Alice Miller was sitting at the outdoor patio of the Lakeside Café that Sunday morning. It wasn’t just her usual Sunday morning. It was Mother’s Day. As she sipped her coffee and broke a blueberry scone in half, her thought was that this was the first Mother’s Day since mom died. Sadly, every Sunday had been difficult since Mom was not there, across the table, reaching out for her half of the scone.
Alice was dressed in navy blue spandex having just come from her Pilates class. This, her Sunday morning ritual: class, then meeting Mom here at the Café afterward. Alice had just turned sixty-four, had never been married and was not in a relationship. Alice felt more alone than she ever remembered.
“Ellen,” she called out to the waitress. “I guess I’ll take my check now.”
Alice is an artist, a painter, and a printmaker. Totally self-supporting her entire career. She did not make a lot of money, but she got by. She made reproductions of her work and was able to sell them on the internet. She was also tied into a Hollywood set designer and her images graced many a wall on both network and cable television shows. After Mom passed away, she had inherited enough money to get by with less concern. Good thing too. She had not produced much new work of late. Creativity and grief were not good partners.
She had come to Columbia, Maryland nearly thirty years ago because Mom was there. Dad had died. Alice came to be with her mom for a while. And stayed. Dad had been a Baltimore cop. Smoked too much, and he ate the clichéd cop diet of burgers and donuts. He had just turned sixty-two when his heart gave out. Mom had been sixty then, and from that time on, she and Mom had been together. They did not live together. Just were usually around each other. Dinner at Mom’s apartment once or twice a week. Shopping trips to Baltimore or down to Montgomery County. They traveled. Even took a cruise especially for mothers and daughters. Mom would come by the studio in the afternoon while Alice was painting. Have a coffee, sit and chat. They would go out to dinner at least once a week, maybe more. A lonely older woman and a lonely middle-aged artist. Happy together.
Don’t misunderstand. Alice had friends. She was social. She went to parties and art openings. She hung out with couples. Alice told her Mom she dated occasionally. If she was being honest with herself, not that often. Alice fell in love early. It was shortly after college when she was twenty-three. Had her heartbroken after a five-year relationship went sour. She could still hear his words: “I’ve met someone else. I’m sorry.”
She had not met anyone else to get serious with since, even while living in New York for a few years after that. Then Dad passed away, she came back to Columbia and became her mother’s companion. Mom died last summer, just weeks short of her 90th birthday. Alice did not regret one day of the time they were together. It was delicious to love and respect someone that much. She had been lost ever since.
Ellen returned with the check and refilled her coffee. “Alice, I’ve been meaning to ask you how you are doing. I can’t get used to your mom not being here. I imagine today, of all days, is a hard one. You should make plans. Stay busy. Your mom will be in your thoughts and in your heart. God Bless.”
“Thanks, Ellen. You have that right. I’ve got the Mother’s Day Blues. Too bad I can’t sing. Hard as it may be for me, I will try to celebrate her life today.”
Alice laid a credit card on the check and took out her phone. She thought she might call a friend. See if anybody had anything fun planned for today. That would help. As soon as she pressed the phone icon, her favorites came up. There at the top of her favorites list was the name “Mom.” She had not had the will to delete the contact. Would anyone?
Alice had convinced her mother to get a cell phone when she turned seventy-five. After all, it was a new century and she was a young seventy-five. She was sharp to the end and the technology never bothered her. And she loved the iPhone commercials. Also, the commercials about falling had the desired effect. Lifeline for Mom was the cell phone which was always close at hand.
It had been over ten months since she died. Alice thought it possible but unlikely that someone new would have her number this soon. Of course, she wouldn’t call it. Someone might answer. Then what?
But Alice could not deny a strange urge to communicate. She selected Mom’s contact and navigated to the text message icon. They each had gotten in the habit of texting first thing on birthday’s, on Christmas and New Year and of course, on Mother’s Day. The cell phone had been a revelation for her. She could text Alice random thoughts without feeling she was intruding with a call.
Alice typed, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.”
As soon as she hit send, she regretted it. How would she explain this behavior? So pathetic. It certainly could become embarrassing, but hell, a bit of embarrassment never hurt anyone. Something like a wrong number. No big deal. She took the last bite of the scone and finished her coffee. She stood up to leave, threw her backpack over her shoulder, and headed toward the parking garage. The garage was across the street, just down the block. It took good karma on Sunday morning to get parking any closer to the lake.
Alice had not put her phone in the bag. She was carrying it in her hand, almost as if willing a reply from her text. As she walked, she expected the phone to vibrate at any moment. She looked down at it, just for a second, as she was about to step out between two parked cars to cross the street. She looked right, then to the left, there were no cars coming. She had not noticed the bicyclist coming from her right. As she looked left, she stepped out in the street. The bike hit her hard. She went down, her arm and shoulder taking the hit. It must have been both the handlebar and the rather large rider. The cyclist was sprawled across her legs, his bike on top of her. She was in pain nearly to the point of passing out. The phone left her hand and scooted a few feet away.
*****
Officer Joe Kelly had seen it all happen from across the street and fifty yards down the block. He radioed in as he sprinted over. Joe was slightly winded. He took in the scene. He picked up a cell phone from the ground and put it in his pocket while he directed traffic to allow an ambulance to pull in and collect the injured woman when it arrived. The cyclist was dazed but had come down on top of the woman and broken his fall. Kelly helped him up. He seemed startled but uninjured. “Don’t leave, please. I’ll need to get some information.” The cyclist grunted out “I’m fine, thanks for asking.” A woman on a bike pulled up, dismounted athletically, and rushed to the man. Kelly turned his attention to the woman on the ground. She was not getting up so quickly. A pedestrian, a young man, had seen the accident and was kneeling next to the older woman who was moaning and in a fetal position. The woman seemed to have a broken arm and maybe a dislocated shoulder. No doubt, she was in shock and pain.
In minutes the ambulance arrived, the Rescue Squad building being less than a mile away. The EMS driver and his assistant secured the women’s arm and got her on a stretcher. They started an IV, likely something to calm her down and deal with the pain until they got her to the hospital. Officer Kelly pulled the cell phone from his pocket, certain it was hers, and wanting to make sure it got into the ambulance with the woman. He had her backpack at his feet and reached down inside feeling for a wallet or some other ID.
The EMS guy was in a hurry to get moving. “Does the backpack belong to the injured woman?” he asked. “Better let me have it.” He said they would call in her information on the way.
Officer Kelly checked the phone and saw it was open to the message screen. The message that was displayed said “Happy Mother’s Day Mom.” He called out to the ambulance driver and asked him to wait while he replied to a text. He thought he should alert her family to the situation. He quickly typed, “Your mother has been in a minor accident and is on the way to County General Hospital. She is OK but has likely broken something. I am sending this phone in the ambulance, so she will have it at the hospital. Officer Joe Kelly. Howard County Police.”
Joe hit send and stuffed the phone into the backpack. He passed it to the medic in the back of the ambulance. It never occurred to Kelly that the text he sent was not a reply.
*****
