You Did This for Me by Elizabeth Overmyer
“I want to go home,” said Mother one afternoon when Julie came to visit us. “I want my old bed, I want my old chair, I want my old home. But Sarah won’t let me leave.”
Those once-soft eyes bore into mine. And though I felt my temper rising, I thought to myself, “I’ll do this for you, for you did this for
“We sold the house, remember, Mom?” said Julie.
“You sold it? How could you sell the house? What will your father say?”
“Dad is gone, Mom, remember?”
“I—” Mother paused and looked down at her wizened, vein-riddled hand, the one which bore Father’s ring. “Oh, yes. But where is Sugar?”
“Are you hungry, Mom?” I asked, trying to move the subject away from her late lap dog.
“I ate breakfast, didn’t I?” she snapped.
“Yes, but now it’s lunchtime. Here, why don’t you talk with Julie while I make us something to eat?” I got up from the sofa and moved towards the kitchen. That’s when I remembered Mother’s medicine. “You need to take your pills, Mom.”
“Pills?”
“The one’s Dr. Kovach prescribed yesterday.”
“Doctors; they’re always shoving pills down your throat and pricking you with needles. Doctors.” She shook her mane of snow-white hair and scowled. “Blood pressure medicine?”
“Yes.” So, Mother was having one of her more lucid days, but her temper… She was like a little child. But when I was a little child, had I not cried about doctors and neglected my medicines?
“So, Mom,” said Julie, “you want to see pictures of Seth and Adam?”
“Who?”
“Your grandsons.”
I went into the kitchen, pulled down the peanut butter, wheat bread and three plates. As I snatched the grape jelly from the fridge, I could hear Mother telling Julie about breakfast.
“I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, but Sarah insists on helping me with everything.”
I cut the sandwiches into four sections, just like Mother used to do when I was little, and brought them out into the living room. “Would you mind helping her, Julie? I’ve got to get the milk.”
“I can feed myself,” she said, much to my annoyance, “I can dress and bathe myself, I don’t need your help!” Those hands that used to dress and bathe me trembled. She took part of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and dropped it on the floor. “Oh, dear,” she cried. Tears streamed down her wrinkled cheeks, and as I wiped them away, my frustration melted.
“I’ll do this for you, for you did this for me.”
