Tapestry of Family

If it had been anyone else, Rosalyn would have stayed home. She was retired from the theater of politics and being the smiling yet silent fixture for the ambitious men in her family. As a little girl, she had enjoyed the free food and balloons when her father had his successful tenure as state Senator, before he joined the diplomatic corps, as well as getting to play hide and seek under the banquet tables with the kids of staff members. It was wonderful those few years in France before the war, even if it meant dressing up and attending diplomatic functions with her parents. Her role was to entertain the children of other diplomats and politicians.

It was easier and even sometimes thrilling 60 years ago, when her husband, Isaiah, had beaten long term incumbent John C. Montgomery for US house during the civil rights debate. Now, she just wasn’t interested in it anymore. Still, it was Spencer, her only child, trying to follow the family tradition and in his father’s footsteps. Rosalyn felt obligated to give some support.

“You don’t need me, Spencer. The voters won’t care that your mother is related to past politicians and diplomats. You need to run on your own merit, your skills, and what you can hope to bring to the Senate,” Rosalyn had argued.

“I know, mom. But I’m a newcomer, and the other three candidates on the party ticket are better known,” Spencer explained. “You of all people should know that it is often not what you know, but who you know that gets backers, funding, and ultimately votes.”

Rosalyn sighed, “It is often the case, that who you know matters, even when one doesn’t try to use family connections. But in the end, it doesn’t matter as much as you think and can cause more problems than you want. Your father hated involving family, myself excluded, of course, and only used it once with less than satisfactory results.” Isaiah’s own father had been delighted in the idea of a child in political power and tried hard to influence the campaign before Isaiah had cut that tie. The relationship between father and son, never warm, remained strained until the elder MacAfee’s death in 1969.

In the end, Rosalyn agreed to attend the soiree for Spencer in Asheville. She set her foot down at multiple appearances at events scheduled before the primary in May, negotiating to just to one before the primary, and one after, if he cleared that hurdle. She refused to commit to either election night appearance.

“I’ve done my time of waiting for results in a crowded room until the wee hours of the morning.” Rosalyn told her son. “I’d far rather be at home, where I can listen to the results on the radio.”

She did least look forward to spending the night in the beautiful historic hotel just outside downtown, where the soiree was to be held. Her friend Sarah was picking her up. They would spend the night, then meet two other friends, taking in a play the next day.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror. Not bad for an old woman, she thought. The reflection revealed a slim, elderly woman wearing a powder blue dress with a short cap of curls, blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Even though she was ninety-four, Rosalyn looked a good decade younger. She took some pride in being able to wear close to the same size clothing she did as a young woman, as well as still having the ability to live alone, even though she had given up driving five years ago.

She’d lost height, as all do with the advent of age, but was not plagued with the bowing of osteoarthritis, something she was thankful for. She carefully applied shell pink lipstick, her only make-up. Pursing her lips together to ensure the even coverage of the cosmetic, she closed the tube and put it back into the drawer on her dressing table.

Standing up, Rosalyn walked to the bed to pick up the sweater that she had laid out earlier. It was a hand-knit affair she had picked up years ago from a local artisan who owned an alpaca farm. The sweater was light, soft, and utterly comfortable. It was dyed in jewel tones of sapphire blue and green with ribbons of silver intermingled throughout. Even though it had long lost its buttons, and one sleeve had stretched out a bit longer than the other, it complimented the blue of her dress. Plus, it was Rosalyn’s favorite.

A wave of dizziness hit Rosalyn as she put on the sweater. Rosalyn sat on the bed, closed her eyes, and waited for the spell to pass. It was the third one in the past couple of weeks. She made a mental note to mention it to her doctor on her next visit in a few days. He had told her that her blood pressure had been running a bit low, but not enough to be a worry.

“Don’t overdo it, rest often, and take your medicine.” Dr. Sanders had added, “You are no longer a young woman.”

“As my mirror, bladder and underwear drawer remind me daily.” She had quipped back, causing the doctor to laugh. Other than knee replacement surgery a few years ago and a hysterectomy when she was fifty-five, Rosalyn had enjoyed good health for most of her life. Still, she listened to her doctor, most of the time.

She listened to the rain mixed with sleet splatter against the window behind her, thinking that today would be a perfect one for a pot of homemade soup, and curling up with a novel; her cat Mystique snoozing across her lap if he were still around. Mystique, the last in a long line of McAfee felines, had been buried two years ago under a stand of Irises in the back garden. Reading and soup would have to wait for now. As much as she loved cats, she just didn’t think getting another one was a good idea.

Feeling better, Rosalyn made her way to the hallway. Her neighbor had delivered a basket of black current muffins the night before. She smiled, thinking of how good a muffin with a cup of coffee would taste. The daughter of that neighbor was a culinary student. She often delivered successful experiments from her studies when she was home on weekends. I need to remember to write that girl a nice thank you card, Rosalyn thought, as she approached the stairs.

Gripping the railing, she began her slow descent down the staircase. Spencer wanted to install one of those chairs that Rosalyn could ride upstairs and down, claiming that it was much safer. The idea horrified Rosalyn knowing that it would ruin the grandeur of the staircase, one of the focal features of the house that had been in her family for generations.

The staircase started out narrow on top, gently widening on one side to the foyer at the bottom. She had been navigating those stairs her entire life. She just had to go much slower these days. The lift chair was one of several arguments Rosalyn kept having with her son and his wife, Sharon. They had never understood why she had moved from Raleigh to the family home after Isaiah had died.

When Rosalyn had knee surgery, they begged her to move in with them. Rosalyn of course refused, being amid renovating the second floor of the house and getting it registered as historical property. On her birthday last year, they had tried to talk her into either getting the chair or moving her bedroom downstairs. Of the two, the second was the best idea, but Rosalyn wasn’t ready to give up the room upstairs with its attached bathroom, something that had been added decades ago when the house was used as a summer and weekend getaway. The room held too many happy memories for her.

Two steps from the bottom, a dizzy spell hit. Rosalyn never had a chance as she felt herself lose her grip on the railing. She was unconscious before she tumbled to the floor at the bottom.

“Absolutely not,” he said as he raked his fingers through his hair. Rosalyn’s accident had unsettled Spencer. Seeing his mother looking so small and frail, multi-hued bruises beginning to fade around her right eye still bothered him a week later even though she was starting to heal.

“We just want to take care of you,” Sharon, annoyed by this old argument, wished that her mother-in-law would, for once, listen to reason. “It’s kinda hard to do that when you keep refusing to even consider our offer.”

She reached over and took her husband’s hand, sensing his growing agitation. Spencer was wearing his usual well-tailored suit. At sixty-two, he was of average height with dark hair graying at the temples. He had a paunch common with men his age, something he tried to keep under control with golf and diet soda. Sharon, at 53, was dressed in a Periwinkle suit, a bit too tight for her upper body, with professionally colored blond hair. She was a few inches shorter than her husband, and her ample curves had always made her feel a bit self-conscious.

“It doesn’t matter how many times you keep insisting, the answer is still no.” Rosalyn’s fingers fidgeted with the small device used to call the nurse. “I’m not leaving my home and moving to a strange place just because I took a little tumble and got a boo-boo or two.”

“A boo-boo?” Spencer exclaimed. “You fell down your stairs, broke your tibia, cracked a rib, and gave yourself one fucking hell of a shiner.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Stubbing your toe is a boo-boo, this,” pointing to his mother’s leg in its plaster cast, “is not a fucking boo-boo, especially for someone your age.”

Sharon glanced at her husband, unhappy with his use of profanity. “We just worry about you. If your friend hadn’t found you, or if you had fallen from the top of the steps…” She tugged at the jacket of her dress suit as she stood.

“It wasn’t from the top. I was almost at the bottom.” Sighing, Rosalyn closed her eyes. She was tired, tired of being in the hospital, tired of being in pain, and tired of her son and her daughter-in-law trying to make decisions for her. She pushed the call button in her hand and opened her eyes to look at Sharon. “I know, I could have died. It’s going to happen sooner than later anyway. I just insist on seeing the end of my days on my terms.”

“But Mother.” Rosalyn hated it when Spencer addressed her that way. She knew he always wanted something when he did that. “You also have a heart condition, which caused you to faint, fall down the damned stairs and nearly kill you, and the doctor has already said…”

“I think I know exactly what the doctor has already said,” Rosalyn snapped back. “I do talk to the woman myself, after all.”

The nurse entered the room. “Did you need something, Mrs. McAfee?”

“Yes, Delores, darling, a bedpan.” Rosalyn said. “That delicious lunch has awakened my colon. Better yet, make it two bedpans.”

“Jesus, Mom.” The nurse didn’t quite hide her smile as she left the room to get a second bedpan. “So, you have to be so crass?”

“I’m in pain, I’m cranky, and have to go, so yes,” Rosalyn retorted. She knew she sounded petulant, but at that moment she didn’t care.