“I’d look into Prozac, Mrs. Stern.  If she were my mother.”

     Katie and Jonathan say they’ll grab breakfast at school.  They disappear in a flash of books and winter jackets.  Judy knocks on her mother’s door and after hearing the soft response returns to the kitchen.

     Mother, in those slippers, shuffles into the room as Bob reaches for his briefcase.

     “And what do you girls have planned today?”

     “We have some errands to run.”  Judy glances at Mother.  “And the synagogue’s Seniors’ Group is having a luncheon.  Right, Mother?  And then we have an appointment with Dr. Goldstein.”  She doesn’t say, Mother has an appointment with Dr. Goldstein. Bob will understand the subtext, anyway.

     “Quite a lot of driving,” Bob remarks.  Mother looks at the table.

     Judy stands motionless while Bob kisses her cheek.  He steps back and studies her.  His hand grazes her arm.

     “Have a good day,” he says, in a softer voice.  He looks over at her mother.  “You, too, Clara.”

     Judy lays out her mother’s morning pills, blue and white, next to a glass of orange juice.  “So, what are you planning to wear to the luncheon?”

     Her mother shrugs.

     “Because I was thinking,” Judy continues.  “Why don’t we stop by Nordstrom’s this morning?  Pick out something nice and new?”

     This time, Mother doesn’t even shrug.

     The phone rings.  Judy glances at the clock.  It must be Linda.   Judy loves her best friend, but she knew in August this idea of “alternating” Monday afternoons volunteering at the school library would never work.

     “Can you fill in for me today?”  Linda wants to know.

     Judy turns away. Lowers her voice.  “I can’t.”

     “Mother?”

     “Well—“

     “Judy, don’t you say another word.  I understand, completely.”

     That, Judy doubts.   Linda’s parents live half the year in Palm Beach, and drive North in their big white Town Car every April.  Yes, there’d been that cancer scare with Linda’s father, but Linda’s brother is Chief of Urology at St. Barnabas, and he handled everything.  Hardly the first time Judy recognized the benefits other people enjoyed, when they had siblings.

     Judy clicks the phone off and turns back to the table.  Mother is staring at her untouched toast.

     “What’s wrong, Mother?”

     But her mother only shakes her head before going upstairs to wash and dress.

     Judy clears the table.  She tries to clear her head, too.

     A lot of driving.   Bob hasn’t always been so difficult about Mother.  But until three months ago, he hadn’t had to see her very often, had he?

     And now he still doesn’t see.   That it has nothing to do with driving.

     Many times the words have risen to Judy’s throat.

     Her lips shape to form the first word.

     Once—

     Once—

     Once you have faced the ultimate examination; once you have faced that man, if he truly was a man, the one with the monocle; once you have been asked your age, and whether you are in good health, and you have been looked up and down by those eyes you will never as long as you live forget; once the baton has pointed you to the side of life while it shunts your mother and your baby sister directly to the chimneys—maybe no other test in your life can frighten you.  Maybe you are numb.

     Or—maybe every other test will terrify you, paralyze you, make your heart race and stop, make your flesh turn white and cold, make you want to cry and scream at once, but make you silent.

     And so, one day, your child needs a check-up, and your husband must take her to the pediatrician, because you cannot face bringing for a medical evaluation your beloved who in her smallness so resembles your little sister, frozen in your heart forever as the five-year-old she was.  Later your child receives an “A” on a midterm but you cannot praise her, because you, too, once received an “A”—you saw it in those eyes.  Grown up, the child encourages you to become a citizen, and you bravely prepare.  You read the softcover study guide that child finds for you and you learn that the Constitution was written in 1787, and that Congress has the power to declare war, and that candidates for President must be natural-born citizens, at least 35 years old, who have lived in the United States for at least 14 years.  But in the end you cannot manage to wash and dress to go to the INS office for your interview.

     Your dear husband does all the driving.  And when he dies, your daughter—that child—takes over.

     Once.

     But her throat tightens.  Her teeth clench.  While she searches for her car keys.

     She has hoped that Mother would make friends in the Seniors’ Group.   That Mother, too, would dig into the platters of turkey and roast beef sandwiches, all served on seedless rye, with pickles and Russian dressing on the side.  That she might even indulge in raisiny rugelach or a slice of sponge cake.  But Mother doesn’t eat.

     These luncheons always feature a program.  Sometimes the preschoolers are drafted to sing Hebrew songs.  Sometimes the rabbi interprets the weekly Torah portion.  Sometimes there’s a special guest, as there is today.  A Grandson.  (“My grandson,” as one of the Group’s members repeats.)  He recently earned his Ph.D. at Yale; his talk is titled:  “Lessons from the Election of 2000.”

     “And, he’s getting married in August,” the grandmother announces. More than once.  Loudly.

     During the speech Judy only hears the occasional word.  Democracy.  Vote.  Privilege.  Right.  Responsibility.

     She’s thinking about the 2:30 appointment with Dr. Goldstein.  What time Katie’s track practice will end.  Where Jonathan said he was going after school today.  She’s realizing she won’t ever get to the bank, the drugstore, or the post office, this afternoon.

     After the event they return to the car.  Mother sits straighter than before.

     “That young man,” she says.  “Many fine points, he made.”

     “Oh—yes.” Judy backs out of the space.  Concentrates on the turn toward Dr. Goldstein’s office.

     “That selection in November….”  Mother shakes her head.  “Not right.”

     Judy looks at her, then back at the car ahead.

     “You mean, ‘election.’”

     Her mother pauses.  “I never forget when the results came, in ’33.  Father knew.  I heard him tell Mother, that night.”

     Judy gives a sidelong glance.

     Mother looks out the window.  “She wouldn’t believe.”

     At home Mother retreats to her room, emerging only at dinnertime.  She enters the kitchen softly, wearing the blue terry slippers.  She clutches an old softcover book.  It seems familiar.   Then Judy glimpses the title.

     Our Constitution and Government:  A Home Study Guide.

     “I’m going to become citizen.  Again,” Mother announces.

     Judy’s throat tightens.

     “What’s this about?”  Bob asks, fork in mid-air.

     “Educated woters,” Mother explains.  The children smile, as they usually do when Mother encounters the letter “v.”  

     “Make the difference,” Mother adds.

     Jonathan asks, “Won’t it take awhile?”

     Bob sets down his fork and glances at Judy.  “I’ll check with some friends at the INS.”

     Something is going to explode in Judy’s throat and pour down, into her lungs.  Her heart.

     Katie squeezes her grandmother’s hand.  “Soon we can vote together.”

     Mother squeezes back.  “You take me?”