The Moustache
ByRobert Cormier – edited version
1. That afternoon, my mother lined me up against the wall again, as always these past few weeks before Icould even take one step outside the house. She stood there like a firing squad. “That moustache…"She shook her head. "I still say a seventeen-year-old has no business wearinga moustache." "It's an experiment," I said. "I just wantedto see if I could grow one." To tell the truth, I had proved my pointabout being able to grow a decent moustache, but I also had learned to like it. "Look," I said, tocheer her up. "I'm thinking about shaving it off." Even though Iwasn't. Another discovery: You can build a way of life on postponement. "Your grandmother probably won't even recognizeyou," she said. And I saw the shadow fall across her face.
2. But ok, I am going too fast. Let me tell you first what this is allabout. My grandmother is seventy-three years old. She is a resident -- which is supposed to be a better word than patient -- at the Lawnrest Nursing Home. She used to make thegreatest turkey in the world and was anut about baseball and could even quote famous players, for crying out loud.Now she has something called arteriosclerosis, which really means that shecan't live at home anymore or even with us, and her memory has betrayed her aswell as her body. She used to wander off and sometimes didn't recognize people.My mother visits her all the time, driving the thirty miles to Lawnrest almostevery day.
3. Now it was my winter vacation, and I hadn't seen my grandmothersince she'd been admitted toLawnrest. Frankly, I wasn't too crazy about visiting a nursing home. In fact,as I approached Lawnrest -- which is a terrible cemetery kind of name, to begin with -- I was sorry I hadn'tavoided the trip. Then I felt guilty about it. I thought of all the Christmas and birthdaygifts my grandmother had given me and I walked in the nursery home, feeling guilty,as usual.
4. I found my grandmother sitting in bed in her room. She saw me andsmiled. Her eyes lit up and shereached out her hands to me in greeting. "Mike, Mike," she said. AndI breathed a sigh of relief. This was one of her good days. I took her hands inmine. They were fragile. "Mike,Mike, I didn't think you'd come," she said, so happy. "I've beenwaiting all this time."
Her eyes were bright. Radiant, really. Or was it amedicine brightness?
5. "Ah, Mike. You look so grand, so grand. Is that a newcoat?" "Not really," I said. I'd been wearing my uncle Jerry'sold jacket for months, ‘practically living in it’, my mother said. "Youalways loved clothes, didn't you, Mike?" she said. I was beginning to feel uneasy, because she regarded me withsuch intensity. Those bright eyes. Iwondered -- are old people in place like this so lonesome, so abandoned that they go wild when someonevisits? Or was she so happy because she was suddenly sharp and clear headed?
6. “You always said 'It's the things of the spirit that count, Meg. The spirit! And so you bought the piano --a piano in the middle of the Depression! How I loved that piano…Ithought I'd lost you forever Mike. And here you are, back with meagain..." Her expression scared me.
7. Thinking back to the pictures in the old family albums, I recalled mygrandfather as tall and thin. Like me. He was thirty-five when he died, almostforty years ago. And he wore a moustache. I also wore a moustache now, ofcourse. "I sit here these days, Mike," she said, her voice a lullaby, her hand still holding mine,"and I drift and dream. The days are fuzzy sometimes, merging together. Sometimes it's like I'm not here at all butsomewhere else. And I always think of you. Those years we had. Not enoughyears, Mike, not enough..."
8. "Listen..." I began. I wanted to say: "Nana, this is Mike your grandson, notMike your husband." "Sh...sh..." she whispered, “Don't sayanything. I've waited so long for this moment. To be here. With you. I hate youto see me this way -- you always said I was beautiful. I didn't believe it. Thatother night, Mike. The terrible one. The terrible accusations I made. Even Ellie woke up and began to cry. You said Iwas wrong. And I did not believe you. I've even forgotten the name of the girl.I sit here, wondering now -- was it Laura or Evelyn? I can't remember. Later, Ilearned that you were telling the truth all the time, Mike. That I'd been wrong...Itwas never the same after that night, was it, Mike? The glitter was gone. From you. Fromus. And then the accident... and I never had the chance to ask you to forgiveme..."
9. My grandmother. My poor, poor grandmother. Old people aren'tsupposed to have those kinds of memories. They're not supposed to come to life.You’re simply visiting an old lady in a nursing home. A duty call. And then youfind out that she's a person. She's somebody. She's my grandmother, all right,but she's also herself. Like my own mother and father. They exist outside oftheir relationship to me. I was scared again. I wanted to get out of there.
10. "Mike, Mike," my grandmother said. "Say it, Mike. Sayyou forgive me, Mike. I've waited all these years..." I was surprised athow strong her fingers were. "Say, 'I forgive you, Meg.'" I just saidit: "I forgive you, Meg." And for the first time in my life, I sawlove at work. Not movie love. Not Cindy's sparkling eyes when I tell her thatwe're going to the beach on a Sunday afternoon. But love like something aliveand tender, asking nothing in return. She raised her face, and I knew what shewanted me to do. I bent and brushed my lips against her cheek.
11. She closed her eyes and I stood up. I waited a while. She seemed tobe sleeping, her breathing serene and regular. I buttoned my coat.Suddenly she opened her eyes again and looked at me. Her eyes were stillbright, but they merely stared at me. Without recognition or curiosity. Empty eyes. I smiled at her, but she didn'tsmile back. She turned away on the bed, pulling the blankets around her. Icounted to twenty-five and then to fifty and did it all over again. I clearedmy throat and coughed. She didn't move; she didn't respond. I left. Just like that. I didn't even saygoodbye or anything. I rushed in the car and turned up the volume of the radio. I would have done anything to not hear myselfthink while driving home.
12. "Well, how was yourgrandmother?" mom asked right away when I entered. I told her she wasfine. What I really wanted was to ask her -- hey, Mom, you and Dad really loveeach other, don't you? I mean -- there's nothing to forgive between you, isthere? But I didn't. Instead I went upstairs and took out the electric razorAnnie had given me for Christmas and shaved off my moustache.
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