THE CROSSING
By Maureen Mancini Amaturo
The doctor said, “Soon now.” He said, “Maybe there are family members you’d like to call. Anyone close by who she would like to be here, who might want to be here?”
At that moment, I stood in a vacuum, in isolation, as if there were no one else, had never been anyone else in our social circle, our neighborhood, or in our family. No friends, no relatives, no co-workers, no acquaintances. At that moment, no one came to mind. I wanted these final moments for myself.
Thoughts went missing, and my mind was under the spell of the green line on the black monitor. Those numbers, those green numbers jumping a point or two higher, dropping three. The nurse’s hand on my shoulder startled me. I heard the whoosh of the ventilator, the beep of the monitor, the bleat of a new blood pressure reading, the echo of the sound system outside her room paging doctors, but I did not hear the nurse enter. “Can she hear me?” I asked.
“Yes, she can. Go ahead. She’ll know you’re here.”
I rose from my seat and approached slowly, as if afraid of my own mother. My mother, now tethered to machines and tubes and wires and bed rails, trapped beneath very crisp, white sheets that were pulled tightly and tucked perfectly, a nubby cotton throw folded over her feet. It was such a thin blanket. I cupped her toes on each foot and squeezed. I wanted to warm her, massage her, bring her some comfort, any comfort. Her feet were so cold. “Excuse me, nurse, her feet are so cold. Can you bring another blanket?”
The nurse nodded, smiled, started to explain. I heard only the last sentence, “Her body is sending the blood to her vital organs.” She straightened that useless, thin blanket. “Sure, I’ll be right back.”
I walked to the head of her bed. If my mother could see what her hair looked like just then, she would have been very upset. Her hair was her thing, her identity. It was even her career. She had worked in a salon all her life. I brushed her hair with my hand, smoothed the sides down until it was no longer splayed across the pillow. “There, Mom.” I fixed the hair behind her ear on the other side. “That’s better.” I tugged at the cold sheets and pressed them with the palms of my hands. I whispered in her ear, “You were a good mother.”
I pulled my chair closer and held her hand, careful not to dislodge an IV port or pull the corner of the white tape. I rubbed her forearm. “Does that help, Mom? Does that feel warmer now?” I think her closed eyes fluttered. I reached up and pulled at the front of her hair so her bangs were side swept, just as she would want them. “You have such beautiful skin.” I brushed my fingers across each of her cheek bones. “Now it looks like you’re wearing blush. I would put your false lashes on for you, but they won’t let me. No lipstick, either, because of that big tube. It would get all over their equipment, and it would be a waste of lipstick, right? You never liked to waste anything.”
I took out my comb and teased the side of her hair then smoothed it down. “There. That’s the side you always said looked flat. It looks even now. You look beautiful. You’re ready to cross.”
The nurse had not yet returned, and I was glad. My mother’s last moments on this plane belonged to me. I held Mom’s hand again. I don’t know how many minutes or seconds passed until the green line on the monitor went straight, like a horizon, making room for her soul to sail over it. The numbers were no longer changing. Zeroes, all zeroes. Other than the soft tap of my tears hitting her taut pillow case, it was silent and peaceful, as crossings should be.
