A Valentine for Mother

by

Terry Wright

            Dr. Michael Stone jumped into his Mercedes, started the engine, and sped away from University Medical Center. With trembling fingers, he loosened his silk tie. The call he’d received only moments ago caused him grave concern. His mother’s condition had deteriorated unexpectedly, and her timing couldn’t have been worse. It was Valentines Day.

Glancing at his gold Rolex, he hoped this emergency would not interfere with his plans for this evening. He’d made reservations at the Broker Restaurant for a romantic dinner with his latest girlfriend. Theater tickets for the nine o’clock curtain call were tucked into his jacket pocket, and after the show they were going out for a little late-night dancing at the Adam’s Mark Hotel. Everything was set. And now this.

Traffic on southbound I-25 crawled through T-Rex. By the time he reached Cresthill Nursing Home, he was totally frustrated. Inside, the place smelled like they were having spaghetti and meatballs for supper. As he approached his mother’s room, a nurse came out the door. “Quickly, Dr. Stone. She’s been asking for you.”

“What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s barely hanging on.”

“Why did she have to pick today of all days?”

“She was fine yesterday,” the nurse said. “Maybe you should have come then.”

“I was busy.”

“You’d better go in before it’s too late.”

Fearfully, he peered into her dimly lit room. “Mother?”

A rustle of sheets came first, then a moan. “Michael...is that you?”

Relieved to hear her voice, he moved toward the bed. She was covered with a sheet, her head propped on a pillow. A mat of gray hair framed her pallid face. “What’s the matter now, Mom?”

“It’s Valentines Day,” she said weakly.

“I know.” He touched her doughy hand. “I have plans for tonight.”

She coughed. “Did you bring me a Valentine card?”

“I didn’t have time to get you one.”

“No time for your mother?”

“It’s just that...”

“Any flowers?” Her weary eyes searched him expectantly. “Your father used to give me red roses.” She sighed. “Red roses for passionate love. We were so young.”

“Dad died a long time ago.”

“And I haven’t gotten a card or a flower since.”

“Don’t fret about that now. You need rest.”

She turned her eyes away from him. “It’s such a little thing to ask, a card and flowers for your mother on Valentines Day. Not necessarily red roses,” she wheezed. “An azalea for temperance, a fern for sincerity, a geranium for comfort...a card that says ‘I love you, Mom, for all the things you’ve done for me’. How hard can that be?” Her frail voice faded.

He stepped back, guilt churning in his stomach. She was right. He’d been so engrossed in his own love life that he’d neglected the one woman who had always loved him. The only thing he could think to do now was rush out to the flower shop. “I’ll be right back, Mom.”

She didn’t say anything. Her wide-open eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Mom?”