Angel Of Mercy

The sun was setting. Beautiful hues of orange and pink peaked through the window. The house was so old; you could feel a chilled gust of wind seep through the window cracks and outlets. I sat in the wicker chair my mom used to rock me in, which was still planted firmly in her room. 

Molly Teller, a friend of mine whom I met in nursing school, came over to me looking as if she was the grim reaper himself to give me the news I was already expecting.

“From what you have told me, and given how lucid she is now, I’m assuming this is a good day for her?”

“A very good day to be honest.”

“She’s entering the end stages. I’m so sorry.”

I nodded my head and pursed my lips hoping that would keep me from crying. “Thank you for being here, Molly. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Sure.” She hovered and fidgeted with her fingers.

I could tell she wanted to say something, but I already knew what she was going to say. “I don’t want to hear it, Molly. I can’t put my mom into a home. She’d haunt me in her afterlife.”

Molly leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, nodded and kept her mouth shut, then let herself out.

“You there. What are you doing sitting in my chair?” Lucille Gaunt was in the end stages of Alzheimers. You’d think I’d be used to the fact that she couldn’t recognize her own daughter by now, but it was salt burning in an open wound time and time again. 

“I’m your daughter, Lucille. Allison, remember?”

“Come closer, then, so I can take a good look at you.”

The natural light from the room was fading quickly. I was standing away from her bed, so I turned on the overhead light but dimmed it so it wasn’t too bright, then made my way to her.

She was a classic beauty. One you’d expect to see in a silent noir film. Her once chestnut hair was now white as snow, yet it still held onto its natural wave. And though her eyelids hovered a little lower over her glassy eyes, they still sparked with an amber hazel glint. 

I stayed toward the foot of the bed, leaning in just enough for her to get a good look. I had made the mistake just last week of getting closer to her after her request, only to be slapped in the face for lying to her and saying I was not her daughter.

But this time, much to my surprise, she smiled softly, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath in. “My Allison. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, mom,” I said as I inched closer, ensuring my hands made contact with hers so as to not startle the woman. Her hands were frigid—skin almost transparent looking—and I could feel her bones under my fingerprints…a shell of the woman I once knew to be fearless, shrewd, graceful, and authoritative. 

“Is that your purse, Allison? Quite big don’t you think?

I stood and walked over to the little table where Molly had put it and left her medical bag. “That’s Molly’s. I’ll give her a call.”

Lucille nodded slowly.

“Is there anything I can do to help you mom?”

“Other than putting me out of this misery, no, my dear. Nothing at all.” Her eyes closed and she drifted off to a dream state I only hoped would be better than her reality.

I sat back in the chair, looking out the window this time to see stars dancing in the night sky. 

My mind raced with, “How can I help her? How can I make the rest of the time she has on this unforgiving Earth somewhat peaceful? I can’t give her any different medication than she’s already taking. She’s already home instead of in a hospital and in her comfortable bed.” I must have dozed off, but I had a dream I was falling and I jumped in the chair.

Mom was still asleep, but I saw the medical bag on the table again which reminded me, I still needed to call Molly.

“Hey, you left your bag here.”

“I knew I felt a little lighter. I’ll stop by tomorrow after work to check on you all and grab the bag.

“Sounds good. See you then.” I hung up and looked at my mom again, remembering her witty answer to the very question that’s been bouncing in my head. 

“Other than putting me out of this misery…” Could I do that? She’s already been diagnosed with a disease that has a toe tag reserved for her. All I would be doing by moving up that reservation would be helping her find peace faster. Right?

I shook my head. What was I thinking? Killing my own mother? I took a melatonin or five and went to bed, thinking that surely, I’d have more sense in the morning.

***

I woke up to the smell of breakfast. It was a refreshing thought until I questioned who was making it. I was still in bed, mom should be in hers, and no one else lives in the house. Throwing off the covers, I bolted for the kitchen. No one was in there. A pan sizzled with some broken, and some not so broken eggs, in it. The orange juice was sitting on the counter, and the fridge was still open. I turned the burner off.

“Mom! Lucille? Where are you?” My heart was racing. She had wandered off before but it was during the day while I was showering or something. I never left her alone long enough for her to get very far, and she usually went to the same place—the rose garden in the backyard.

I ran to the back door. It was open. “Lucille, are you out here?”

There was no mom, but rather a trail of rose petals which had been plucked and scattered as a flower girl would do down a wedding aisle. I followed, only for the path to disappear as I turned the corner. I ran to the front yard, looked up and down the street, but still didn’t see her. Turning to face the house, I noticed spots of blood on the wrap-around porch.

“Mom! Where are you? Lucille Clarise Gaunt you need to answer me.” My heart was racing. Skipping every other step, I made my way up to the porch, and that’s when I heard muffled whimpering. “Mom?”

“Stay back!” She was curled up in the corner of the porch. There was blood on her nightgown, smeared on her face, and she was cradling one of her hands.

“Lucille. I’m here to help. You have some blood on you, hun. Are you hurt?”

Lucille looked down at herself, slowly, as if thinking I was trying to trick her.

“Oh my.” Lucille covered her mouth with her hands and winced. “My hands.”

“Can I help you clean up?”

Lucille nodded. 

When she stood, I noticed her feet were also leaving a small bloodied trail.

“Let’s get you back into the kitchen and clean you up.”

“Oh. My eggs.”

“Don’t you worry about your eggs. I’ll take care of them.”

We took our time walking back around the house as all other doors were locked. 

“Don’t forget the flowers,” Lucille said as we passed by a small bunch of flowers on the ground next to the rose bush. I picked them up carefully and joined her side. After setting the flowers on the table, I escorted mom to the kitchen sink. “Put your hands under there, Mom. I’m going to get some towels and bandages.”

Lucille let the water run over her hands. When I returned, she was reaching up into one of the cabinets. “Polly, where do you keep your vases?” Aunt Polly was Lucille’s sister. My mom had taken care of her when she had knee surgery a couple years ago. And even though Polly was aware of her sister’s condition, she had no intention of returning the favor. 

“Mom. I’ll get the vase. Can you sit down at the kitchen table, please?” I sighed. There was blood everywhere; it looked like a murder scene. Thoughts about our conversation last night popped back into my head.

Lucille did as she was told. By looking at her hands and feet, I suspected the following for this morning's events. A fairly lucid moment of wanting to make breakfast, most likely for Polly given her name being mentioned. Then as she cooked and looked out the window, she decided to take a look at the roses—a ritual she had done almost every day after my father passed away from a heart attack three years ago. She probably began plucking the bad rose petals then forgot what she was doing and just plucked anything in front of her.

I turned her hands over. They were shredded. A couple thornes were still stuck in her hands. 

“Mom? What happened to your hands?”

“I wanted to bring some roses to the table for breakfast. You know what happened next?”

She paused waiting for me to answer.

“I don’t. That’s why I’m asking, mom.”

“Those little fuckers scratched me when I tried to pull them.”

“Well, yeah, they did. They are roses, mom, they have thorns on the stem.”

She paused again, but this time, I swear I could see smoke coming from her ears as she processed this information as if it were news to her.

“Of course they do.” She straightened up. “Anyway, someone yelled out for someone named, Mom, and scared the living daylights out of me. So I dropped the bouquet of flowers and ran. I found a good hiding place too.”

“Yes, you did.”

She beamed from ear to ear as if she had won an award.

“Well, it looks like you might have stepped on your bouquet.” Fairly deep punctures peppered her feet. I looked at my mother with a smile of pure love hoping it would hide my scrunched worried eyes. “I’m going to call Dr. Davis for you. He’ll get you patched up in no time.”

“He can do more than patch me up.” She giggled like a schoolgirl. “You know what I mean, Polly?”

“Yes, Lus, I know what you mean.” I shook my head at her.

“I’ll go wait for him in my bed.” She raised and lowered her eyebrows a few times then leaned up to walk.

I helped her get to her bed. As soon as her head made an impression on the pillow, she closed her eyes. I called Dr. Davis’ office. 

“Hi. I need Dr. Davis to do a home check at the Gaunt household.”

“I’m so sorry, Allison, but he left this morning for a conference. Dr. Tibble is covering for him, but I’m afraid she’s still at the Shadow Valley Assisted Living Center. The earliest she could get here would be first thing in the morning.”

“Someone needs to come here asap. My mom is literally bleeding on her hands and feet.”

“I’ll see if I can get a hold of Dr. Taylor. It’s his day off, but….”

“But you’ll do me the courtesy of seeing if a mid- to high-six-figured doctor can do his goddamn job and stop by to help bandage an Alzheimer's patient's shredded hands and feet. Thanks. Looking forward to it.” And I threw my phone across the room. These fucking doctors make you feel all kinds of special when you’re alive and kicking, spoon feeding their vacations to the Bahamas every other month. But once you step over that terminally ill status and they know your river of money will be damned up, they cut you off cold turkey.

Mom slept, and slept, and slept. The morning had really taken it out of her. And after a few hours of no response from the doctor’s office, I fell asleep in the wicker chair. 

“Polly! Polly!” She was calling my Aunt again. I couldn’t understand why she’d remember someone who could care less about her, but she couldn’t remember me, her own daughter who has been taking care of her since day one. The daughter who uprooted her life to move in with her so she didn’t have to go to a nursing home, which she had been making me promise to never let her go into since dad died. 

“Mom, I’m right here.”

Lucille wound up her arm the best she could while sitting in her bed.

“Do NOT hit me.”

I couldn’t tell if it was the sting of the slap which forced tears from my eyes, or if it was the sting knowing that it was my mother who had looked me dead in the eye, didn’t recognize who I was, and then didn’t listen to me when I said not to slap me. My head turned naturally with the force, which seemed more powerful than I gave it credit for.

There was the bag. Without a thought I stuck my hand in, grabbed the first thing it touched, and jammed it over my mother’s face.

I jumped awake, again.

Mom was in bed, a relief after this morning’s adventure, but I noticed the medical bag missing from the table. It was on the floor, its contents strewn about as if it had been knocked off. Looking at Lucille again, I noticed the covers weren’t rising with her breaths.

I walked over. Two syringes were sticking out of her neck, their liquid most assuredly flushed into my mom’s body.

“Mom! Mom!” I shook her. I was a nurse but because it was my mom, my first instinct was to shake her first. Tears poured out of my eyes. I reached for her wrist, her thin, delicate wrist to feel her pulse. Nothing. As gently as possible I turned her head so I could check her jugular where the syringes weren’t. Nothing.

“No, no, no, no, no. It was just a dream. I couldn’t have. Mom, please. Wake up.”

“Alli?”

I didn’t take my eyes off of my mom. I couldn’t. But I recognized Molly’s voice.

“Allison. What happened?”

I caught a glimpse of the last few syringes on the floor. They were close to me. I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t just stand here anymore. I wanted to run. I wanted to punch something. I wanted to kill myself. 

The floor creaked. Molly was tiptoeing closer to me. Tears running down my face, sweat running down my back. I yelled—a raw, abhorrent, growl of a roar. I swept my hand down, grabbed whatever it touched, then charged at my friend. I jammed the object into her upper scapula.

Molly wrapped her arms around me. We crumpled into the tightest hug I had ever had and yet, it wasn’t tight enough. She took the object out of my hand and put it down next to her. It was an epipen with its safety cap still on. I wailed as I kicked and screamed. Molly just squeezed tighter and tighter. 

“It’s going to be okay, Alli. I’m here. I got you. We’re going to figure all this out.”

All of a sudden, I felt a pinch. I went limp.

“I need an ambulance and coroner to be sent to the Gaunt household immediately. There’s been a tragic accident,” I heard Molly’s muffled voice say. Then everything went dark.