Rapture Basement

My mother lies in the hospital bed, scrubbed clean and sleeping. Her hair is short and smooth, luminous gray against her skin in the light of this overcast morning. For years I’ve seen her—on the rare occasions I’ve seen her—only in honey-blonde wigs. As far as I know, she’s worn them everywhere: to the grocery store and secondhand shops; to teach Sunday school and hand out tracts in the park; and to sit with great forbearance at her table, or in the room with sofas used only once or twice a year for company. Only now do I realize how poorly the brassy shade suits her. Overnight I’ve grown accustomed to the hissing of the ventilator, the beeping of monitors, the carts rattling up corridors, but as her meds wear off the noise disturbs my mom. The citrus stink of disinfectant from the mopping of the hallway seems to stir her up too. Every so often, she gropes toward the IV or yanks up her gown or sinks too far down on the propping pillows, and the nurse rushes in. As my mom slowly emerges from a medical coma, agitation precedes her understanding. Periodically she studies my face with her somber gray eyes as if she may or may not know me. Once when I squeezed, she squeezed back. A good sign. Mostly she dozes. I’ve been holding her hand and speaking to her calmly, so they don’t have to resort to restraints.