Middlesex

Desdemona was propped up, regally, against a beige corduroy cushion known as a husband. The arms of this cushion encircled her. Protruding from the elastic pocket on the outside of one arm was an aspirator, along with two or three pill bottles. Desdemona was in a pale white nightgown, the bedcovers pulled up to her waist, and in her lap sat one of her Turkish atrocity fans. None of this was surprising. It was what Desdemona had done with her hair that shocked me. On hearing about Milton’s death, she had removed her hairnet, tearing at the masses of hair that tumbled down. Her hair was completely gray but still very fine and, in the light coming from the television, it appeared to be almost blond. The hair fell over her shoulders and spread out over her body like the hair of Botticelli’s Venus. The face framed by this astonishing cascade, however, was not that of a beautiful young woman but that of an old widow with a square head and dried-out mouth. In the unmoving air of the room and the smell of medicine and skin salves I could feel the weight of the time she had spent in this bed waiting and hoping to die. I’m not sure, with a grandmother like mine, if you can ever become a true American in the sense of believing that life is about the pursuit of happiness. The lesson of Desdemona’s suffering and rejection of life insisted that old age would not continue the manifold pleasures of youth but would instead be a long trial that slowly robbed life of even its smallest, simplest joys. Everyone struggles against despair, but it always wins in the end. It has to. It’s the thing that lets us say goodbye.

As I was standing there taking my grandmother in, Desdemona suddenly turned her head and noticed me. Her hand went up to her breast. With a frightened expression she reared back into her pillows and shouted, “Lefty!”

Now I was the one who was shocked. “No, yia yia. It’s not papou. It’s me. Cal.”

“Who?”

“Cal.” I paused. “Your grandson.”

This wasn’t fair, of course. Desdemona’s memory was no longer sharp. But I wasn’t helping her out any.

“Cal?”

“They called me Calliope when I was little.”

“You look like my Lefty,” she said.

“I do?”

“I thought you were my husband coming to take me to heaven.” She laughed for the first time.

“I’m Milt and Tessie’s kid.”

As quickly as it had come, the humor left Desdemona’s face and she looked sad and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you, honey.”

“I brought you these.” I held out the Epsom salts and baklava.

“Why Tessie isn’t coming?”

“She has to get dressed.”

“Dressed for why?”

“For the funeral.”

Desdemona gave a cry and clutched her breast again. “Who died?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I turned down the volume on the television. Then, pointing at the birdcage, I said, “I remember when you used to have about twenty birds.”

She looked over at the cage but said nothing.

“You used to live in the attic. On Seminole. Remember? That’s when you got all the birds. You said they reminded you of Bursa.”

At the sound of the name, Desdemona smiled again. “In Bursa we have all kind of birds. Green, yellow, red. All kind. Little birds but very beautiful. Like made from glass.”

“I want to go there. Remember that church there? I want to go and fix it up someday.”

“Milton is going to fix it. I keep telling him.”

“If he doesn’t do it, I will.”

Desdemona looked at me a moment as if measuring my ability to fulfill this promise. Then she said, “I don’t remember you, honey, but please can you fix for yia yia the Epsom salts?”

I got the foot basin and filled it with warm water from the bathtub faucet. I sprinkled in the soaking salts and brought it back into the bedroom.

“Put it next the chair, dolly mou.”

I did so.

“Now help yia yia to get out of bed.”

Coming closer, I bent down. I slid each of her legs out of the covers, turning her. Putting her arm over my shoulder, I pulled her to her feet for the short walk to the chair.

“I can’t do nothing anymore,” she lamented on the way. “I’m too old, honey.”

“You’re doing okay.”

“No, I can’t remember nothing. I have aches and pains. My heart it is not good.”

We had reached the chair now. I maneuvered around behind her to ease her down. Coming around to the front again, I lifted her swollen, blue-veined feet into the sudsy water. Desdemona murmured with pleasure. She closed her eyes.

For the next few minutes Desdemona was silent, luxuriating in the warm foot bath. Color returned to her ankles and rose up her legs. This rosiness disappeared under the hem of her nightgown but, a minute later, peeked out the collar. The flush spread up to her face, and when she opened her eyes there was a clarity in them that had been absent before. She stared straight at me. And then she shouted, “Calliope!”

She held her hand to her mouth. “Mana! What happen to you?”

“I grew up,” was all I said. I hadn’t intended to tell her but now it was out. I had an idea it wouldn’t make any difference. She wouldn’t remember this conversation.