Author: abby mumford

The conversation started out as it usually does. Maga was munching on her dinner and I, with my virtual book club plans canceled last minute, had nothing but time on my hands, so I sat silently between each bite or made random comments about the weather, my job, my office, how I wished I could see her, how far about we lived, how she didn’t need sleeping pills because she had plenty of time before bed to get tired and so on and so forth.

It was all business as usual until Maga asked me a question. “When did we start this Tuesday business?”

I perked up at this display of her memory of our phone calls. “It was around the time Jobo died. Maybe a few months after that.”

Neither of us could remember when that was, but the ever trusty Caregiver M informed us it was, “May. About 13 years ago.” She would know, as that’s the same time she started working with Maga.

And then somehow that conversation meandered over to travel.

“Is there anywhere you didn’t get to go to that you wished you had?” I asked.

“Oh yes. I didn’t get to Europe much.”

“Maga! Yes, you did.”

“Well, let’s see. I went to England, France, Italy…”

“See! You’ve been all over Europe. Oh, and Germany,” I supplied.

“Yes,” Caregiver M agreed. “I remember you told me about going to Berlin.”

“And Switzerland,” I said.

“Oh yes. I did go there. How did you know that?”

“You were there with my mom and Aunt J and that’s when Neal Armstrong walked on the moon!”

“That’s right!”

“I’ll never forget that story!”

“He certainly was courageous to do that,” Maga said.

“What do you think it was like to walk on the moon?”

“Well, once you get there, there’s not much to see or do.”

“Kind of like here. In pandemic times.”

Maga chuckled. “How long does it take to get to the moon?”

“I have no idea. Let me look it up.”

“You can do that?”

“I can and I am. It takes 3 days.”

“If only I had some sleeping pills…”

“Well, if you do wake up, just think of the moon.”

“That’s not a bad idea. You’re pretty bright.”

“Thanks! Or, you could try reading. That’s what I do when I wake up in the middle of the night.”

“Do you wake up in the middle of the night?”

“Often.”

“What are you reading?”

“A book called A Woman is No Man.”

“Well that’s for sure.”

We may not be able to see each other in person, but this was a proper Tuesday night hangout session with a conversation that lingered for a total of 70 minutes, through the changing of the guard, around the local weather patterns, and out to the moon and back.

“Oh, Abby, darling. It’s you again.”

“It’s me again.”

“It’s Tuesday, isn’t it?” Maga said.

“It sure is.”

As she was munching on her turkey sandwich and chips and “all that stuff like that,” our conversation was kept short. I mean how long can a conversation be when you only talk about the weather twice?

Sometimes, though, all you need is “a chipper, cheery voice” and your day is brightened considerably.

“Good luck, and take care, and be good,” Maga said.

“And all the same to you.”

(And you. And you. And you. And, that’s about the sum total of my readers.)

“Hi, Abby,” said Caregiver M. “Just a moment.”

There were some scuffling noises, then Maga’s clear voice, “Hello, Abby dear. How are you?”

“I’m doing well and you?”

“It’s a lovely day outside. I think we might go for a walk. How’s your weather?”

“Terribly gray and rainy.”

“Oh dear. Do you get into the office?”

“Nope. It’s closed.”

“Since when?”

“March 16.”

“Do you get over to my place?”

“No, but umm, which is your place?”

“My house. My care center.”

“No, haven’t been able to get there.”

“The one in NJ.”

(Her care center is decidedly not in NJ, but her childhood home was.)

“Oh, no,” I said. “Haven’t been there either. I don’t have a car.”

“How far apart are we?” she asked.

“About 3,000 miles.”

“Oh that’s far.”

“Too far.”

“Would you come see me?”

“As soon as I’m able, you’ll be my first visit.”

“REALLY?”

“Of course!”

“What else do you do?”

“You know, not a whole lot these days, though work has been keeping me very busy.”

“No new stories?”

“No. My life is rather boring lately. Which I’m okay with. Boring but busy.”

“Ugh. I know boring!” Maga said.

Although, one has to admit, the ability to time travel back to your childhood home does tend to liven things up!

“Oh, honey,” Maga said. “How are you?”

“I’m hanging in there. And you?”

“I’m okay I guess.”

Her words were heavy, slow, and hard to come by.

“Did you have any…interesting…comments…or…things?” Maga said.

“You know what? I’m afraid I didn’t. I haven’t had anything of note happen for about three months.”

“Why not?”

“Because of covid and quarantine.”

“Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“No. What town?”

“[This town.]”

“Oh, yes. How could I forget? Did you have work?”

“Yes. That kept me very busy today.”

“…In the office?”

“No, at home. My office has been closed since March.”

“How do you get…the information?”

“Through my computer.”

“Oh.”

She fumbled through some more conversation about the weather and her tv, so in an attempt to lead, I mentioned I was thinking about getting a pet to help with the isolation.

“A what?” Maga said.

“A pet.”

“Huh?”

“An animal.”

“An enema?”

“A pet. An animal. A cat. A dog.”

“Oh, animal. A pet,” she said. “Are you liking a cat or a dog?”

“Probably a cat. Did you ever have any pets?”

“I lived with my grandmother and she didn’t like them, so I never had one. It wasn’t that much fun.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s too bad.” I noted she skipped over the majority of her life and went straight to her childhood memories. “What about with Jobo? Did you guys have any pets?”

She floundered around. I gently guided her towards the topic of the dog they’d had. “Oh, yes,” she said. “[Uncle D] painted a picture of him.”

“Buck. Yes. In the living room.”

“Yes! It was such a good painting.”

“And he was a good dog, right?”

“He was a little thing.”

I thought he was a medium to large dog, but then again, my sharpest memory of that dog is said painting, which is just of his face, so I’m going to trust what Maga said. Even if her words remained heavy and slurred throughout our conversation. When I heard her dinner tray get dropped off, I used that as a cue to let her get on with her afternoon/evening. Besides we’d already traded all the boring stories we had. Just another Tuesday night in quarantine.

I’d gotten in the habit of waiting for Maga’s caregiver to text me when it was a good time to call, but with work running late, cooking dinner, a zoom birthday call, another facetime, and no text, I lost track of time. I relied on my old faithful, google calendar.

The notification popped up like old times and I called like old times and Maga answered like old times.

“Hello, Abby dear.”

“Whatcha up to, Maga?”

“I just finished dinner.”

“How was it?”

“Average. But it’s over now, so there’s that. Did you go to work today?”

“If you mean my 2nd bedroom, then yes, I went to work.”

That took some explaining and re-explaining, but we forged on… to the weather.

“What was your weather like today?” I asked.

I could hear Caregiver M coaching Maga on what to say. “Hot. About 92°.”

“Wow! That is quite warm.”

“I don’t really like the hot weather. I just put up with it when it comes.”

If that’s a mediation motto, I don’t know what is.

The conversation looped back to the pandemic and quarantines and being stuck inside.

“I wonder when it will be over,” Maga said.

“Not anytime soon, I don’t think.”

“Horrors,” Maga said.

Her flat tone cracked me up despite the terrible truth of it. She was her old self and I was loving it.

“Is it July?” she said.

“Not quite yet. Mid-June.”

“It’s been 6 months now?”

“Not quite. It feels like 6, but it’s been about 3.”

“Did you go to work today?”

“Well, I worked from home on my computer. I’m lucky to be able to do that.”

“So you work through your computer. I see. That explains a lot to me.”

Even if she doesn’t understand computers, by golly, I do believe she understood that they are genius machines that allow us to do amazing things, like work during a global pandemic or see each while still remaining in quarantine.

“Oh, Abby darling, how I’d love to see you.”

The feeling was mutual, but I didn’t try to push my luck with getting her hooked up on facetime. We’ve been down that road and it’s shorter than her understanding of how computers work. I settled for the soothing balm of hearing her say my name. It had been a few weeks since she’d been able to address me as such and I wasn’t about to gloss over this moment.