as memórias do esquecimento
[...] her mother lay with her gray hair - what was left of it - sticking out on the pillow, and she was a tiny as a person could be and still be alive. It was as though her mother had been in a science fiction movie and that her body - her essence - had been snatched. When her mother's eyes flipped open, Suzanne had said, "It's me, Mom, Suzanne," and her mother had sat up and said, "Hello." And when Suzanne repeated to her, "Mom, it's me, your daughter," her mother said pleasantly, "No, my daughter is dead." Then her mother had sung a lullaby as she rocked Snuggles, and she was still doing that when Suzanne left.
Now, as Suzanne entered the room, she had to walk by another woman seated in a wheelchair not far from her mother; [...]
Her mother sat serenely in her wheelchair in the corner of her room, with Snuggles on her lap. Her hair had been combed, and she wore a sweatsuit of pale off-white, on her feet were clean white sneakers. "Hello," she said to Suzanne. "You're a pretty woman. Who are you?"
"I'm your daughter, Mom. It's me, Suzanne."
Her mother said politely, "I don't have a daughter. She died. But when she was a little girl, she had this." And her mother held up Snuggles. "His name is Snuggles," her mother said.
"Mom, you remember this was Snuggles?" Suzanne leaned down toward her mother.
"I don't know who you are," her mother continued, "but my poor little daughter. She was always such a good girl." [...]
"But her brother!" And her mother laughed then. "Oh, her brother was a nasty little boy." [...]
Chills ran down Suzanne's side [...] "Doyle?" she finally asked.
Her mother's face remained uncomprehending, until suddenly it became twisted in fury. "You get out of here right now! Get out! Get out!" Spittle flew from her mouth.
And then the other woman seated in her wheelchair began to cry. It was a terrible sound [...] Suzanne stood up [...] "Help me, please," she said to an aide going by. "I've upset my mother and also some woman who was in here [...]
The aide was a small young woman, with no expression on her face, and she said to Suzanne, "I'll be there in a minute."
"Please come in now," said Suzanne, but the aide was already going into the room next door. "Oh God," said Suzanne. She went back into her mother's room [...] and her mother was half standing out of her chair. She pointed her arm at Suzanne. "You! Get out of here right now!"
Elizabeth Strout – Olive, Again (2019)
Penguin Random House UK (2019)
