A ^{Little Matter of Life and Death
by Roland Goity}

Hannah, Bradley and Hank arrived at their sister Liz’s within minutes of each other, crackling fallen sycamore leaves under their tires as they parked beside the curb. The weather forecast called for sunny skies, yet so far at least, at mid-morning, it was overcast gray and blustery. Fitting for the day they would decide what to do about their mother.

Liz welcomed them one by one. She felt goose pimples along her arms and neck from the sweeping chill that crept deeper into the home as each lingered at the doorstep. When all were inside, she invited them into the living room, to find a seat and make themselves comfortable. She ticked the heat up five degrees, then joined them with a pot of coffee and a bottle of Budweiser for Hank from the six-pack he’d brought along.

Bradley and Hanna were at opposite ends of the wraparound couch; Hank sat in the leather recliner chair with his feet up on the ottoman. Liz sat on the upholstered seat of a petite chair, a spot that made them four corners of a square.

“Place looks great, Liz,” Hannah said, “Really, I mean it.”

Liz knew Hannah was scrutinizing every detail of her little home, noticing where dust had settled and paint had cracked. Hannah, of course, was elegantly dressed in a suit-and-pants outfit created by some hotshot designer. Even in her early twenties she had filled her bedroom closet with everything Ann Taylor had to offer. Quite a contrast to Hank, sitting there in an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a white tee. Already, he had nearly sucked the last drop of beer from his bottle.

“So let me tell you what your niece and nephew are up to these days,” Bradley said next. “You’ll all be very proud.” He then introduced stories that went nowhere fast. Boring narratives of how his children were doing in the classroom and on the field of play.

Liz couldn’t have cared less. Besides, her grown and out-the-door children didn’t particularly like these younger cousins. They felt the same way about them as Liz felt about Bradley. But she let Bradley babble on until he was out of breath. Then she said, “Now that we’re all here and settled, let’s put our heads together and see what we can do about Mom.”

No one spoke up. They simply cast their gazes everywhere around the room but at each other. Hannah scratched an itch, Bradley adjusted his glasses, and Hank guzzled his beer. Eventually, after sipping audibly from her coffee cup to wrest the group’s attention, Hanna said, “You know my feelings. And Jerry’s in agreement with me on this. We think she needs to go to the convalescent home ASAP.”

“No offense, Hannah, but your husband isn’t involved in the decision,” Liz said. “But we’ll tally your vote for Mom whiling away the rest of her days at Sunnybright Hills.”

“Me too,” Hank said, before getting up and heading to the refrigerator for another brew. “Without another hip replacement,” he said over his shoulder, his voice fading as he crossed into the kitchen, “she’s really unable to go anywhere without someone by her side. And another operation’s far too risky at her age.”

“I’m not sure about that, Hank, but your ‘vote’ is tallied,” Liz said. “Not that this can be decided by a simple vote. We need to come to a unanimous decision.”

Hank returned and quickly gulped down half his beer. He dropped it noisily down on the glass-covered coffee table, missing the coaster. “Either that or a live-in nurse. I’m fine with either,” he said.

“Yes, a live-in nurse,” Bradley said, leaning forward, his gold wire-rims sliding down the bridge of his nose. “That’s what I’ve suggested since the start.”

“You want some sort of award for that?” Hannah asked.

Bradley went wide-eyed, looking like a high-stakes poker player accused of cheating. “Who put a stick up your ass, Hannah? All I’m saying is—“

“Okay, you guys, let’s be civil,” Liz said. The last time she and her siblings had gathered together was for her and Nigel’s twentieth anniversary celebration, just before their divorce. But it had been nearly three years since they had all met without the company of others: the day after Father died. Then she had wanted to reminisce about the good times and bad, to really analyze who their father was, but Hank and Bradley were only interested in projecting who’d get what, and what percentage would go to their father’s young new wife, their stepmother Kate. Hannah had seemed consumed by the idea as well.

“Sorry,” Hannah said. “But she needs more than just a caregiver or two. She needs people of her own generation to talk to, to hang out with. What do you think, Liz? You’re as close to Mom as any of us.”

Liz, cradling the cup and saucer in her lap, was at a loss for words, as if she were a game show contestant who’d frozen now that the million-dollar question was asked. She told herself their mother might manage okay by herself, at least for a while. She visited their mother more than the others combined, and saw the woman wave her arms in opposition any time the subject arose concerning a rest home destination or an attendant nurse. “I can do just fine on my own,” their mother would say. But Liz didn’t really believe it. She wasn’t sure her mom did either. Maybe she could get by, but there was little chance she’d “do just fine.”

Liz thought of their recent lunch together, two weeks before, the day they went to the park. On a sparkling afternoon they ate sandwiches at the edge of the manmade lake. They tossed the ends of their crusts to the circling ducks in the pond who took to the floury remains as intensely as would a school of piranha. Her mother asked where the park’s bathrooms were and Liz pointed to them just a short patch of grass away. Liz soon transfixed herself on the splashing ducks and ducklings and the rippling patterns they left in their wake. She snapped out of her stare when she heard a jolting honk from a car horn, then squealing tires. She turned and saw how her mother had walked directly in front of the car’s path and was lucky to have avoided a collision. The sedan’s bumper was literally within inches of hitting her, and Liz noticed the smell of burning brakes, as if the driver had exerted every measure of force to the car’s brake pedal to avoid the unthinkable.

The near-accident that day had troubled Liz ever since. But just then, as she prepared to articulate its ramifications, a resounding THWACK! forced everyone’s attention to the room’s floor-to-ceiling, double pane glass. Something rather large—and from the looks of it, gooey—had launched into it, bulls-eye, dead-center. A mustard-colored smear now left a small mark on the window.

“Holy shit!” Hank yelled, rising fast to check things out.

“A bird on a kamikaze mission,” Bradley said, following Hank to assess the damage on the other side of the glass.

Hannah, too, was soon at the window, but a startled Liz was dealing with spilled coffee that had splashed over the cup onto the saucer and then onto her floral print dress. Five or six stains the size of dimes and quarters appeared. Liz wrung the wet spots of her dress with her fingertips, and finally got up to join them.

“He’s still writhing,” Bradley said.

“We’ve got to save him!” Hannah shouted.

Without speaking, Liz backpedaled to the sliding glass door on the adjoining side of the room and her siblings trailed close behind. Outside on the patio they circled the wounded bird, viewing it with looks of concern, aware of its fragility, knowing that its life hung in the balance. The bird gasped for air, opening and closing its beak in rhythmic time. Occasionally its left wing fluttered as if it tried to right itself, but each attempt became less successful.

“Look at the thing,” Hank said. “It a chickadee?”

“No. It’s a titmouse I think,” Liz replied. “They often visit the oak.”

Bradley and Hannah nodded, but Hank couldn’t suppress a snicker. “Titmouse, huh?”

“Hank, don’t be funny,” Hannah said, kneeling down until her slacks met the patio tile.

“What can we do?” Bradley asked.

“I don’t know, but we have to do something,” Hannah said. “This poor little creature needs our help.”

To Liz, Hannah seemed more concerned for the bird’s well-being than for their mother’s. Not that Liz was insensitive to the bird’s plight. Her instincts told her that they needed to act and act quickly, that titmouse triage was an urgent matter. She tried to remember how best to handle the matter; something she saw one time on a televised nature program. “I’m going to get water…and…a towel,” Liz said. “Don’t move him!”

A minute later she returned with her cat’s bowl in one hand—water cascading over the sides—and a rainbow-colored dishtowel in the other. Her siblings still huddled tightly above the bird, Hank cracking his knuckles and Bradley and Hannah wringing their hands like they were warming them over a crackling campfire.

“We need to keep the bird warm, keep it hydrated,” Liz said.

“Really?” Hank said, bunching his face.

“Think so,” Liz replied, her voice barely audible.

“You know,” Hannah said, “maybe we should we call the humane society or something.”

“No, no. We have to take care of him,” Liz said. “It might be too late otherwise.” Despite her plea, it seemed overseeing the care of the bird was becoming her charter by default.

“Do what you have to do,” Bradley remarked, rather defeatedly, stealing a glance at his watch before pacing about. “Maybe we should go back inside,” Hannah suggested.

“Okay,” Liz said. She took short breaths and felt her body turn taut, and she sensed a similar discomfort among all concerned. “Let me just wrap the bird up, and we’ll take it in.” She gathered the titmouse into the dishtowel, handling it with such care she could have been a midwife delivering a baby.

Her sister and brothers followed her back inside and stood nearby as Liz placed the bird up on the fireplace mantle and the bowl of water alongside.

“Why you putting the titmouse up there?” Hank asked over her shoulder.

“Don’t want the cat to get him while we’re back sitting around and talking.”

“Oh my, the cat!” Hannah said, casting her eyes about for the calico house pet, as if it planned to strike at any minute. “Bird looks like he’s doing okay now,” Bradley said. “Seems to be breathing steadily.”

“I don’t know about that,” Liz said. “It’s hard to tell, really.”

Bradley yawned and stretched his arms. “He’ll be fine. It’s Mom we should be worried about. Can we get back to our discussion?”

“Okay, okay,” Liz said. “We’re just going to have to keep an eye on this poor little thing until it’s capable of flying away on its own.”

“Time for another brewski,” said Hank, veering towards the kitchen. “Anyone care to join me?”

Bradley raised a hand. “Sure, why not.”

Meanwhile, Liz refilled Hannah’s coffee cup as well as her own, and the four of them had returned to their seats. Hannah then asked about the financial aspects of their mother’s future care: What were the relative costs associated with their respective options? What savings and financial assets did their mother hold? What about her insurance?

Liz considered these good but complicated questions, and ones beyond her domain of expertise. She had always let Nigel manage the finances. Their divorce was amicable, so for months after she still sought his consultation on such matters. But now — after a year on her own — it was time to assert some financial independence, to take the reins regarding the important decisions affecting her life.

But managing her personal finances proved more difficult than grasping at straws in the dark. Tending to such things on behalf of their mother had already taken the challenge a degree further. The woman’s memory and attentiveness slipped more by the day, so Liz was unsure about her recent attempts to acquire the necessary data. Had her mom really turned over everything? A few nights before she dropped the phone to its cradle the one time she prepared to dial Nigel. She thought of phoning Bradley but couldn’t pull the trigger. She even considered inquiring with her son, Anthony, who had recently declared an economics major. But he was still just a sophomore, and his grades were plummeting each semester. Contacting him would have been unwise, if not ridiculous.

“I know I’m not much help,” Liz explained to Hannah and her brothers, unable to adequately piecemeal a cogent run-through of the relative costs. “The main thing to remember is that the expenses for a residence at a senior facility are in line with those for in-home care.”

“Twenty-four hour care?” asked Hank, just before taking another swig from his beer.

“No, not round-the-clock. Evenings she’d be on her own.”

“Is that a good idea?” questioned Hannah. “I think she needs full-time attention. The convalescent home would give her that.” “We need to remember,” Liz said, “we’re doing what is best for Mother, not what’s best for —"

“Damn! Anyone see that?” Hank yelled, before Liz could finish her sentence.

“I heard something,” Bradley said.

“The titmouse rolled off the mantle,” Hank said. “Mummy-wrap and all.”

“Oh my god!” said Liz.

Again, Hank was the first to inspect the scene. The bird was uncovered on the fireplace brick, the dishrag now halfway onto the carpet. “It’s still alive—I think,” he said.

They slumped down for a closer look, but no one dared touch the bird. Liz felt suddenly nauseous, deprived of oxygen, ready to black out. She managed to stabilize herself by leaning forward to grip the near edge of the brick. She stretched out her arms to relieve the building tension in shoulders; rotated her head to relieve the tightness in her neck.

“You look as wiped out as that bird there,” Hannah told Liz.

“Hey, at least Liz is still breathing,” Bradley said. “I’m not so sure about our little friend here.”

“Don’t tell me…” Liz barely choked out.

It was time to take matters into her own hands. She scooped up the bird into one palm, and cupped it with the other. It fit so perfectly, like a balled leather glove that only needed unfurling before gracing her fingertips. It was warm; its feathers pillowy. “Can you feel a heartbeat?” Hank asked.

Liz almost said yes before realizing the pumping blood she felt was strictly her own. So she shook her head.

“Shit!” Hank said. “That’s a bummer.”

Liz uncupped her hands and dropped the bird back to the brick. Hank put down his beer and scooted over beside her. He gave her a one-armed hug, drawing her to him. She appreciated the gesture, and prepared to snuggle in closer, to kiss his grainy cheek with all its beard stubble. But then Hank reached out and poked the bird with his index finger. “Ewww,” he said, as if he were a seven-year-old given cooties.

“Better get that thing bagged and buried before the cat gets it,” Bradley said.

“Let me take care of it,” Hannah told Liz. “I know where you keep the trash bags.”

“I’ll help you,” said Bradley, following Hannah into the kitchen.

“I’ll go outside and find a suitable burial plot for the titmouse, poor guy,” said Hank.

Liz remained on her knees as the rest got up and went about their business. She looked at the bird and then closed her eyes tight and shuddered. She feared that its lasting image might haunt her. And that her mind was about to go, and her body was on the verge of collapse. Earlier that morning as she sipped her coffee, swinging her legs off the side of the porch as she waited for her siblings to pull up, she felt ready to tackle whatever the world threw at her: a mother’s twilight care, a trio of demanding siblings, the need to become a responsible taskmaster. But then a titmouse flew into the window and her newfound confidence crashed along with it.

Hannah, Hank and Bradley would return any second, deal with the bird, and then expect to get things moving along. Liz, however, would tell them that their project for the day would have to wait. Its subject matter too important not to revisit at a more settling time, one without the sort of distractions and little emergency they’d endured over the past hour.

And she’d suggest that next time Hannah host it. Or perhaps, Bradley. Hank even. Anyplace would be fine. Just so long as it wasn’t her home again. There was no need to jinx things further.