The VERB - October '07

MY SUNSHINE
by
Renee Holland Davidson

The sun hangs low in the sky, the breeze caresses her face, as Renee hovers, weightless, over her childhood home. She can see through the roof as if it were made of glass. Her mother is playing the piano, wearing her best dress—deep blue with tiny purple flowers. With her black hair pulled up in a curly do, and her lips shiny red, she looks like a movie star. Renee blinks, and she is seven years old again, sitting on the mahogany bench in her Tinker Bell pajamas, inhaling her mother's soft Chantilly scent, and listening to her sing, "You Are My Sunshine." Renee mouths the words, imagining that the trill of her mother's voice is her own.

A foul odor creeps into the room, overpowering the perfume, and abruptly the music stops. Her mother, now wearing a yellow snap-front duster, kneels on the floor, Renee by her side. In front of them, on a pale blue blanket adorned with fluffy sheep, lies her baby brother, David. Her mother is still singing. She kisses his bald head. "You make me happy ..." Nuzzles his small, round tummy. "When skies are gray."

Renee holds her nose. "P.U.!" She waves the air dramatically. "Ugh, Mom! He stinks! How can you kiss him?"

Mom ruffles Renee's hair. "Because I love him, silly." She pulls her daughter onto her lap, then tickles her until Renee screams. "Uncle! Stinky P.U. uncle!"

Mom laughs, then swats Renee on the rear. "Okay, big sister, go get a diaper."

"Wake up, sis."

Renee opens her eyes, and sees David standing in front of her—six feet tall, but still bald—or rather, bald again.

The very real odor of a sullied diaper lurks in the air. She looks to where their mother sleeps in her hospital bed, one corner of her mouth drooping, saliva drooling onto her chin.

Turning back to her brother, she asks, "How long have you been here?"

"About twenty minutes. Mom was awake when I first got here, but she didn't want me to wake you. I think she was trying to tell me you've been here all day."

"Since nine. I had an appointment with the speech therapist." She sees her mother beginning to stir. "Did she verbalize much?"

"A little: 'Renee came.' 'Oatmeal.' I gathered you got here while she was eating breakfast."

"Yeah. She ate mostly on her own. I only helped open the juice carton."

"Good." His nose wrinkles. "I tried to find someone to change her, but Tina's dispensing meds, and the other aide's giving someone a bath. It could be a while."

Renee shrugs. "I can do it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, no biggie." She avoids David's eyes, pushing back tears. Since the stroke, she's read to Mom, fed her, dressed her, bathed her, but not this. The ultimate indignity. She longs to fall back into her dream, back in time. When her mom played the piano and sang. When the only dirty diapers were her baby brother's.

"Okay." He leans forward and squeezes his sister's shoulder. "I'll wait in the hall."

She walks to the bed, gently wipes her mom's chin with a tissue, and kisses her forehead.

Her mother's smile is lopsided. "Good ... nap?"

Renee nods, and her mother pats her hand, then stares at the doorway. "David ... home?"

"No. He's waiting outside while I help you change."

Her mother frowns. "Tina?"

"Tina's busy right now."

"I ... wait."

"It's okay, I don't mind." Hearing the false chirpiness of her own voice, she tries to speak normally, forcing what she hopes is a natural-looking grin. "I promise I won't roll you off the bed."

"Promise ... okay." Another lopsided smile.

Renee gathers the necessary items: a clean diaper, a tub of wipes, a plastic-lined bed pad, her courage. She hesitates, casts a glance at the partially opened door, then pulls the privacy curtain. As if on cue, David starts whistling "You Are My Sunshine." Renee sings along, first under her breath, then louder as she sees her mother staring up at her lips—eyes alight—mouthing every word.

You Are My Sunshine by Jimmie Davis & Charles Mitchell
Copyright © 1940 by Peer International Corporation. Copyright Renewed.