Part 78: Mrs. Brixton
Without much work to do, and even less inclination to do it, since it would mean contributing to the institution that had tried to screw her over so badly (in both senses of the word - they had sent Todd), Mrs. Brixton had started to write her Last Word. She needed something to pass on to her daughters, some distillation of her wisdom, and the word “memoirs” was far too frilly and unserious, and of course she already had a Last Will and Testament. First established at age forty, updated with each daughter. No King Lear, Willy Wonka nonsense to follow in her wake. All the funeral arrangements, all the practical matters were already taken care of. No, this was about her legacy.
“Mom did always need to have the last word,” she imagined them saying when they saw it.
It would be divided into sections: each one devoted to a Principle. The first principle was that of Rationality, since a) that was the one principle that rooted all the others and b) it was the one that her daughters most needed to adopt and apply in their lives.
On Rationality
At what point does one first learn to follow the dictates of reason rather than the fickleness of feelings? I propose that it is when one is bitten by a mosquito. I remember all your childish arms and legs adorned with those swollen, red bumps, and how you longed to scratch them. That is instinct, that is impulse: to scratch until they bleed and beyond. But one learns to stay one’s hands. One learns, through experience - one’s own or that of others, one’s teachers - that to do so will not stop the itching; it even exacerbates it. And thus does one transform from the merely animal to the truly human. One learns to wait at crosswalks; to eat and sleep in the correct proportions; to accept that the stick does not bend when it is immersed in the water. To disbelieve the senses when reason offers other counsel. One . . .
She really wasn’t much of a writer. The words came slowly and the language felt stilted, especially on rereading. “One?” What was she doing, using “one” like that? This was supposed to be personal, this was supposed to sound like her voice echoing from beyond the grave. (Even if she didn’t have brain cancer, accepting one’s mortality was a pillar of rationality - one that merited its own subsection? no, perhaps not.) But what else could she say? “You” like some kind of teenager? No, “you” was for addressing a person directly. It wasn’t her fault; it was that the English language simply lacked a good way to refer to people in general.
Maybe Rationality could wait. It was the most important, but that didn’t mean she had to write it first. There was an equal and opposite case to be made that it ought to be written last, since it contained all of the other insights, like the Introduction to a book. Yes. That was a far more rational approach: start small and build your (one’s) way up. The way of science. Inductive. Yes.
Mrs. Brixton’s cell phone started ringing on the other side of her office - more than six feet away from her, as the research suggested was prudent - and she set down her pen, wheeled herself over, made sure the phone was set to speaker mode, and answered. “Hello?”
“Mom? Mother?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Elizabeth.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Elizabeth.” Unlike her to call so soon after meeting in person. “What can I do for you today?” she said, trying to sound pleasant, since this could be their last conversation.
“Why’s it always got to be this what-can-I-do-for-you, quid-pro-quo, transactional theory of human interaction type of stuff, huh? Why can’t I just be calling just to say hi?”
“Well, if that’s the case, you’re doing a terrible job.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t said hi at all." Jocular banter, she thought. A cute anecdote for a eulogy, to offset the generalities about kindness and generosity which she knew didn't fit her.
Elizabeth was silent for the exact length of time it takes to roll one’s eyes. “Obviously I didn’t mean hi in a literal sense. I was using the word hi to stand in for the performative act of greeting. It’s called synecdoche, Mother. But anyway, I think I’ve gotten what I needed.”
“So you did need something. People do things for reasons, Elizabeth, and there’s no need to be ashamed of that.”
“I suppose since we’re already talking, I may as well ask you . . .”
“Yes?”
“How does one sound less rehearsed?”
One. “First of all, you can start by not saying one. If you're referring to yourself, say I. But I suppose it’s like any other skill. You practice as much as you can. The more you do something, the better you get at it.” Was this really the best motherly advice she could offer? So close to the end? All she had for her daughters were platitudes and pretention? “But, while I have you, I do have something rather important to tell you. And please, do try to take the news rationally--"