Slow Dance by Gail Purdy
CREATIVE NONFICTION
“Do I get a hug?” She grins, and then stretches her arms towards me. “No touching… only virtual hugs allowed…,” staff warn before she can reach me. Her brow furrows and her eyes look at me questioningly before she imitates me, extending her arms and grasping the empty air. #
I watch my mother’s head gently rise and fall. Her chin almost touching her chest. Lunch finished hours ago, and she’s still sitting at the table, sound asleep. Soft snores escape from her mouth. Her lips twitch and I wonder what dreams she might be chasing. Wiping crumbs from the lunch table the care facility staff urge me closer. Pandemic restrictions have been lifted today. An image from the past flashes through my mind. I’m a child. My eyes are glued to the mirror, gazing at my mother’s reflected image. Watching her remove the hair rollers, I wonder how she can sleep with the brushes poking into her head. Lifting sections of hair and placing the comb at the roots, she backcombs each piece. “You look like a lion…with your hair sticking out,” I tell her. My inside smile grows big and moves onto my face. She smooths the pieces into a rounded shape before spraying a fine sticky mist over the surface. The sweet scent of Aqua Net lingers in the air and tickles my nose before settling on the bathroom walls and counter. She smiles at my reflection.
Meticulously coiffed hair had always been important to my mother. Perhaps graduating from the Marinello School of Beauty and becoming a hairdresser had something to do with it. Inspired by Norma Zimmer over sixty years ago, she’s tried to keep the same hairstyle worn in her younger years.
I lean in close and whisper, “Is anyone home in there?” At 96 years of age, unwashed strands of hair hang around her face except where a small pink bow clipped on one side holds it, keeping it from falling into her eyes. Lifting her head, she turns towards my voice. A smile begins to spread across her face before her eyes open. Aware staff are watching us, I feel self-conscious. “Look at that smile!” they blurt out in unison. I’m sure they mean well, but having them observe this intimate moment with my mother makes me feel uncomfortable.
“What are YOU doing here?” she asks.
I hear a familiar humour in her voice and my smile comes easily. “I’m here to visit YOU.” I know what her next question will be before she asks. It’s always the same. My eyes tear as I watch her rock back and forth, trying to get enough momentum to stand. She refuses my help. After two more attempts, she is successful.
“Do I get a hug?” The question hangs suspended in the air between us before my arms reach out and wrap around her, squeezing tight. We embrace each other longer than is needed for a greeting. Both of us hold onto the physical presence of the other. It has been fourteen months since I hugged her. Since I touched her. Still caught in her embrace, I think about the time before the pandemic. How often she asked for a hug, and how I tired of hearing her repeated requests. When she couldn’t remember that several hugs had already passed between us. Back then I was easily irritated by the repeated asking. Now I’m grateful for this hug. Her body relaxes into mine. My arms feel the substance of her, and I feel her arms around me. I’m held and I hold her. The child in me imagining her longing for me as much as I have longed for her.
“Follow the leader,” she commands, still smiling as she leads me to her room. I notice the clutter of discarded Kleenex tissues and the dust that has accumulated on every surface in the room during the past year. It’s been more than a year since I moved her here. More than a year since I’ve been in this room. It takes several minutes for her to settle into her chair before her eyes drift toward the window and beyond. “It’s windy. I can see the trees moving,” she whispers. She picks at the skin on the back of her hands.
“Do your hands feel dry?”
“I think so.” Her fingers brush back and forth over the back of her hands.
“Would you like me to put some lotion on them?” She nods.
Taking one hand at a time, I smooth the thick lotion over the surface of her skin. Blue spidery veins crisscross the surface. I can feel the rough, crusty spots that have formed patterns on the back of her hands. An accumulation of relentless sun exposure over the years. The skin is dry like the outer skin of an onion. I tentatively massage her fingers, now crooked and disfigured with arthritis.
“Are your fingers sore?” I choke down a wave of emotion threatening to surface as I knead the palm of her hand. I look at her hairline, unable to look into her eyes. Grief breaks down my defences and pulls me closer, tightening its grip.
“How does that feel?”
“It feels good.” Her words barely audible. Her eyes close.
Gently releasing her hands, I lower my gaze and look at her face. Something sharp breaks loose in my chest. Love and grief start their slow dance.
Gail Purdy is a writer and multi-disciplinary visual artist living on the west coast of British Columbia. She is the runner up recipient of the 2021 International Amy MacRae Award for Memoir. Her writing has appeared in the 2021 Amy Award Anthology, The Bluebird Word, Last Syllable, Quillkeepers Missing Pieces Grief Anthology, and Witcraft. Her photography has been included in Beyond Words and The Waxed Lemon. She enjoys looking for treasures along the beach and can often be seen dancing in wide open spaces. Long walks in the forest accompanied by her inner child nurture her creative soul.
