Chapter 13 - Water Glass Truth
The house smelled shut up when we got back. Dad unlocked the front door and the warm air pushed out at us, laundry and dust and that lemon cleaner Grandma Rose always used on the wood. Mom said we only had ten minutes. She needed Rose's rosary from the top drawer for the ICU nurse to put in her hand.
I went upstairs fast so I wouldn't have to hear how quiet it was down there. Our bedroom door was still open the way we'd left it that morning. Daylight came through the sliding doors and laid stripes across the dark wood floor. The sheer curtains moved a little. The bed was still messed from where I'd leaned on it, the light blanket creased.
Mom came in behind me and went straight to the dresser. Dad stood in the doorway in his dark blue shirt, not really coming in.
"The black pouch," Mom said. "She kept it under the handkerchiefs."
I didn't go to the dresser. I went to Rose's side of the bed. The nightstand was pulled out a couple inches like somebody had bumped it. That's when I saw it.
Behind the leg, half under the bed skirt, there was a water glass on its side.
I got down on my knees. My ponytail fell forward over my shoulder. The floor was cool on my shins through my jeans.
"Mom," I said.
She didn't look up. "Just a second, Lily."
"No. Look."
I reached and picked it up. It was Rose's glass, the short one with the etched flowers she only used for nighttime water. The bottom was damp inside and there was a faint ring on the wood floor where water had sat and dried. A little pillowy dust stuck to the wet edge.
Mom stopped with the drawer open. Dad stepped in.
I held it out. "It was back here."
Mom took it and turned it in her hands. Her gold necklaces caught the light from the balcony doors. She looked from the glass to the bed to the bathroom door and back.
"She filled this herself," she said quietly. "I brought her tea at nine. She said she didn't want anything else."
Dad crouched down next to me. His knees cracked. He touched the ring on the floor with his fingertip.
"That's dry," he said. "That's been there hours."
My chest felt tight. "I heard a thump that night," I said. "I thought I dreamed it."
Mom looked at me sharp. "What time?"
I shook my head. "I don't know. It was dark. I thought it was the house."
Nobody said anything for a second. The curtains breathed in and out.
Then Mom set the glass on the nightstand very carefully, like it might break. She put her hand flat on Rose's pillow.
"Oh," she said. "Oh, no."
She walked it through out loud, slow. Rose woke up thirsty after Mom checked on her. She tried to get up by herself instead of calling out. She reached for the water and knocked it off reaching too far. She tried to stand and her leg wouldn't work right. She caught the nightstand. That's why it moved. That's the thump.
"She tried to get to the bathroom," Mom said. Her voice got thin. "She got herself back into bed. That's why the blanket was twisted that way in the morning."
Dad stayed crouched. He stared at the space between the bed and the nightstand, measuring it with his eyes.
"That thump," he said. "I heard it too. Through the wall. I sat up. I almost got up."
He looked up at Mom. His stubble was darker because he hadn't shaved at the hospital. His eyes were red.
"I told myself it was nothing," he said. "I told myself if it was something you'd hear it. I rolled over."
Mom sat down on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. She didn't correct him or tell him it was okay right away. She just breathed.
"I kept thinking if we'd called at midnight instead of seven it would be different," she said. "I've been doing the math all week."
I sat back on my heels with the glass between us on the nightstand. The dried ring on the floor wasn't going away. It was right there in the daylight.
Dad put his hand over Mom's on the blanket. "She was already — " He stopped. Started again. "If she got up and fell trying, then whatever happened had already started. Before we could hear anything."
Mom nodded, small. Tears ran down without much sound. She wiped one with the back of her wrist.
"We didn't leave her thirsty," she whispered. "She tried. She was still trying to do it herself."
Dad looked at me then. He held his other hand out and I took it. His palm was warm and dry. We stayed like that in the bright room, the three of us around the empty bed, looking at the glass.
May you like
Mom picked up the rosary pouch from the dresser where she'd set it down. She slipped the glass upright and set it back in the center of the nightstand where Rose always kept it.
"Let's bring this to her," she said.
