428
JOYCE CAROL OATES
oh, her hands are the roots of trees tom
out of the earth and she longs to get
back into that dark, dark air and that
silence. Though she is gone now, to the
hospital, I can still see her. My aunt
opens a can of
beef
noodle soup for me.
1969
Slumped over, a woman in a baggy
blue dress. A regulation dress. My
mother has a scattered, shrill, queenly
face - her cheeks are flushed, without
rouge - her eyes are sharp, very sharp.
She stares at me rudely. She knows
very well who I am but
will
not say
hello, won't
kiss
me. I don't want her
to kiss me anyway! What can I bring
to this witch, what good is the bag of
fruit, what good for her yellow com–
plexion, her angry skin? "I'm the same,
don't look for happy signs," she says,
moving her mouth. Our eyes meet as
if
by accident. "Go away. Don't stare
at me. You
think
I'm
in
a freak show?"
she says. "I'll leave if you want me to,"
I say. "What did you come for?"
sh~
says. "Just to
talk ...
to say hello...."
I say. "You're spying for them,"
she
says listlessly. "No," I say. "They use
you without your knowing it, you're so
stupid," she says. "They can hear what
you're thinking . . . you're too stupid to
shut it off! You don't know how!"
Other women sit around us, yawning
and blinking. Drugs keep them at
the
bottom of the ocean. My mother's
eyes
are feverish with the fight she makes
against falling asleep, against surrender-
