By Silvia E. Hines
Their mother had been a literature professor before all this happened. She wrote probing op-ed pieces for the local newspaper, and her short stories were frequently published in literary magazines. She was proud to have placed one of her stories in the prestigious Paris Review, and after that she’d set her sights on The New Yorker.
Her demeanor had changed slowly from bold, serious, and kind to a simplistic sweetness and affability. She seemed to be joking all the time. In the past, her sense of humor had been astute and somewhat droll; now it was childlike. Her hair, which had always been tastefully colored and coiffed, had become wispy and unruly. Her conversations began to project a quality of bemusement.
When her children, Annie and Steve, obtained a room for her in the assisted living center, she didn’t protest. Her only concern seemed to be that her laptop and tablet should come along with her. When it became clear that Steve, the younger sibling, visited their mother more regularly at the facility than Annie did, Annie told herself it was because Steve’s schedule as a psychotherapist was more flexible than hers; neurosurgery is grueling and often involves emergency calls.
The truth was, she visited less frequently because she couldn’t accept this new version of her mother. She longed for the mother who mulled over each of Margaret Atwood’s novels with her over coffee, the mother who studied ballet and tai chi with her, and especially, the mother who met up with her every year at the yoga center in the Berkshires, where on wet mornings they’d sit on the veranda that faced the mountain peaks and silently share their awe as they watched the mist roll in over the lake.
Who was this new person she was forced to call Mom? What was the point of this? What happened to the mother who’d encouraged her to apply to medical school, and then to do the surgical residency she’d been considering—the one that required the greatest degree of physical dexterity? Her mother had touched her daughter’s long fingers gently and reminded her that she’d had the most well developed fine-motor skills of all the children in her preschool class, probably in the whole school. There were no missing strands in her weavings, no messed-up patterns in her sewing projects or constructions, and so there would be no misplaced nerve tissue or muscle fibers for her fortunate patients. They’d laughed together heartily when she said that. How could she not cry when she remembered such conversations?
Their mother continued to write short stories, but the new ones were simpler, and eventually, almost nonsensical. She still used her laptop and seemed to remember how to submit her stories to at least one of the magazines she’d had her work published in. Neither Annie nor Steve was willing to suggest their mother stop sending out her stories. Annie tried to get their mother interested in one of the activities offered at the center—drawing, singing, gardening, yoga—but their mother was, after all, a writer.
One afternoon, when Annie arrived at the assisted living center for her bimonthly visit—Steve was already there—sitting next to their mother at the small vinyl table that sat in the center of the room. They were eating a light lunch together. Annie kissed them both and pulled up a chair.
“Annie,” her mother said. “We have a big surprise for you!”
“After you finish your lunch, we’ll tell her,” Steve said.
The laptop was already open on the table. The letter her mother displayed on the screen looked like a standard one: “We are happy to accept your story submission for publication in our magazine….” Annie read it carefully to herself and then aloud when her mother requested she do that. She was bewildered but careful not to show it. She looked over at Steve, whose face was deadpan. Their mother was grinning, looking happier than she had for a while.
“Can you believe it?” their mother said. “This new magazine just sort of popped up in my email. I guess they do that sometimes. The nurse helped me submit my story. And they liked it!”
“Well, what do you know!” Steve said.
Something about Steve’s face looked suspiciously familiar to Annie. It was the face of her younger brother when he’d floored everyone in the family by giving away the bulk of his Halloween candy to kids at a nearby housing project. Or when he’d insisted the family sponsor a Guatemalan orphan child, to whom he diligently wrote letters and sent photos. Their mother had dubbed him the Biggest Heart; it seemed he had the biggest heart, and she had the best fine-motor skills. “They both would save lives,” their mother had said.
So then she knew what he had done.
When their visit was over, Steve and Annie walked together to the elevator. “How did you choose the name for the magazine you invented?” she asked.
“Easy,” he said. “Most of the magazines have cute names, and so does mine. And I thought she’d like The Write Story because, remember how she used to love puns?”
