Tina Drennan : Anaheim, CA : 1955-58

"Aw, gawd!" I heard the water come on full blast. "Goddamn *%@#%*"

"What is it, Mom? Are you all right?"

"I don' thin' so," she said, pulling the door open. She held an open bottle of skin lotion in one hand and her toothbrush in the other, drooling white goo. "Wha's a mattah wit ma mout?"

"Other than cussing a blue streak? Looks like you brushed your teeth with body lotion."

It was hard to suppress a giggle.

Betty scowled at me and then spit. "Bleckeh!"

"Let me help you." I guided her back to the sink and helped her rinse and then brush her teeth with the toothpaste, then helped her wash her face and apply the skin lotion to her cheeks and arms. "There. Now all we need is a little lipstick and you'll be all set." Her face had reddened, she leaned against the sink, short on breath.

Without asking, I supported my mother on one side while a nurse's aide supported the other. Together we led her from the bathroom, toothbrush still in hand.

"Doing OK now?"

Betty nodded and took a deep breath. "Yes, goddammit!" She shuffled back to the bed and plopped down.

"Seems like she's feeling pretty sparky this morning," the nurse's aide said behind me as she emptied handfuls of cups and tissues into the trash can next to the bed.

"So what do you think?" I asked. "Will she go home today?"

"Her doctor will be in around 10. If her temp is down, then ... maybe. That's the way it works. I can't really say for sure."

I checked my watch. It was 9:45.

Betty shivered and pulled at the sheet. I slipped the toothbrush out of her hand and helped her crawl back in to bed. She pulled the covers almost back up to her nose. Her eyes rolled from mine to the TV to the tent of her toes under the blankets and then back to me. Her hands were shaking.

"It's OK, Mom. No big deal. What clothes do you want from home?"

She thought for a minute, calming herself. "Chambray shirt and Levis with the elastic waist. They're at the very end of my closet, in my bedroom."

"There, see? You're doin' fine. Anyone can grab the wrong stuff in the bathroom."

Betty smiled. "And my oxford shoes. The clean ones."

I gave her a quick hug. "I'll be back before you know it and we can get out of this place."

"Lipstick," she said.

"Lipstick?"

"You said 'a little lipstick'."

I thought for a moment. I wasn't sure I wanted her to do it herself. "OK, let's see what I can find," I said. Her purse was under the nightstand and I rummaged through it. "How about this?" I read the bottom: "Pink Lemonade!" I tried to sound cheery, but Betty scowled back at me. I rummaged some more. "OK, Rhumba Red?" Another scowl.

"Mocha Polka," she said.

It hit me like a freight train. Mocha Polka. That had always been her color. She put it on me for the one party she sent me off to. We did our lips and our nails to match. It was the most wonderful evening of my life because she was there at the start.

And then the train went right off the tracks and sent me back to an image fixed in my memory; clear and distinct, as though it had just happened. I was standing in a bedroom in front of a huge dresser, heavily wood-grained in reds and golds. The two side-drawer sections squatted like Grandma with her knees wide, a huge round mirror balanced between them. The low section in the middle was crowded with perfume bottles.

I can almost smell them as the vision deepens: Chanel, Jungle Gardenia, Topaz. The drawer pulls are tortoise-shell discs with beveled-glass balls on antiqued brass risers. They are very loose and some of my favorite playthings.

I'm standing at one of Grandma's knees and spinning a disc one way and the glass ball the other, making car sounds, spit flying on the drawer front and down my chin. I can see my mother's reflection in the mirror. She is putting on earrings, pushing at her blonde, pin-curled hair. She runs the lipstick tube back and forth across her lips, then presses them together, leans in and smiles sweetly. She is so beautiful. I can smell her lipstick on the crinkled tissue when she dabs the spittle off my chin. She tightens the knob.

I can hear that song on the hi-fi, the one she played over and over. The words of the song, and the scene, play out in my head as if I were standing in a past life:

Whenever we kiss, I worry and wonder,
You lips may be near, darling, where is your heart?
It's a sad thing to realize, that you've a heart that never melts
When we kiss, do you close your eyes, pretending that I'm someone else?
You must break this spell, this cloud that I'm under
So please, won't you tell, darling, where is your heart?

"Muffin Man," I say.

"Shhhh," she says, "Not now, sweetie." She twirls away from the dresser, humming with the music. Her skirt twirls around her calves.

I take a wobbly turn, then go back to spinning dresser knobs. "Little girls don't spit," she tells me. I bite my lip. At that moment, I notice, on the other knee, something new. A large egg, made of sugar, swirled in green-and-yellow frosting, wrapped in shiny cellophane, and tied with a purple ribbon. One end of the egg has a peephole. There must be something magical inside a thing so sparkly and perfect. I lift one knee to the lower center shelf of the dresser and pull myself up among the lipstick tubes, perfume bottles and used tissues. I reach for the egg, just as she turns around.

"That's not for you," Mama says. "You stay down now." She sets me down gently and rearranges the bottles and tubes.

"See, see!" I try again and she pushes me gently back off the dresser.

"Big girls don't whine." She hugs me for second and kisses me. Her breath is sweet and cool against my cheek. The fragrance of flowers fills my head. I snuggle into her knees, her smell drifts over me like fairy dust. She pushes me gently away again. She winds up my panda bear and slips it into my arms. I hug it close as the tune tinkles out the "go to sleep" song. "See-e-e-e ..." I insist.

I don't feel all that big. A tear slips out.

She looks down at me and smiles. "OK. You can see, but don't touch. It's not for you." She gets it off the dresser, kneels down and holds me against her body. I feel her halo of curls touching mine. She puts the peephole up to my eyes.

I hold my hands obediently at my sides; her arm, fragrant, gently rests across my shoulders. I peer into the egg.

Inside — all sugar, pastels and sparkle dust — is a tiny world. In front, a rabbit dressed in a soft green jacket sits at the edge of a garden fence. Beyond that are rows of cabbages and carrots. Further inside is a tiny cottage and, next to it, a silvery pond ringed by paving stones is shaded by flowering vines.

Breathless, I grab for the egg. Mama gently removes my hands. "That's enough now. You can look again later, if you're a good girl." She releases me and places the egg back on the dresser. "Mama has to go now."

She puts on my sweater and knitted hat. "Uncle Leo will be here any minute. You go play with Susie."

Sam's Seafood, Long Beach, CA 1955

She opens the back door and I run out. Susie comes running, her tail wagging. She licks my face all over. I run away and pick a tulip from Aunt Ruby's garden in the corner of the yard. Susie runs after me. Around and around, we chase and play. I hear the car in the front driveway, Susie runs to the gate and barks.

"Mama?" I go to the backdoor screen, push my nose against the rusty metal. "Mama!" I call, louder. No one answers. Susie waits on an old braided rug spread across the raised back porch. She takes a couple of turns, lays down behind me, and heaves a big sigh. I sit down next to her. Soft fur rubs against my back as I lean into the curve of her warm stomach. Uncle Leo will be home soon. That's what she said. I'm a good girl and I don't whine or do anything naughty. Tree branches move overhead, their purple flowers like a pretty fan.

I watch until I can't hold my eyes open any more, but I know the purple flowers are still waving, and then, I feel like I'm inside the sugar egg. It is so quiet I can't even hear my own thoughts. A slender white cat sits like a marble statue on the paving stones next to the pond. Slim black moons slide back and forth in her pale blue eyes, tracing the circles of a golden fish just below the pond's surface.

"Mocha Polka," said Mama again, startling me back to the present.

Mocha Polka? Oh. Yes. "Well, let's see ..." I pawed through her bag some more, but I could barely see through choked-off tears. "Maybe you have some at home."

I had been a happy child; I could have been wretched. There was that little room no one could enter, the tiny corner where the images were stored. The frightening and the magical huddled together inside a quiet, private, little sugar egg. The path back to her was there. I could see it, taste it, smell it. We could almost be there ...

"Knock, knock," a voice sang at the door.

I turned to see a woman in a light-gray pinstriped suit.

She stepped through the doorway and extended her hand to me. "Hi, I'm Helen DeVant, from social services? We talked on the phone?"

I swallowed hard on the sting in the back of my throat. "Oh, yes, of course. Good to meet you." I turned to my Mom. "This is Betty."

Helen shot me a brief puzzled look, no doubt catching the watery eyes. She gave me a brief, knowing smile, then she stepped to the bed and addressed Betty directly. "Well, Betty, you look a lot better than the last time I saw you." Betty gave her a timid smile and slipped her gloved hands under the covers. "I understand your husband is in assisted care and you could be released today?"

Betty looked at me for an answer. "If her temp is down and her lungs are clear then, yes, she could be released today."

"Well," said Helen, handing Betty a brochure, "I just wanted you to know about our LVN program. If you're going home alone, we can have someone check up on you every day until you're better." Betty brightened and started to nod a yes, but I could only see a little soul waiting on the back porch, alone.

"That ... won't be necessary," I interrupted. "She'll be coming home with me."