read-of-the-day-blog

[read-of-the-day-blog]

Lunula

Noun [loo-nyuh-luh]

Something shaped like a narrow crescent, as the small, pale area at the base of the fingernail.

The mid-morning sun washed through the sterile, white room of Abigale Peters as her nurse helped her into the chair set by the window. She lowered her slowly and with practiced care that would be given to any other resident of the Rolling Hills Nursing Home. "Betty, be a dear and fetch my purse. We have to make it to church in time to greet the pastor or ill never hear the end of it from that nosey Mrs. Bradberry."

The plump, young nurse, whose name was really June, smiled patiently and turned to face the woman in the doorway, who stood tall and lithe but with some reservation. Her fingers curled around the handle of a soft pink kaboodle kit. She nodded graciously to the nurse and stepped inside. "Mama, you've already been to church today. The pastor loved your hat, don't you remember?" The old woman never did, but Denise always felt the urge to ask. Always hopeful that her mother would one day respond with an "Oh, of course, Denise. How could I forget?" But she never did, not anymore. She watched as her aging mother's brow furrowed in brief confusion before quickly being distracted by the movement of the trees outside her window. Denise sighed quietly and thanked June as the nurse set up a stool beside the chair and took her leave. Denise tucked a strand of mousy brown hair behind her ear and set the kaboodle on the chair-side table. With a click, it opened and Denise took her seat on the stool, adjusting for comfort as she spoke. "Mama...its time for another manicure. What color would you like today?"

"I always loved yellow. My kitchen is yellow, you know. Jacob always hated it. But I told him, I said...'well you won't be in it near as much as me and if I'm gonna be making you breakfast, lunch, and dinner each day, I want to do it in a room that makes me happy." Abigale gave a tired laugh. "That damn husband of mine. He's always gone at work nowadays. Betty, do you know when he'll be back?"

Denise paused and looked at her mother. Those blank eyes hurt her more than the questions, but not as much as being called 'Betty'. Betty was Abigale's sister who had died ten years ago and who her mother hadn't spoken to for at least thirty. It cut her like a knife, taking a tiny piece of her every time, but her therapist had urged her to try and not take it personally. Spite rose like a poison in her and for a moment she considered reminding her mother that Daddy was dead and gone, but that would only upset her, and not for long enough to make Denise feel any better. She took a deep breath and counted down from ten in her head before shaking the feeling and correcting her tone to the usual forced pleasantness she used on Sunday mornings. "This afternoon, I'm told."

Her mother nodded with a smaller smile, satisfied. Figuring she would never actually give her a color (yellow was a ridiculous color for nails. If her mother were in any lucid state she would never stand for it), she decided to pick one herself. Primrose. A proper color for a proper lady.

She shook the bottle and grabbed the emery board, cuticle pusher, and nail trimmers, setting all aside and pushing through the other bottles for the acetone and some stray cotton balls. She took her mother's hand, wrinkled with age and almost impossibly soft. The knobs and twists of arthritis in her knuckles still felt foreign to her, even after so many years. Denise drew in a sharp breath meant to control her emotions and set to work removing the dark polish from the week before. "I spoke to Cynthia two days ago. I asked when she may be able to make it back in town for a visit since she had to push back last month, but she wasn't sure. She asked that I.." Denise tightened her jaw. "...that I tell you that she loves you. And she misses you." Denise didn't believe it. Not for a moment. Cynthia cried and confided in her how hard it was to watch their mother deteriorate but Denise couldn't help but think that if she were actually here, marinating in the decline as Denise had been, perhaps maybe it wouldn't feel like such a drastic change each time she saw her. It was hard on Denise too....but she was here.

Abigale smiled brightly. "Cynthia is such a doll! You know she won junior Miss. Dickson twice? Bell of the ball! Oh!" She laughed. "Jacob practically had to beat the boys away with a stick." Denise rolled her eyes and shook her head. Abigale continued. "Cynthia always takes such great care of herself. I wondered why she wasn't a bigger help to Denise. The poor child couldn't stay out of the yard for more than an hour at a time. Hair always a mess. Always dirt under her fingernails." Denise's shoulders tightened. She looked at her own nails, nowadays well manicured and clean as a whistle. Abigale always said she was a 'late bloomer' but Denise more or less saw herself as an appeaser.

"Im sure Denise tried very hard to make you happy..." She muttered as she moved to the other hand.

"Well, she did what she could with what she had I suppose. Never as blessed as Cynthia in the ways of social graces-"

"Well maybe you would prefer Cynthia do your nails?"

Abigail turned to face her youngest daughter. "...what?"

Denise wiped away the polish on the last nail and shook her head. "Nothing. Maybe I should put on some music, hm?" Anything to stop the Cynthia golden child hour. There was only so much Denise could take. She stood and tossed the used cotton balls into a nearby wastebasket a bit more aggressively than was necessary before going to the radio and turning the dial to the designated oldies station, filling the room with the musical stylings of Doris Day. Abigale smiled and hummed along. Denise took another breath as she gripped the edge of the dresser and counted down from ten once more.

When she returned to her seat she started trimming her cuticles and filing her nails. Denise sat in anxious silence for a few minutes before asking a question she was certain she would.immediately regret. "And what about Denise? Were...were you proud of her?"

"Whats that, Betty?" Her mother had been lost in the music but Denise couldn't take it. She let out a small, muffled, anguished cry. "In not Betty, Mama! I'm your daughter! I'm Denise! I am here every week! I take you to church and to the doctor. I do your nails! Why can't you remember!?" She pleaded.

"Denise lives in Birmingham.," Abigale said with a furrowed brow. "Yes I used to, but I moved back here. To take care of you! Me, Denise! Not Cynthia, not Betty. Denise!"

A blank stare was all she got in return. Denise stood and put the tools back in the kit and walked to the bedside table to pluck a kleenex from the patterned box that was stationed there. She dabbed at the edges of her eyes and wrapped her arms around her frame, cradling the broken bits of her in front of the only person she believed could put them back together, but simply didn't possed the faculties to do so anymore. Her mother was never one to coddle even when she was aware. Self-comfort was simply a means of survival as much now as it has always been.

Abigale watched her all the while, worry falling over her time-worn features. She was quiet for a moment, as though considering what should be said to comfort the woman in her room. She was clearly upset though she couldn't imagine why.

"Dear...I'm sorry if you're upset." Her voice was quiet and gentle. The radio, as if deciding to attempt and cut the tension began to play 'Ain't Too Proud To Beg' by The Temptations. It felt cruel in context to Denise, but Abigale lit up and even clapped. "Oh, I love this song, don't you?"

Denise did, in fact, but she was in no mood. She simply cleaned up her face and made her way back to the stool, snatching the color from the table and shaking the bottle again. She told herself she would not speak again if she could help it. Today was one of those 'bad days' they talk about in her support groups. It was healthier not to take part in it for her own sanity. But then her mother said the most incredible thing.

"You used to sing this song and dance around the kitchen when we would clean up after dinner. It always tickled me. You have such a lovely singing voice. It's a pity you wouldn't sing for the church choir. I suppose you had too much personality for it, really. Such a big voice for such a skinny little thing."

Denise froze. A droplet of polish fell from the brush onto her skirt, but she hardly noticed or cared. "You...you remember that, Mama?"

Abigale grinned. "Oh, of course, Denise. How could I forget?"

They smiled at one another. Recognition flashing across Abigale's face, and relief washing over Denise's. And for that brief and fleeting moment, Denise felt whole again.