Stay Tuned

Chapter 26

The next day, I tracked down Sharice at the nursing home.
    
“I’m worried,” I said and told her about the Frank Sinatra phone call. “What can we do?”
    
Sharice listened and patted my hand. We checked Mother’s next doctor’s visit, which was scheduled for the following week, then looked over her medications. Sharice would watch out for her, she promised, and would call if anything strange happened.
    
Then, Sharice gave me strict advice. “She her old self today, Lawd chile, you watch out,” she warned with both hands on her hips. “An’ try an’ fine out what she scribbling about in those notebooks ah hers. She won’t let me touch ’em. She been hidin’ ’em under her mattress.”
    
I hugged Sharice, asked about her son Darius, and thanked her again. Then, I knocked on Mother’s door and let myself into her room.
    
My mother sat in silence as pictures of the war-torn Middle East flashed across the TV screen. She turned and looked when the light from the hallway fell across her face.
    
Today, she recognized me right away. “Melissa, when are they ever going to bring those boys home?” Even my mother, a staunch conservative, was growing weary of the conflict. “I wonder about the futility of war. Losing so many young people in a fight we may never be able to win.” The skin around her eyes crinkled as she squinted at the violence.

Sharice was right. The real Mother was back—for now. Her dementia was hidden, like the camouflage pattern of a soldier’s uniform against brown sand and rough landscape.
    
Mother’s eyes flickered to the images of men shooting innocent people in the streets. People dying, sickness, disease. I’d seen the pictures so much, I was numb.
    
On Fox News, a reporter told of another soldier’s body being flown home. Two rows of somber military officers carried the coffin, draped in stars and stripes.

“I’m not sure,” I finally answered.

Mother fluttered a hand in my direction, clearly disturbed by the video. “The families of those soldiers, how do they bear it? All of that death. It’s devastating. Are we really helping anyone by being over there?”

I searched my mother’s face, examining the lines and curves that had accumulated over the years. She had such compassion for strangers, victims of crime, people with lives torn apart, and movie stars murdered by scorned lovers. Yet, when it came to her own family, it was a concerted effort for her to express emotion.
    
Then, for some reason, it hit me. Mother had a buffer. The television, the movie screen. Her books. They were a dividing line, a cushion between her life and everyone else’s, where her feelings were absorbed. She could pour her heart and thoughts into everyone else’s problems because it was easier than facing her own. Maybe there wasn’t anything left over for me. I frowned at the thought. That was ridiculous. People didn’t run out of emotions.

I bit my lip. Unless they chose to.

Fox News went to commercial. Those, Mother disregarded. She refused to pay attention. My mother turned her gaze out the window instead and her eyes followed two birds chasing each other across the lawn. They squawked at each other, beaks open, wings flapping. I imagined they were loud, but through the glass, we might as well have been watching a silent movie.
    
Funny. It was the same way when I tried to get Mother’s attention. She might see me talk, look at my lips moving, but I never felt like she listened or understood.
    
“Sharice says you might be writing again. Are you keeping a journal? I’d love to see it.”
    
Mother hesitated, then closed her mouth firmly. Her fingers climbed out of sight, buried under the afghan covering her lap. She wasn’t going to discuss it.
    
I changed tactics. “Mother, did you see the news last night?” My voice shook the slightest bit when I said the words.
    
“Of course,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, still staring out the window.
What would it take to make her care? To make her proud of me?
    
I fought with my doubts. Of course, Mother cared. She had provided for me, dressed me, paid for a good education.
    
Did I just need to ask? If I mattered? If she loved me? Was it that simple?

I pressed on. “If you watch WSGA tonight I’ll be on. Both the six and ten o’clock shows.” I tinged the sentences with feigned nonchalance, but one sidelong glance confirmed Mother was indeed paying attention. “I’ll be anchoring with Rick Roberts. Just for a few weeks, until they find someone else,” I prompted. “What do you think about that?”

Mother crinkled her forehead and shifted in her chair. Her watch jingled against her bracelet. “Rick Roberts. I like him. Handsome, that one. Professional. He does a nice job.”
     
What about me? I wanted to ask. What…do you think…about me?
    
She turned her attention back to CNN.
    
If anyone was to blame for my obsession with the news business, it was my mother. The television remained on during my entire childhood and teenage years, for fear Mother would miss something important. A celebrity breakup, marriage, divorces. Anything that had to do with the rich and powerful was Mother’s business. Some or all of it might end up in her next book.
    
When the evening news came on, there were certain rules. Better not make a sound or my mother would fuss. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t ever change the channel. Even my father tiptoed around her for those thirty minutes.
    
Her attention on the screen was rapt; more than once she’d let dinner burn in the stove or the phone go unanswered. During the news, she’d often ignore a knock at the door.
    
Through her celebrity interviews, by writing her books, Mother communicated with the rest of the world. She even talked in sound bites, at the grocery store, at church, at dinner parties.
“…more Kennedy family items to be auctioned off at Sotheby’s.”

“Elvis died…yes, today.”

“The Watergate tapes…”
    
And I had Mother’s knack for remembering events, names, and dates. I could easily memorize parts of speeches, quotations, and phrases. Though she didn’t say so, it seemed to please her. She’d applaud when I repeated key phrases in a CBS story. She’d smile when I discussed politics or the financial market.

At eleven years old, I announced to my parents that I was going to travel the world and be a reporter. I remember that my father called me ‘adorable.’ My mother, on the other hand, gave me a rare hug and one of her private smiles. This, I thought, was the way to her heart.
    
At sixteen, Mother introduced me at parties as her daughter, the girl destined to go overseas and make fabulous documentaries. At first, I was thrilled. But when the conversation immediately turned to box office numbers, Broadway plays, and bestsellers, it became clear I could never really compete. The best I could do was make a name for myself as an award-winning filmmaker or journalist. Maybe then, I would have my mother’s respect and attention.
    
As it turned out, marriage and pregnancy got in the way. Mother stopped asking about my travel plans, my dream job. That was eighteen years ago.
    
Today, I decided letting Mother off the hook wasn’t good enough anymore. I was her child, for God’s sake. She owed me some answers. Good or bad, I wanted to hear it. I summoned every ounce of courage I could.
    
“That’s not what I meant to ask.” The words came out in pieces, stilted and awkward.
    
Mother turned her head the slightest bit.
    
My hand clenched the chair cushion. I sat up taller. “Mother, I need to know what you think about me. Are you proud of me? Your daughter?” I said it in a clear, loud voice, even though my mother wasn’t hard of hearing.
    
When she didn’t answer, I grabbed the remote from the table and clicked off the television. The room took on a dark, eerie silence. For good measure, I tossed the remote on the bed, out of reach.
    
Mother still didn’t move or look in my direction.
    
So, I did the only thing I could. I left. And tried not to cry.