Sitting Her Ground

By Philip Goldberg

The recliner staked prime real estate in Adele's apartment at Piney Woods Senior Living.  Oversized, the recliner, as leathery as the old woman’s skin, stood a few feet from the television. Bags of chips, cookies, and candy were stuffed in baskets saddled to its plush sides.  Reclining on that chair was like resting on a cloud for the ninety-three-year-old.

But the recliner didn't dazzle Adele's daughter Rachel.  Her mother sat in it too much.  "Mom," Rachel said during a recent visit, "you live in that chair."

Adele waved away Rachel's comment, as she had on other occasions that her daughter had brought it up.  "I have almost everything I need here." She pointed to the snacks, the television, and her books stacked on the floor beside the recliner.  "If only my toilet was built into this chair, I'd never get up." She slapped the armrest, enjoying her joke.

Rachel stared at her, dumbfounded.  Her mother balked at participating in any of the residence’s goings-on. When she'd suggested an exercise class or a knitting group, her mother scoffed, "I go down for meals.  That's enough activities for my day, any day." And that choked off any further discussion on the matter.

When Rachel left her mother that afternoon, she found herself, as always, more frustrated than when she'd arrived.

In the lobby, Rachel was intercepted on her way out by the skeletal Mrs. Milligan, the manager of Piney Woods, who invited the portly daughter into her office.  “Could I have a moment?” The manager waved her fingers to an armchair in front of the desk, and Rachel squeezed her girth into it.  Looking at the manager always made Rachel’s skin crawl.  The woman’s eyes were so deep set, they appeared lost in shadows.  Usually Rachel looked away when Mrs. Milligan spoke, but today she gazed at her with curiosity. 

Mrs. Milligan leaned forward.  "Has your mother mentioned anything about her new sleeping arrangement?"

Rachel arched her eyebrows.  "Something wrong with Mom's bed?"

"Well, frankly, she's not sleeping in it."

Rachel ran a worried finger across her chair's armrest.  "Not sleeping in her bed… then where?" Her hand shot to her mouth, and she spoke through splayed fingers.  "No, not the recliner."

"A few days ago, she didn't show up for breakfast.  That's her favorite meal, you know."

Rachel nodded as if her head was attached to a marionette’s string. 

"I went up to check and found her snoring in that chair."

“But why?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

Rachel's face flushed pink.  She looked at Mrs. Milligan, politely excused herself, and rose from the chair.  Returning to the lobby, she stared at the older people's snail-paced aerobics through an open doorway in the activity room.  She grew more perplexed.  Her mother, who had traveled the world, and had been widowed twice, was letting her world grow smaller and smaller by spending more and more time in that damn recliner.  But sleeping in it?  That was the most significant move to shrink her life ever. Still, there could be a reason for this change. Had her back gotten so bad that she couldn’t get comfortable in her bed?

She reentered Adele's apartment and found her mother sleeping in the chair with the footrest up.  "Mom."

Adele woke with a start and glared at her daughter as if she'd interrupted a beautiful dream.  "What…what do you want?  You forget something?"

"No, you did."  

"Me?  Did I forget to record Jeopardy?"

Rachel sighed.  "No.  You overlooked mentioning you're sleeping in that.” She pointed at the recliner. “Your back worse?"

"My back? Not a bit.…” She sounded annoyed.

“Then how come?”

“Because it's comfortable, that’s why.  And I saw a roach in my bedroom one night, scurrying ahead of me to the bathroom.”

Rachel cringed at the mention of roaches.

“You know how much I hate those buggers.  Damn things will outlive us all." She smirked.  "I couldn't go back to bed after that, so I came here.  And you know what?"

Rachel knew her mother loved to pose questions and then answer them, so, she remained silent and awaited the inevitable response.

A big smile spread across Adele's face.  "It was the best sleep I'd had in years."

"But you need to sleep in your bed, Mom."

The old woman shrugged her thin shoulders.  "Where is it written?"

Rachel scrambled to say something, to come up with a plausible answer to her obstinate mother's question.  "Where?  Well, it's just common sense."

"Common sense, my ass."

Rachel was blown back by the retort, running a hand through her graying frizzy hair.  "It just can't lead to a good night's sleep."

"Ever try it?  Even when Jack and you are having another fight?" 

Rachel's scalp prickled at the mention of her private matters.  Still, she wouldn’t allow that remark to make her change the subject.  No, her mother was a champion of doing that.  So, she defused her rising anger.  "Well, I don't have to jump in the ocean in January to know it's cold."

"Hmmm.  Of course, you never have.  But you're always keen on telling someone to do something you know little or nothing about." She thrust out her sagging double chin.

Now Rachel bristled.  "Mom!  That's unfair."  

Adele finally pushed down the footrest.  "Want to know something?"

Rachel counted silently, her mind game when Jack was preaching about all the things she shouldn’t do. Once she reached twenty-one, her mother’s voice stopped her count.

"For years, you, among others, have been telling me what to do.  'Mom, you should get married again.  You should find a smaller place.  You should get out more.'" Her eyes went blank as if she'd flipped a switch, but soon the light returned to them.  "And I tried some of those things, and where did they get me?  Not very far from where I was…."

Rachel’s breaths shortened. She knew her mother wasn’t done.

"You know what, Rachel, I'm tired of being told what to do.  My mother told me, and that's why I made the mistake of marrying your late father.  He told me not to take night classes and then died, leaving me to take some crap job to support us. My second husband told me we needed a house, and the one we bought lost money when I sold it." She wiped some spittle from her lips.  "Well, I'm done with being advised on living my life.  Damn, I'm ninety-three, and I will do things my way.  And if that means spending most of my day in this chair, well, so be it." She slapped the armrest again.

Rachel gazed at the lone succulent on the window ledge. There was something determined about that plant.  The more she studied Adele, the more she began to see her mother in a new way.  She moved closer, leaned over, and kissed the woman on her forehead.  "Okay, Mom.”

"Want a pretzel?"  She reached over the side of the chair and grabbed the bag.  Triumph in that small act.

 "No, thanks."

Rachel sat behind her Prius’ steering wheel.  The sun had finally shown its face on what had been a gray day.  Her fingers drummed the wheel.  In her rearview mirror, she could see the sun-splashed Piney Woods entranceway.  She mulled over her own life, pinpointing things she deprived herself of, things Jack and others had dissuaded her from doing—like planting a small garden, dining out in places that weren’t about meat and potatoes, maybe trying the new Thai restaurant for a change. Even getting a Siamese cat would be nice.  Or doing anything at all without pondering it ad nauseum until  she didn’t want to do it anymore.  She tapped the wheel harder and drove off, only stopping when she arrived in The Pets 'R' Us parking lot.  Jack will make his usual stink. "Let him," she purred, turning off the engine.

Philip Goldberg’s work has appeared in many publications, including Straylight, trampset, Dillydoun Review, Raven’s Perch, Main Street Rag, and Evening Street Review. Microfictions have appeared in Blink Ink, 50  Give or Take, and Riding Light Review. Stories have also been included in Best of collections, earned the honor of being a finalist for the 2021 James Hurst Award, and received a Pushcart Prize nomination. He is finishing a novel.