mom's car

My mother was attacked. By her car. She's in the hospital lying on a gurney in the hall when I draw this. Just after her x-rays were taken. She needs to pee. I ask an intern to help her. Mom's too proud to ask for assistance. She's been holding it in for 5 hours. The pee. She deceides to hold it in a little longer because they won't allow her go alone. She's too proud to be undressed by a stranger. To use a bedpan.

She parked her car on an incline. She left the car in drive, parking brake disengaged. The car begin to roll when she reached in for the keys she had forgotten in the ignition. She tried to hold the Honda Accord back so it wouldn't roll into the cars parked behind her. But it kept rolling. The open door probably knocked her down when she lost the strength to continue the fight with gravity. Instead of rolling into cars it rolled over her leg. Her knee is swollen like a ruby red grapefruit turned inside out. It's covered in dark bruises. Her calf has crimson tread marks.

When I arrived at the hospital she was lying on a wooden board in her own room in the emergency ward. In agony. Alone. Her only arm holding a lukewarm ice pack to her contused scalp. The arm with the concentration camp tatoo. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was short and frustrated. I paused and created a good face before disturbing her. She didn't want to call me when the accident occurred. Nor anyone else. She had tried to limp to her car and drive home. But passersby stopped her and called for the ambulance. The hospital staff had forced her call me. She didn't want to bother us. I laugh. She calls us incessantly about nothing. Cajoling us, guilting us, charming us into myriad acts of self-betrayal. To live the life of good Jews. That's her dream. To show up to all the funerals, the ceremonies, the religious services, to buy the right kind of home improvements, to embrace the extended family, to raise our children right. It never stops. It's an endless assault. She wants us to better. We're no good.

Mom begged me to stop drawing her, she was ashamed of her appearance. Fatigue relieved her of self-consciousness. The Paramedic who had attended Mom came by. She admired my drawing. She talked about art as she watched me sketch Mom. Mom's doctor came by. She is going to be OK. I can take her home. She smiles. She clasps the doctors hand and with tears in her eye she shares her gratitude and relief. She limps to the car on my arm. But first we stop at the bathroom. Another victory. She is tougher than tough. She is Auschwitz tough. Indefatigable is the word I'm looking for. You've never seen anything like it. She's almost 80. People think she's in her mid-60's. She sings Yiddish and Hebrew folk songs. Her voice is silken schmaltz. She's sung in many countries. She's a passionate performer. Her charm is hypnotic. Her heart is an iron anvil of bitter hardness. You come out as dust.

I picked up her car. It was raining out. Some of Mom's papers lay out on the hood of the car, rainsoaked, the ink running. I don't know why but I lectured the car. "Bad car. Don't ever do anything like that again." I got in and took it home. I parked it in front of our house. Locked it. Beep.