In-between – Laurel Felt, PhD

Ray, Dick, Ruth, and Barbara Marcus | 1954

Before Mom and I left the lobby of Gramma’s building, we held each other.

After she parked in the garage, Mom and I sat for a while and sniffled.

It seems, like Gramma, that we’re both finding comfort in the in-between.

The in-between is not a place where you stay. The in-between is a place where you rest, take a breath, and prepare to launch yourself into the next place, be it the wintry parking lot, the quotidian split-level, or the space beyond.

I asked Gramma today if she’d been dreaming of her mother. “I dream about my mom all the time,” she replied.

She summoned my mother into her bedroom while the rest of us — Dad, Benjy, Uncle Dick, Aunt Sue, Leanne — remained at the dinner table. Gramma told Mom that she wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. In the past, when Mom hadn’t known Gramma’s diagnosis (which was every day before two weeks ago), Mom would dismiss Ruth’s rumblings about getting old. “I need you,” my mom would tell her mom. “We’ve got more to do. We’re gonna have a wedding. We don’t know about X and Y. We have so much yet to figure out. Don’t you want to know what happens?” And Ruth would laugh.

But now we know about Ruth’s liver cancer. We’ve borne witness to Ruth’s incredibly swift descent. So tonight my mom said, “It’s okay. We’re all gonna be okay, we have each other. We just want you to be comfortable. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Then Mom added, “Don’t go anywhere, I got a present for you!” And Ruth laughed. Mom dashed out of the room, rifled through her purse and wallet, and triumphantly returned to Ruth’s bedside. Ruth laughed again when she identified the paper in her daughter’s hand: a lottery ticket. “Somebody’s gotta win!” my mom reasoned.

Years ago in Florida, when the first Powerball was introduced, Ruth had been certain that she would win. She fantasized about buying the apartment by the beach that she and Ray rented for 17 winters. This morning, the sweetness of Florida enveloped Ruth briefly when she tasted a bite of ruby red grapefruit. “Mmm,” Ruth sighed, her eyes closed.

I’m betting against Ruth winning the lottery. (Although, in the grand scheme of things, perhaps she already did.) But I’m putting my money on Gramma’s imminent return to Florida. And I can practically see her mother sitting on the bench beside her.