Looking at Me: LOOKING OUT

I cough. I wheeze. I fight like a tiger when my mother tip-toes into my bedroom, a big bottle of bitter cough syrup behind her back and a clean tablespoon in her apron pocket. ‘Get away, Momma,. That stuff is awful and isn’t making me better.‘ My mother knows that but asks how I know it. ‘Marilyn, if you hadn’t taken the C 14 all week, you might be dead already! Take this.’ Reluctantly I follow orders and take it. I also take the two miniature Milky Ways she gives me every time.

By Saturday my temperature has reached 102. I can hear my mother dialing Dr. Robinson but not what is said. She comes upstairs carrying a painted white basin, almost overflowing with cool water and a brand new soft wash cloth. I tell her to take off the price tag so it doesn’t scratch my face. The first cool dab is comfortable, feels good against my warm skin until I begin another coughing, wheezing bout. I spit up the useless C 14 and a little bit of the Milky Way. Just looking at the mess on my sheet, gags me. I come close to making the mess worse.

My mother is not discouraged. She changes the cool water to luke warm, gives me a quick wash from my face to my belly button. ‘Mother,’ I say. ‘Thank you. You know I love you, don’t you? I see her smile, wink, feel her warm kiss on my forehead. She leaves me to take a nap.

Sleep is not what I want. Outside is where I want to be. My bed is my jailer. I get out of it, put on my cotton slippers, a summer robe, move my light weight vanity chair near the window and forget to cough for a while. The maple tree near the gutter, already bears green leaves. The bright sun makes them shine. The ice cream truck is at Johnson’s Drug Store. Johnson’s soda jerk helps the driver bring in gallons of chocolate, vanilla and pistachio. ‘Mom,’ I call to her. ‘Could you get me some ice cream from Johnsons? Not pistachio. The nuts might make me cough again.’

I look at the cheap watch my Father bought me last year. Lots of times I forget to wind it and have to ask him or my mother what time it is. They get upset and criticize me for not taking care of the watch properly. Today it happens to be working and tells me it is 11 a.m. ‘Mother, can I have the ice cream soon?’ I force a few loud coughs to encourage her to buy a quart of chocolate that we all like.

The street has lots of people I can watch. Things happen all the time. Wow! There goes an ambulance. Our neighbors shop, talk. The ones inside their houses come out. The ones outside go inside to put away all the things they bought on their walks.

Mrs. Bliner is showing off the big perambulator her husband bought for their first baby. Two ladies stop and look in, say something surely nice to Mrs. Bliner. I love babies and wish I could see her. I knock on the window, get Mrs. Bliner’s attention and wave. She lifts her baby out of the perambulator, holds the tiny fingers and has the baby wave to me, too.

‘Mother, bring me another dose of that delicious sour medicine. I want to get better faster.’ My mother brings it right upstairs to me. I taste it and start to cough.