Last Days of the Matriarch Megan Staffel (bio) Bonita called with a progress report. "Our mother's body is calling it quits," she said. She tended to speak like that, declarative statements that Eleanor, over the years, had learned to trust. But Eleanor, who was a psychologist, didn't like the euphemism. You could call it quits on a job, but a life was not a job. When she pressed her sister for details, Bonita reported that their mother hadn't eaten in three days. She couldn't get out of bed, and this morning, she really thought it was the end. The end. That was another one, but Eleanor let it go; her sister was not a client. And, truthfully, watching your mother die required everyone to forgive all flaws, big and small, and choose the easiest words, like love, like end, like quit. She cleared her calendar and bought a ticket to Philadelphia. Her husband offered to come with her, but she preferred going alone. That way they would be equal: three women without men. Beryl had outlived the two she'd married, and Bonita, formerly Grace, had had enough divorces in her life it was kinder not to count. ________ At the Towers, they had changed the decor of the third-floor hallway, going for a cleaner, more cheerful ambience, but when she rang the bell, she could feel fear rising in her chest. This was something new, something primal that not even her training could dispel. Bonita came to the door and her happiness at seeing Eleanor was palpable, tempered, as it always was, by uncertainty in her eyes. It was the self-protective instinct learned by the less celebrated offspring in a family of high achievers. The Despair of the Other Child: Eleanor had written a book about it. "Perfect timing. I'm dying for a cigarette. Go in and see her. I'll be back soon." This was how the daughters handled their mother, spelling each other when they'd reached the end of patience. It was harder on Bonita now that she'd returned to Philadelphia and, since Beryl paid her rent, there were expectations. "Is that my oldest daughter?" Beryl called in a strong, excited voice, but when Eleanor entered the bedroom, she thought her mother looked weaker since her last visit. "How was the flight? When did you leave? I'm so glad you're here! Sit down, sit down, you must be tired. Oh, my sweetheart, I'm so happy to see you!" Each visit began this way. The welcomes were effusive, promising such a height of affection it was love times ten, a special love given to her by a woman who had so many friends and admirers, Eleanor felt an invisible crowd pressed around her [End Page 123] mother's bedside. It had always been this way. Even as children, they had had to share their mother with innumerable others. She had never been theirs alone, at least not reliably. ________ That night, Eleanor was tired enough to fall asleep on the sofa in the living room, but it was too short, so she took her carry-on bag with the toothbrush, a novel to read, a change of underwear and clothes, into the room her mother had once used as her studio, and plugged in the inflatable bed, hoping the motor that turned it from the size of a folded blanket into a full-fledged mattress wouldn't wake the sleeper in the room next door. But, of course, it did, and the sleeper in the next room wanted assurance before she returned to the frightening landscape of dreams. "Can I get another goodnight kiss? And bring me a blanket, I'm cold." DAY TWO During the night, Eleanor found herself lying on a hard surface, and without waking up, moved over to a different part of the inflatable. In the morning she saw the problem, one of the plastic channels had developed a leak and gone flat, but the others had enough air it could still function as a mattress. The guest room held her mother's life as an artist. There were shelves filled with...