand next to a stack of books and crossword puzzles, a basket of dirty laundry protruded from the closet, an overnight bag unpacked from the hospital, and a briefcase stuffed with work.
My timing was bad. The hysterectomy was needed within a month of starting a new job at a small nonprofit. With no other staff and no accumulated sick pay, I promised the board of directors I wouldn’t drop the ball while I recuperated at home.
I pulled on my robe and slippers, opened the bedroom door, and sniffed for signs of dinner. My Mother had agreed to help out this first week of my convalescence. I’ll admit I invited her with some vague notion of evening the score. My childhood memories were of helping her out with housework and caring for my five younger siblings. She seemed pleased when I invited her, like I was offering a vacation, a break from the Wichita winter and my domineering Dad.
I shuffled through the shadowed hall of my three-bedroom home toward the TV noise, bracing against the wall with one hand and coddling my belly with the other. I was grateful my daughter was staying with her Dad, my ex, for the week. She behaved younger than her eleven years and, with her learning disabilities, required lots of attention. For now, I hoped for a little R and R and TLC.
I entered the kitchen and saw Mom settled on the family room sofa, glancing at a game show while flipping through a magazine. She smiled when she saw me.
“Get some sleep?”
I nodded and looked around the kitchen, hoping something was warming in the oven. “Did you eat already?” I asked.
She looked puzzled. “I didn’t know what to fix, so I thought I’d wait till you woke up.”
I frowned. I had gone over everything with her the day before I went to the hospital; how to work the appliances and the food I’d stocked for the week. I wasn’t expecting gourmet cooking, but I thought she could manage a simple meal.
“Okay, Mom. Let’s cook up this chicken.” I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a damp package of chicken breasts. I slammed cupboards and rattled pots. I added oil to the skillet and water to the saucepan, washed the broccoli and chicken and lit the burners. My Mother hovered behind me, watching with curiosity. All this work was not what the doctor ordered. I felt sorry for myself and annoyed my Mother wasn’t being more helpful.
The phone rang.
I sank into the sofa, happy my daughter had called. “Yes, I’m fine. Grandma’s fixing me dinner. How are you?” She had news about what she did in school that day; what happened at Girl Scouts. She missed me.
Smells of cooking filled the kitchen. I heard oil spitting and water rumbling and smelled the acrid scorch of something gone wrong. I pushed out of the sofa and looked over the ledge and saw my Mother mesmerized by what was happening on the stove. The chicken was engulfed in flames and the broccoli water roiled onto the floor. I dropped the phone and lunged toward the kitchen, tripping over the step. I found a lid to the cast iron skillet and flung it over the flames. Nearly doubled over with pain, I switched off the burners and turned to my Mother, still transfixed in the center of the kitchen.
“Mom, what’s going on? I thought you were going to help me?”
For a moment, she stared at me blankly, and then her eyes widened as if she were waking from a bad dream.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
She whimpered and nodded agreeably. How did I miss this? How long had this been going on?
“Sit down, Mom. I’ll finish fixing dinner.” Like a child, she returned to her magazine and television show. I salvaged what I could from the stove top and fixed our two plates.
“So, how’re you feeling, Mom?”
“Oh, I’m fine dear,” she said.