Cross

I did something without asking you first, she tells me. She looks concerned. She might have been wringing her hands, even.

That’s OK, I say. You are telling me now.

There is a woman who comes with a goat, she continues. The goat was scared and lonely, and the woman has adopted her. I have invited them to live with me. The goat is alone all day, and I am alone all day, and we thought it might be nice to be alone together.

OK Sunny. I smile at her. When are they coming?

She looks relieved. It was supposed to be yesterday, but the goat was too afraid, so I’m not sure when it will be.

We move on, gently, to other topics. I check her chair for the smell of urine, to see if the cover needs to be changed. I ask her if she wants to play cards. I don’t think she hears me, but she lights up when I reach for the cribbage board. Oh, I’d love to, she says.

I used to make her deal when it was her turn. She complained about it: it was too hard from the angle at which she was sitting. I suggested, mostly by gesturing, that she bring her chair up a bit. She did, and said oh, that’s better, but that was maybe just to please me. She wanted to please me, especially during that last year.

Once she told Terri Leigh that I had been to see her earlier that day and had been cross with her, but it was during a time that I was traveling and hadn’t seen her in over a week.

Sometimes I was cross with her. She had started repeating phrases: cat’s fur to make kitten britches. Over and over, many times during each visit. Cat’s fur to make kitten britches. Just out of the blue, during a card game or to punctuate a phrase. I finally asked her to stop, told her that phrase was banned during my visits. And she tried to stop. She would catch herself - cat’s fur–oh wait, I’m not allowed to say that anymore. Oops! The next time I came she told me Terri Leigh had looked it up, and that it meant none of your business. So I can see why you don’t want me to say it anymore!

The thing that made me the most cross was when she called herself stupid. That’s spelled s-t-o-o-p-i-d, she would tell me. Sunny, please don’t call yourself that. I hated it. I hated hearing the word come out of her mouth, especially in reference to herself. We were never allowed to call each other stupid as kids. It was as bad as a swear word if we said it about someone else. Please don’t say that about someone I love, I implored her. I feel angry and sad when you say that. She nodded solemnly. OK, she mouthed. OK, I won’t.