The Drawing Lesson by Mary E. Martin

Author:Mary E. Martin [Martin, Mary E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781450229371
Publisher: iUniverse, Inc.
Published: 2010-06-09T04:00:00+00:00

TORONTO 2004

CHAPTER 24

Balancing the breakfast tray of pureed egg, buttered toast, and prune juice, Celia Smith tapped on her mother’s bedroom door. The nurse, her face filled with concern, let her in. Worriedly, Celia drew closer to mother’s bedside.

As she set down the tray, Celia asked the nurse, “Did she have a comfortable night?” Her mother, Margaret, lay heaped like a broken bird under the cover. Gently, she touched her bony shoulder. “Mother?”

The nursed pursed her lips and shook her head. “Up and down. But I’m sure she’ll turn the corner soon.”

Margaret’s eyes flew open and fixed her daughter with an angry stare. “You’re leaving again?”

“I have to get to work, Mother, but I brought your breakfast.” She held out the dish of eggs and bits of toast. “Your nurse is here to stay with you.”

“Don’t leave!” she cried out, pushing away the food. “I won’t be here much longer to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me, but I have to be at the gallery by nine.”

“Take the day off,” she pleaded. “I’ll probably be gone tomorrow—no trouble to you then.” She turned her head to the wall.

Celia sighed. “You’re not going to die, Mother. The doctor says you’ll get over this bout.”

“Close the curtains, then,” Margaret sniffed. “I’ll just lie here alone.”

Celia could scarcely breathe. “All right, mother. I’ll stay for a little while.”

Within five minutes, mother was snoring noisily, seeming to suck the air from the room. Celia peeked through the curtains to see people lined up at the bus stop. She could go downtown. Mother would sleep the morning.

Not that she would find freedom at work in her tiny, glassed-in cubicle, once she got there. In the copyediting department of the art gallery, her authority was strictly limited by a pamphlet of rules. After ten years, her scope extended to ensuring that the essence of the life and work of an artist was expressed within two-and-one-half column inches—two hundred words at most. How could the significance of an artistic life be distilled into such cramped confines? Yet she knew hers would never fill a quarter of that allotted space.

She bit her lip and whispered, “I should go to work soon, Mother.”

The old woman whimpered in her sleep. Celia left the room, softly closing the door behind her. Standing in the darkened hallway, she wondered which way to turn. From the upstairs window, she looked onto the back garden, bursting with lush life. Then she remembered the appointment with the lawyer, Mr. Peacock, at noon. Downstairs, she made some coffee and called the gallery, telling them she would not be in. No one seemed to care. Celia tried to make a plan for the morning.

I should do something useful. I can start to clear out the attic—someday, I’ll move from here. I’ll ask the lawyer about selling the house once mother is gone.

In the bright and airless attic, she worked open a window and sat before a huge steamer trunk. Mother’s things—photograph albums, wedding pictures, birthday cards, and invitations—comprised the whole history of her life.

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