I tried to hold the teaspoon in my right hand, but it trembled treacherously, so I set it back into the cup. He used to go to the bank by himself, never really saying what he did there. And now my son was proposing I make just one little signature, so that all of this would effectively stop being mine. He quickly gathered the papers into his folder, snapped the latch shut, and left, loudly banging the cabinet doors on his way out as if by accident.
I walked through those rooms and spoke to them quietly, like they were children. It’s nothing, we’ll furnish you, we’ll heat you, we’ll live here. The tests, the diagnosis I still can’t say calmly. Cancer.
Mornings at the oncologist, afternoons at the pharmacy, evenings in queues at the clinic for paperwork, nights spent doing laundry, cooking, sitting by my husband’s bed listening to his heavy breathing. Mom, if they go to court, it’s over for me. I went to the bank alone. Early in the morning I’d get on the bus, bring him homemade soup in a jar, change him, wash him, beg the doctors for more attention.
I listened to him and stared at the bag of IV sets in my hands. If a loan needed sorting, I went to the bank. If oncology trips were needed, I got on the bus. I’d come back to our house and catch myself wanting to say, “Stas, imagine, that receptionist again.
” As soon as they discharge you, I’m moving in with you. I walked home leaning on my cane, and everything around me seemed higher than before. In the hallway stood his sneakers, in the bathroom his gels and razors, on the table his laptop. Well, finally the lady of the house is back.
He led me to the kitchen, sat me at the table, put a bowl of soup in front of me, pills on a saucer, a glass of water. He led me to the refrigerator. I took them back then, when you ended up in the hospital. I picked up one card.
And sometimes I need cash for the store. He spoke in the tone you use with disobedient children. He talked to the doctors, he went to the bank, he answered the phone calls. He brought tea to my bed, turned on my favorite old movies.
During rehab, a lawyer came to see us, a short woman with glasses. I’ll come to your house on such and such a day at noon. Mom, come on. The word old sounded like he had packed me into the old folks’ bin along with the lawyer.
A young woman walked into the kitchen. Natan snapped irritably and went to the hallway. He walked in. So what’s new, Mr.
Rabbit? The rabbit answered and turned to me. After all, it’s written there that the mother can live in the house until the end of her life. A few years ago, after your husband’s first heart attack, you came to me, the two of you.
This means that neither the spouse nor especially the child can claim them as shared property. Let at least something of ours go to those who aren’t close to us, but who truly need it. He turned to his son again. I turned to Natan.
The notary quietly slipped the pen into her pocket. Not hospital linoleum, not the unsteady ground at Stas’s grave, but our old, creaking floor in the house that still belongs to me. He spun around sharply to face me. And who exactly are you to interfere in our family?
After the stroke, I moved in with you. You didn’t move in with me. You moved into a house you thought was almost yours. So a stranger will have access to your money, and I won’t?
With your permission, Mrs. Stefania, I’ll call the bank now and begin the procedure to revoke the power of attorney. Said the rabbit, tucking the documents into his folder. And the choice remains mine.
So what now, Mom? Fine, just don’t expect me to run over when you get worse. A few days later, the rabbit and I went to the bank. He won’t try to have me declared legally incompetent, and he won’t start a war over the house.
Do you know what conclusion I came to?