The drive to the hospital felt longer than it should have.
I called ahead once, then again, hoping someone would tell me my mother had improved.
Nobody did.
The roads were wet, and the headlights of oncoming cars kept flashing across the windshield.
I held the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers hurt.
All I could think about was the last conversation we had.
I had been distracted.
She had asked whether I was eating properly.
I had told her I was fine and ended the call because I had something else to do.
That was how our relationship had become.
A few hurried questions.
A promise to call later.
Then silence.
At the hospital, I parked badly and hurried through the entrance.
The air smelled of disinfectant and coffee.
A television played somewhere near the reception desk, but nobody seemed to be watching it.
I gave my mother's name to the staff.
A nurse led me down a corridor.
"She's very ill," she said gently. "She may not be able to speak much."
I nodded.
I was afraid that if I tried to answer, I would start crying.
When I entered the room, I almost didn't recognize my mother.
She lay beneath a white blanket, her face pale against the pillow.
One hand rested near the edge of the bed.
A monitor beside her made a steady sound.
I moved closer.
"Mom?"
Her eyelids fluttered.
I took her hand.
It felt smaller than I remembered.
"I'm here."
Her eyes opened a little wider.
For a moment, she seemed to be trying to place me.
Then her fingers moved against mine.
I bent toward her.
"It's me, Mom. I'm here now."
She tried to speak.
The words didn't come.
I looked toward the nurse, who adjusted something near the bed and told me to give her time.
So I sat down.
I held her hand and watched her breathe.
I had imagined seeing my mother again many times over the years.
In those imaginary moments, I always had something important to say.
I would apologize for the arguments.
I would tell her I understood how hard things had been after my father died.
I would ask her why she had devoted so much of herself to Gabriel.
I would tell her I was sorry I had left.
But sitting beside her, I couldn't arrange those thoughts into anything useful.
All I managed was a small confession.
"I'm sorry I didn't come home more often."
Her eyes shifted toward me.
I couldn't tell whether she understood.
I rubbed my thumb across the back of her hand.
"I should have called."
She made a faint sound.
I leaned closer.
"Do you need something?"
Her lips moved again.
I caught only a breath.
I asked her to try once more.
She swallowed with difficulty, then forced out a few words.
"Gabriel."
I went still.
For a second, I thought I had misunderstood.
"What about him, Mom?"
She struggled to draw a breath.
Her fingers tightened around mine as much as they could.
"Don't… leave him."
I stared at her.
The room seemed to become smaller.
I had driven all that way thinking about my mother, wondering whether she knew I had arrived, hoping I would have the chance to tell her how much I regretted the years we had lost.
And she was asking me to take care of Gabriel.
Even now.
Even here.
I felt the old anger rising before I could stop it.
"Mom, I'm here for you."
She looked at me.
I hated myself for the words even as I said them, but I couldn't seem to hold them back.
"He's not even here. Why are you worrying about him?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
She tried to lift her hand.
I caught it before it slipped from mine.
"Please don't," I whispered.
I wasn't sure whether I was asking her not to speak or asking her not to make me feel guilty.
She struggled to say something else.
Nothing came out clearly.
Then her eyes closed.
A nurse entered and checked her condition.
She asked me to step back for a moment.
I stood near the wall, watching the nurse work.
My heart was pounding.
I wanted to go back to the bed and tell my mother that I would do anything she asked.
I wanted to promise I would never leave Gabriel alone.
But I was still angry.
I was angry that my mother had spent so many years worrying about him.
I was angry that he had somehow remained important to her even when I had moved away.
And beneath that anger was something I didn't want to admit.
I was afraid I had waited too long to become the daughter she deserved.
The nurse eventually told me I could sit with my mother again.
I returned to the chair.
The room was quieter now.
My mother seemed to be sleeping, although I knew there was no guarantee she would wake.
I held her hand and tried to remember her as she had been before the hospital.
I remembered her standing at the stove with flour on her sleeves.
I remembered the way she folded my school uniform before placing it on the chair beside my bed.
I remembered her laughing when I spilled a bowl of batter across the counter.
And I remembered the apple pie.
For years, that had been the picture I returned to whenever I wanted to justify my resentment.
Now I wondered what else I had failed to see.
My mother had never been careless with money.
She had counted every coin.
She had repaired old clothes, stretched meals, and gone without things she wanted.
Yet she had kept feeding Gabriel.
Why?
The question had lived inside me for years, but I had never asked it honestly.
I had only asked why she cared about him more than me.
Those were different questions.
I was beginning to understand that.
I didn't know what Gabriel was doing while my mother lay in that bed.
I didn't know whether anyone had told him about the stroke.
I didn't know whether he had visited before I arrived.
I looked toward the door several times, half expecting him to appear.
He never did.
I tried calling home, but nobody answered.
There was no reason to believe Gabriel would be there, and I had no idea how to reach him.
I sat beside my mother for hours.
Sometimes she opened her eyes.
Sometimes her fingers moved.
Each time, I leaned forward and asked whether she could hear me.
She never managed to say much.
I told her about my apartment.
I told her about my job.
I told her I still had the little envelope of money she had given me before I left, although that wasn't true anymore.
I had spent it years ago.
I simply wanted to tell her that something she had done for me had lasted.
When I ran out of things to say, I talked about the house.
The kitchen table was probably still there.
The refrigerator had needed replacing, and I wondered whether she had ever bought a new one.
I asked whether she had kept the wooden bird.
My mother looked at me, but I couldn't tell whether she knew what I was talking about.
I began crying then.
Not loudly.
I pressed my forehead against the back of her hand and tried to keep my breathing steady.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
The words came out unevenly.
"I'm sorry I was so angry."
She didn't answer.
I sat up and wiped my face with my sleeve.
For the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about what Gabriel had taken from me.
I was thinking about how much of my mother's life I had chosen not to know.
The afternoon light shifted across the floor.
A nurse came in to check on her.
Another staff member spoke softly in the corridor.
I asked whether my mother was getting better.
The answer was careful.
They were doing what they could, but her condition was extremely serious.
I understood what that meant.
I just wasn't ready to accept it.
I moved my chair closer to the bed.
"Mom, I'll take care of him," I said.
I didn't know what that promise would require.
I didn't know where Gabriel lived or what he needed.
I only knew that my mother had asked me for something, and I couldn't bear to refuse her.
Her fingers moved against mine.
I took that small movement as an answer.
Then I promised again.
"I won't abandon him."
A little later, my mother's breathing changed.
The nurse came quickly.
I was asked to step aside.
I stood near the foot of the bed, unable to move, while the staff tried to help her.
Someone asked me to wait outside for a moment.
I walked into the corridor.
The lights seemed too bright.
I could hear a cart rattling over the floor somewhere nearby.
I stared at the closed door and waited for someone to tell me everything was all right.
Nobody did.
When they finally let me return, my mother was still.
The room was quiet except for the sounds of the equipment being adjusted.
A staff member spoke to me gently.
My mother had died.
I stood beside her bed, looking at the face I had known all my life.
There was no last conversation.
No final explanation.
No chance to ask about Gabriel.
I took her hand once more.
It was already growing cold.
I bent down and kissed her forehead.
For years, I had believed my mother had chosen a stranger over her own child.
Now she was gone, and the only clear instruction she had left me was not to abandon him.
I had made that promise.
I had no idea how to keep it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: After the Funeral, I Returned to the House With Food for Gabriel, Only to Find an Expensive Vehicle and a Man I Barely Recognized
I Was Eight When My Mother Started Feeding a Stranger, and I Never Understood Why He Seemed to Matter More Than Me
Part 3 of 12
