Twisted up

In the newsroom, what we talk about when we talk about writing

I left about 4 p.m., stopped at a bike store and bought two new tires. I thought maybe I'd get a ride in tonight -- or at least have an uninterrupted evening putting the bike to rights. I had bought  Chipotle to eat and was looking forward to it. When the phone rang, I didn't answer. But about 7, it rang again. It was Mom, talking about Maureen. She was twisted up and wondered what to do. "What should I do? What should I do?" She couldn't remember how she'd learned of it, and I said, "Remember? It was last night. It came on an email from Practicing Our Faith." I knew she'd talked to E about it, one of her best friends, but she said she hadn't been able to talk to reach her, hadn't been able to talk to anybody.

She asked when I was coming over, and I said, noncommittally, maybe tomorrow. But I have a meeting tomorrow evening -- my writing group. Julie had said she might stop in tomorrow after work. Or I could go in the morning before work, I suppose.  Damn it's hard.

I asked about her day. She said she'd exercised in the morning with one of the young guys who help her. And she had looked into the pool, but didn't swim. She had forgotten to go to the concert last night that everybody else had gone to -- D had raved. But, at 7 p.m., it had been too late for her anyway.

She's now getting her medication through a patch she wears, she said, but she didn't feel it was any different. But I thought, for an evening call, she made more sense, remembered more things than she normally does at that hour.

I said, "Remember, it's always more confusing at night, Mom. You'll be better in the morning."

I said, "Maybe I'll come tomorrow, but Saturday at least." She didn't  know when Saturday was, but it sounded OK to her. I think she just needed to talk.