They're less brutal now, less frequent, but the memories still come at night, when I'm most helpless, least able to resist them. The delivery system for this particular memory comes in the fuzzy gray form of Monika, innocently hopping up beside me in bed, brushing against me, nestling against me, just like she did that night.
That Friday night, which seemed like any other. About once a month or so, I'd spend much of my weekend at Mom's. I wish I could say it was because she was living with cancer and every moment seemed precious, but in fact I'd been doing it since before her diagnosis. It was just a nice, relaxing way to spend a weekend. Friday night would be spent hanging out and talking, Saturday we'd usually order a pizza and riff on some bad movie we'd rented.
I'd worked later than expected this particular Friday, and by the time I got to her house, the opening ceremony of the 2006 Winter Olympics was already underway. Mom was in full sarcasm mode, making fun of the goofy outfits worn by the athletes during the Parade Of Nations, and trying to figure out why the whole spectacle was accompanied by nonstop disco music. She reheated the chicken and dressing she'd fixed for me earlier, we watched TV a little longer and then she went to bed.
I stayed up awhile, flipping channels, then reading. Finally I turned the TV to one of the digital music stations and laid down on the couch, ready to sleep. Monika hopped up beside me, as she usually did when I was there. Of Mom's four cats, only Monika showed the slightest affection for me.
Her usual pattern would be to demand attention until she got bored, then leave. She and I had enacted this ritual many, many times. This time, though, she lingered, draping herself across my legs. Even when I rolled over, she only readjusted herself and stayed.
Mom stumbled to the bathroom. Monika hopped down and followed her, then returned to me, her face in mine. Mom headed back to the bedroom, Monika watching, perched on my chest. I fell asleep.
I woke abruptly to the sound of Mom staggering through yet again, another trip to the bathroom. This was unusual. And again, Monika followed her, then hopped back up with me when the door closed. As Mom returned to the bedroom, I asked her if she was okay and she said yes, she just felt a little sick, nothing to worry about, then swinging shut her bedroom door. Monika paced back and forth on my chest, and when I turned over on my side, she burrowed beneath me.
Mom seemed oddly distracted the next morning, not quite focused, not quite there. I had to make a run to the bank, and when I got back, she seemed even more remote. We watched some of The Electric Company DVD I'd brought with me, and started the lame Gil Gerard Buck Rogers movie as something to make fun of, but about ten minutes in she said she really didn't feel like watching and asked me to leave.
She deteriorated rapidly from there, and the following Thursday, she died. In retrospect, of course, I should have known, but in truth, I had no inkling of what was to come that Friday night. It looked to be just another weekend. Mom was her usual self that evening, and though all the multiple trips to the bathroom seemed odd, I had no idea if this was particularly unusual or simply standard procedure for someone with cancer.
I didn't know...but did Monika? The way she kept coming back to me, not merely seeking attention as usual, but something more. Did she sense a change coming? Did she know the only world she'd ever known was coming to an end? Did she need someone to comfort her on this night of mounting dread? Or did she mean to comfort me, knowing I'd need it soon enough?
