Golden Years

The phone was ringing for the second time in five minutes. It broke through the quiet morning and startled the cat, who jumped down from the windowsill where she had been enjoying the early sunlight. The unwelcome calls set my teeth on edge. I was grateful when the ringing stopped but wondered, briefly, why anyone would call me at seven a.m. The spam calls didn't usually start until midday and at my age, I didn't have many friends who were still around to call.

After that last ring, shrill echo dying in the air, I started to worry about who had called. Was something wrong? Was there bad news? If there was bad news, the caller surely would have left a message on my answering machine, but I hadn't heard it click on, the robot man’s voice intoning, “Hello. No one is available to take your call....”

The phone started ringing again and I felt this funny emotional surge, something between relief and annoyance. Placing my now-cold mug of tea on the small table next to me, I hoisted myself up and out of my rocker, my joints protesting noisily. Tiny particles of dust floated on a shaft of sunlight as I passed through the hallway on the way to the kitchen, my slippers shuffling on the wooden floor.

“Heh...” I broke off, my voice strangled by age. Holding my hand over the receiver and turning my head away, I coughed, feeling embarrassed that the caller was listening to me rattle before I could even get a word out of my mouth. When I turned back to the phone, I heard my son's voice.

“Mom? Mom, is that you? Are you there?”

I heard impatience, almost exasperation, in his voice, as if I'd conjured up a fistful of mucus that set off a coughing fit just to ruin his morning. More and more, he was that way - personally affronted by my audacity in growing old.

“Mom!”

“Tim, hello,” I croaked, about to apologize for something entirely beyond my control. “I'm sorry - I haven't spoken to anyone yet today and these cold mornings really get to me.”

“Mom. Why didn't you answer the phone when I called five minutes ago? Is something wrong? And your answering machine didn’t come on, either. Did you accidentally turn it off, again?”

I was beginning to wish that I'd stayed in my rocker. Wrapping the cord around my thickening waist, I turned to fill up the kettle and watched as a tiny bird hopped across the tall wooden fence separating my side yard from the Gilberts'. Their boys, now grown, are so lovely. They come and visit their parents nearly every week, always bringing something: Flowers, homemade food, their grandchildren bearing gifts of paintings and projects from school. I try to sit out on the porch when I think that they might be coming because they always have a kind word for me and it's so nice to visit, even if it's only for a minute.

“Mom!” Tim almost shouted at me, “Are you still there?”

“Timothy, yes,” I sigh. “I am still here, stubbornly clinging to life. Why are you calling me at seven in the morning, and why on earth are you shouting at me?”

He sighed irritably, apparently not appreciating my attempt at humor. I used to be so funny: Quick-witted, and with a sharp tongue. Now, my mind is clouded by cobwebs, the cogs slower to turn. At age eighty-nine, there's not a damn thing that I can appreciate about getting old. Not one goddamn thing.

“Mom, do you know what day it is?” Tim asks me.

“I don't know, honey,” I say, wondering why he called me at the break of dawn to quiz me on the day of the week. “Why the hell are you calling me at the break of dawn to quiz me about what day of the week it is - Thursday?”

“Yes, it's Thursday,” he sighed impatiently, “but I meant which date. Today is the 24th.”

I intuit that the mention of the date - the 24th - is supposed to have jogged my memory about something because after Tim says so there is a pregnant pause. I get it - we're playing a guessing game! But before I make my guess, he plugs right along.

“Did you read those emails I sent you, Mom? The ones that had the invite to Andy's birthday party this weekend?” he asks.

“No, honey. I haven’t seen any emails from you,” I reply.

“Have you even checked your email at all? When's the last time you checked it? Mom, I got you that laptop and set you up with an email address so that you could keep in touch with people more easily. It seems like you don't even use it,” Tim says.

Still looking out of the window, I hear the kettle starting to make some noise. I press my lips together in the way that I used to hate seeing my own mother do and I lean my weight into the edge of the sink.

“Well, Jesus, Tim. I'm eighty-nine years old. What's wrong with the telephone? I'm fairly proficient with the telephone. If you had something to say to me that required a response and was so important that you emailed it more than once, why not just call?” I ask.

Tim began to talk about the benefits of being "connected" and I let him go on, looking out the window at the quiet street. A man came down the block in the direction of my front walk. He was carrying a box, about the size one might use to hold a soccer ball or a stuffed bear. It was wrapped in brown paper, though, not gift wrapping, and I couldn't see any other marks on it. The man disappeared from view and a few seconds later, I heard two quick knocks at the door.

Tim was still going on about "following" them on social media and how nice that could be for me. I was about to interrupt him to tell him that someone was waiting at the door when I saw the same man walk past my front yard in the opposite direction, emptyhanded. He wasn't wearing a postal uniform and there was no delivery truck in sight. I was puzzled: Who was this man who appeared to have just deposited a mysterious package at my doorstep, knocked twice, and was now disappearing?

The kettle began to warble. Tim was still talking. For some reason, I let the warble climb to a whistle and then a shriek, imagining my frustration illustrated by twin jets of steam blowing from my ears, just like in the Saturday morning cartoons Tim loved so much when he was little. The screeching hurt my ears, but it felt like something, so I let it continue for a few seconds before I turned around abruptly and switched off the burner, listening to the whistle fade.

A heavy sigh alerted me to Tim's continued presence on the other end of the phone line.

“Geez, Mom. I think your water's boiling, already,” he said.

“Tim, I'm sorry,” I said, “were you saying something?”

“Yes. Mom. I was,” the derision clear in his voice. Then, he softened. “Mom, can we start this conversation over?”

“Yes, let's,” I reply, “So, Tim: What brings you to phone me at seven a.m. this Thursday the 24th of October?”

“It's about Andy's birthday - Danny and Beth have been trying to get a head count for his birthday party and that's what I sent you via email, the invitation. You were supposed to RSVP electronically. The party's on Saturday and Danny just phoned me yesterday and said that he hadn't heard from you and wasn't sure if you could make it,” he said.

I sighed. “Tim, as the only living great-grandparent of the adorable Andy Brixton who, yes, I do remember is turning five this week and yes, to whom I have already sent a birthday card in the mail - does it not seem reasonable to you that I would not only be unconditionally invited to his birthday celebration but also, barring my unexpected expiry from this planet, would attend?”

“Does that mean that you'll be there on Saturday?” he asked.

“Yes, honey,” I answer, wondering how in hell I could have birthed such a humorless individual, “I will be there. Eleven a.m. on Saturday at your brother and Beth's place, right? Could you come and pick me up at 10:30? I'll be ready.”

“Yes, sure, but,” he faltered, “if you didn’t get the email...?”

“Honey, I talked to Bethie ages ago. I've got it penciled in on my calendar right here on the kitchen wall. I’m not even sure what all the confusion is about. I'll see you at 10:30 on Saturday, then?” I ask.

“Yeah. Sure, Mom. Okay,” Tim faded a bit and then said, “See you then.”

“Great!” I said, before hanging up the phone and muttering to myself, “...damn laptop and your stinking email. The hell with it!”

The cat had appeared at my ankles and now she looked at me strangely. She is of a gentle nature and it's very infrequently that I curse at her. I felt bad almost immediately and, leaning down as gracefully as my ancient hips would allow, I beckoned to her.

“Oh, Miss Tess! I wasn't talking to you, sweet puss,” I croon, “that son of mine...so literal and so straitlaced.”

Tess made that funny chirping purr that cats make when they see that they have our attention and are quickly calculating how they might benefit from it. She came towards me, moving more gracefully than I ever have, even as a young woman. I picked her up and rubbed her along her jawbone. She began to purr in earnest, squinting her eyes and pushing into my fingertips.

“Oh, Tess,” I spoke softly, “you're such good company. Whatever's on the front porch can wait. Let's go get cozy."

My tea, my Tess, and me. Together, we shuffled back to my chair by the window.