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A Well-oiled Machine

by Rebecca Jane Lacko  
8/13/2007 / Short Stories

In the silence, Julie concentrated on the scent of the fastidiously laundered linens and bedclothes, dismissing the smell of the slowly decaying flowers at Mrs. Shaw's bedside. Candace, Mrs. Shaw's oldest daughter, said little about her mother's illness and impending death, busying herself with the laundry and dusting, sponge-bathing her mother on the days the eldercare service did not, and generally sweeping away anything deemed "unclean" in the room her mother had occupied since leaving the hospital.

Julie sat watching Mrs. Shaw's face. It was unanimated, emotionless, without color. Much like Mrs. Shaw before the cancer. Julie had known Mrs. Shaw for as long as she could remember. She and Julie's mother were a force to be reckoned with at the church; year in and year out organizing the choir program, coordinating bake sales to raise money for Sunday school, and out-pageanting every Christmas pageant in the tri-county area.

Whether by guilt or obligatory duty, Julie came to visit Mrs. Shaw every day the way her mother would have had she still been alive. Often she wondered if her visits were of any help. Candace seemed to bend over backwards for her mother, and yet, at every step, Mrs. Shaw issued orders about when and how things were to be done, and lamented that she couldn't do them herself. When Julie would visit the hospital, Mrs. Shaw would often have her prepare long lists detailing people to call and materials to gather for the next ladies' tea or church fund-raiser. "When they finally stop poking and prodding me and let me get back to what I do best, I'll need to have the following ready, Julie." The cancer had spread, and the doctors had little hope that Mrs. Shaw's condition would improve. Indeed, her health continued to fail, but her determination that this "inconvenience of a hospital stay" would soon be over and she would be unraveling the mess that the less competent had most assuredly created in her absence. While caring for her toddler, Candace did her best to maintain her mother's correspondence, pay her bills, clean both her own house and her mom's once a week, and announced to the congregation that her mother would be returning soon to begin selecting music for the Spring choir recital.

Julie was visiting Mrs. Shaw one evening in the hospital when Candace and her husband arrived with their daughter for a conference with the doctor. The oncologist told them that Mrs. Shaw had possibly a month to live, and asked if the family would prefer she spend her last days at home. Candace grimaced, "are you sure someone didn't get some test results mixed up? Maybe you have her confused with someone else. I just saw her yesterday, and I think she was looking much better." The doctor calmly restated the facts. Candace turned abruptly, sneering over her shoulder, "maybe you just haven't tried hard enough."

Julie witnessed the scene from a few feet away, and Candace strode toward her. "Why are you always hanging around? She doesn't need to see you, and I'm fed up with you butting in all the time. I'm her daughter, and I'm taking care of her. You're not needed here."

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Julie noticed Mrs. Shaw's house had a for sale sign in the yard. The house appeared empty and dark. A few weeks later, she ran into Candace at the drugstore. She looked worn out and miserable. She was balancing her daughter on one hip while trying to fill some prescriptions for her mother. She had a basket over her other arm containing pull-up style diapers for potty training and some prepackaged microwave meals. Julie took the basket from her, and said, "Candace, this must be a very difficult time for you. Please let me help." Candace brushed her off, "my mother just lays there every day, she hardly speaks, there's nothing you can do." Julie nodded and asked, "would it be helpful if I prepared some meals, or watched the baby while you got some rest?" Candace slumped forward and fought back hot salty tears. "You know, it would almost be better if it were me with the cancer! My mother would have everything running like a well-oiled machine." She was ashamed and exhausted.

The next day, Julie arrived with a casserole, a loaf of fresh bread, and fruit. Candace quietly showed her to the guest room where her mother lay, and shut the door. The baby was napping, and Candace planned to do the same. Julie sat with Mrs. Shaw and was shocked to see how thin and frail she looked. "I'm dying, you know," she said. Julie nodded. "Of course you do. Look at this body, look at it." Julie glanced hesitantly down at the parchment skin lying loosely over blue-green veins, age spots, and bruises from the IV. "People from church are visiting much less now, and they stay only a minute when they come," Mrs. Shaw's voice cracked. Julie replied gently, "often people don't know what to say. When my mom died, people avoided me just when I needed them most."

"Julie, people never knew what to say to me. I just took charge, told everyone in earshot what to do and how to do it, and never stopped to really get to know anyone. Now I'm lying here, and honey, no one knows me either. I've been attending our church for more than thirty years, and I don't think I ever prayed for anything other than my latest project to run according to schedule, or for someone to do something the way I wanted them to."

Julie was stunned. She sat very still and tried not to let her emotions register on her face. Her mother had taught her that reacting with anything but a cheerful smile was plain rude, but in this case, a smile would have been unwelcome. She fidgeted and shuffled her feet. "Dear," Mrs. Shaw added with uncustomary sweetness, "I just admitted something that I feel, for the very first time. It's OK for you to feel too."

Julie resumed her daily visits to Mrs. Shaw. Sometimes she was weak and tired, and the two would simply sit in silence, and Julie would hold her shrunken hand. Other times, Mrs. Shaw was more lively and they would baby-sit her granddaughter together, a smile quivering on Mrs. Shaw's purplish lips. Candace used the visits to rest, run errands, or work with the real estate agent on the sale of her mother's home.

Julie lay awake at night recounting Mrs. Shaw's ongoing confessions of a busy life spent denying herself and those around her "the right to feel," as she called it. "All these aches and pains in my body have taught me, Juliea little too late, I might addthat the pain of cancer is worse than the hurt I felt inside. I just shut off, I kept myself and everyone else busy so there could be no time to talk about feelings. I didn't want to share mine and I didn't want to hear about anybody else's."

Julie drank in these conversations as though they were with her own mother. Mrs. Shaw and her mom had been two of a kind, and Julie had always done what she was told and kept her feelings to herself. She thought about how Mrs. Shaw talked about never praying for others or even herself, just her projects and demands on others. Certainly it had never occurred to Julie to pray for Mrs. Shaw's recovery, and why had she come to visit that dour old woman to begin with? She thought about Candace, and how they were nothing more than acquaintances, although they had virtually grown up together, active participants in their mothers' productions. Had she been too busy for her own feelings?

Julie brought a pen and paper to Mrs. Shaw every day. She waited for one of Mrs. Shaw's "good days", then suggested that she share her thoughts in a letter to Candace. Julie wanted very much for Candace to hear, in her mother's words, the realizations that had brought so much peace to her heart. Mrs. Shaw frowned. "Candace? But she gets along just fine. Just look how she runs this household, everything neat and clean, like a well-oiled machine, I'd say." Julie took Mrs. Shaw by the hand, and breathed deeply. She lowered her head and gathered words that might resemble a prayer. She really didn't know where to begin, but she asked that Candace have what Mrs. Shaw called "the right to feel."

Julie arrived the next day to find Candace in tears on the sofa. "I'm so glad you're here," she said. "Mom has passed away."

"How do you feel?"

"Thank you for asking," Candace whispered, holding up a letter.

Rebecca Jane Lacko 2007 is a free-lance writer of issues concerning spirituality, children, nutrition, and families. Her blog, rjlacko.wordpress.com, has been featured on ABC.

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