Underground Fugue by Margot Singer

Author:Margot Singer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Melville House
Published: 2017-04-17T16:00:00+00:00

ESTHER

Toward the end of June, the heat comes back, another record-setting, tarmac-melting wave. The TV weather map is dotted with glaring yellow suns and bright red heat index alerts. Public health officials urge the elderly not to leave their homes, warning of the dangers of the heat. In Hyde Park, bikini-clad girls sprawl on lawn chairs and leap through the fountains, as if they’re at the beach.

Her mother is irritable. She is itchy, she is hot, her mouth is dry, her muscles ache. Esther brings her cold drinks and ice chips in a cup. She wraps damp towels around her neck and feet.

It’s too hot to cook, too hot to eat. Esther considers cucumber soup, cold poached salmon, an arugula salad, then gives up and just makes scrambled eggs. Her mother takes a few bites and pushes the plate away. They flip through trashy magazines. Splayed across the floor, the titles almost form a sentence: Tatler, Cosmo, Yours, OK! They can laugh together about Russell Crowe’s tantrums and Camilla’s hideous wedding hat, at least.

But her mother can’t get comfortable. Her back hurts, her neck hurts. She wants to sit up, she wants to lie down, she can’t catch her breath. Esther repositions the fan, then unplugs it and moves it to the sitting room and helps her mother down the stairs onto the sofa. It’s a little cooler there, at least. She props and re-props the pillows, brings her another drink.

Half an hour later, she finds her mother struggling to stand; now she wants to go back upstairs; now she’s got to pee. Esther grasps her around the waist and half lifts, half drags her up. It is a good thing her mother has lost so much weight. She frets and frowns, slaps at Esther’s hands, pulls her arm away. Every time Esther leaves the room, she calls again for help.

A different nurse arrives in the afternoon. Zofia is on holiday, it seems. Esther misses Zofia. This English nurse has lanky hair and pasty, blemished skin. She has an annoying habit of tilting her voice upward into a question at the end of every phrase.

The nurse wraps the blood pressure cuff around her mother’s arm and pumps, her lips moving as she counts. “One hundred over sixty,” she says to Esther. “It’s a bit low. She could be dehydrated?”

“I don’t know,” Esther says. “She pees. She drinks.”

Her mother’s eyes are glassy. She fingers her strand of pearls like prayer beads. “Take me downstairs,” she rasps. “I can’t breathe up here.”

“Oh my god,” Esther says. “Not again.”

The nurse pulls the stethoscope out of her ears. “Her heart rate is a little fast, perhaps? She seems rather anxious. It could be the heat?”

“She’s like this all the time now. She’s never comfortable. I can’t leave her alone for a minute.”

“It’s terminal agitation,” the nurse says, as if agitation, not the cancer, were the incurable disease. “It’s not uncommon at the end?”

“You’d know better than me.”

“For god’s sake,” her mother cries. “Why won’t anybody listen to me?”

“You can increase the morphine dosage, if you like,” the nurse says.

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