The Battle
By Pat Lee
The dripping water off the paddle was the only sound Nancy heard, as she gently guided the canoe out onto the calm lake. She was surrounded by inky darkness, and enveloped by the hushed essence of nature at night. Her navigation of the craft took her into a pocket of mist, hovering over the lake. She sat with eyes closed, feeling the moisture caress her skin, tickling the fine hairs and wished it were the breath of her lover.
The paddle rested across the sides of the canoe and the imperceptible rocking of the craft lulled her. It lulled her like she had been lulled in her childhood, by security and the complacent naivety that the world was just, right and true.
When she opened her eyes and looked heavenward, she searched for answers to questions haunting her. Not the philosophical age-old quest of “why am I here?” but “how can I be here?” How could she gaze at the millions of stars that graced the skies for millennia, when the other could not? The other, who was wise, loving, sacred - who was mother, child, sister, aunt - who was with her and within her!
A loon sang hauntingly to its mate, breaking the silence. Nancy sighed, knowing the task she must do, but suddenly was frightened by the finality of it. Once done, there would be no going back. Once done, could not be undone.
She hesitated and her thoughts pulled back to when the world first began to teeter, to the start of the day, which began with brilliant sunshine and was now ending with darkest sorrow.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the tiny house. Nancy’s
routine was unhurried, practiced, like she could do it with her eyes closed. She scooped muffin batter into tins and after a quick wipe at a few errant drops of mixture with a cloth, she put the pan into the oven and set the timer. Quickly, she glanced at the clock on the wall, gauging her time before setting out. She had half an hour. If she timed it right, the muffins would be done just minutes before she had to leave.
Her review of the tasks of the day was interrupted by a soft noise and she froze. Her eyes stole to the clock again and belatedly she realized it was Wednesday. How stupid. Wednesday was early day. How could she have forgotten?
The hand that grabbed her arm above the elbow squeezed tightly, causing pain to shoot up her arm. She was whirled around. Another hand snaked out and struck her, the sound of skin against skin echoed around the kitchen.
“How many times have I told you I don’t want muffins on Wednesdays!” screeched the woman. The eyes of the attacker were wickedly blue, almost icy, but sharp and focused. The rage emanating from them was overwhelming and Nancy shrunk back, trying to pull free from the grasp.
“Mom, you have muffins every day,” she explained quietly, her voice non-threatening and neutral.
“Not on Wednesdays, you stupid girl! How many times do I have to explain it to you?” For emphasis, her mother griped harder, causing Nancy to wince.
“Fine then, we can keep them for afternoon tea or for later,” she conceded. “What would you like instead?”
“Toast,” her mother practically growled, releasing her and stalking towards the bathroom. “I always have toast.”
Nancy massaged her arm where bruising marks were forming. She sighed and lifted the lid to the old-fashioned breadbox. Taking out two slices of whole wheat bread, she placed them into the toaster and depressed the button. She moved to the coffee maker, pouring a cup for her mother, who had returned and sat at her usual place.
Nancy carefully placed the coffee cup on the table and spoke softly, “Your toast will be ready in a minute. Would you like jam or honey on it?”
“Oh Nancy dear, wouldn’t it be nice to have muffins some morning? It’s been so long since I’ve had muffins I can’t remember what they taste like,” her mother looked up expectantly.
Nancy sighed. It was getting more difficult to find some semblance of normalcy, while dealing with her mother’s dementia. Every day was a constant battle, some worse than others. She quickly glanced at the clock and wondered if she would have to call in sick at work again. On her mother’s worst days Nancy was unable to leave her alone and she could impose on their neighbours only so often.
The toaster signaled it was done and Nancy pulled out the slices of bread, placed them on a plate and put the plate, a knife and the tub of honey in front of her mother.
“Here you go. You can put on as much honey as you like. Is there anything else you want before I leave for work?”
The woman grabbed the knife with one hand and snagged Nancy’s wrist with the other, turning it so the serrated edge of the knife lay directly on the vein.
“You’re going to leave me aren’t you?” she yelled, pinning Nancy’s wrist to the table. “Is this my last meal then? Huh? You’re going to walk out that door and hope I rot in my own filth.”
Nancy felt the blade cut into her skin. A small bead of blood rose from the wound. She tried to make a grab for the knife and she felt it sink deeper into her skin. Without any thought her desire for self-preservation kicked in. She fisted her left hand and threw her entire weight into the punch at her mother’s temple.
The knife bounced off the table and clattered to the floor. Nancy clamped down on her right wrist, ran to the sink and turned the tap on. She assessed the damage, while the cold water hit her wound. It wasn’t as bad as she had expected but it had been close, very close. She felt rather than heard the presence behind her and whirled, ready to defend herself again if need be.
“What happened? Did you cut yourself? Oh dear, you should tell my daughter, Nancy, to have a look at it,” her mother persisted.
“It’s nothing, just a scratch. I need to get a band-aid on it. Why don’t you sit and finish your coffee and toast.” Nancy walked numbly to the bathroom. She found the band-aids, thankful again the cut had just broken the skin. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and her thoughts went to the future. She envisioned the endless days of uncertainty, of never knowing if her mother would be lucid or even know if she, Nancy, were there. She realized, because of their financial situation, she would have to care for her mother, once so loving. They had no money for the medications needed to help deal with this problem and certainly not the funds required for her to be placed in a private home.
Nancy saw what her life would become, if this stranger, who had loved her didn’t take it first. She gripped the edge of the small vanity, instantly knowing what had to be done.
Nancy’s gaze rested on her mother lying at the bottom of the canoe. After spending the day with her, Nancy persuaded her mother to go for a ride in the country, to a small lake, where she knew an old canoe was beached. Being out in the sunshine worked wonders and her mother complied, until it got dark. By then she had to be restrained with the duct tape Nancy brought from home.
Her mother mumbled against the gag in her mouth. Nancy did not remove it, but took off the blindfold from her mother’s eyes. The gaze meeting hers was neither lucid nor insane. It was lifeless, as if the soul had already departed.
Not bearing to keep the gaze any longer, Nancy looked at the ebony water, as still as a sheet of glass. Her own reflection mirrored back and she saw in her eyes the same lifelessness, the same empty soulless stare. Was she becoming her mother already? Is this the final act that would push her soul over the edge, just as surely as she would push her mother’s body over that same edge?
As her gaze flicked between her mother’s and her own in the reflection of the water, she made her decision. She picked up the oar and paddled slowly back to the shore. Both had won the battle, for today.