The Memory Transfer by June D. Wolfman

Julie and her dying mother consent to a new medical procedure that allows them to transfer a memory to each other.

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I come to the hospice with my knees shaking - a single memory. My mother and I would be transmitting a single memory to one another before she died. It is part of a new service by a nurse with an AI chip implanted in her brain.

My mother adjusts a pillow at the small of her back. She looks out of place in hospice care. She wears her mammoth diamond ring and Gucci scarf, yet she has oxygen from a tube, which makes the picture of her skew. I have not been up to see her in a few months. The business moves so fast that it's hard to keep up. Designing women's bags and hats is practically an Olympic sport. I'm glad I have a valid excuse. I would want to stay away from my mother in any case.

The pillow behind her back won't settle how she wants it, so she throws it at a passing nurse. "Get me a bigger pillow, please," she says hoarsely. The nurse picks up the small pillow and shoots me a glance. It speaks volumes. It practically says, and I'm sorry, but it does, when is this bitch going to die already?

The nurse brings a bigger pillow, and my mother asks - no, orders - her to place it properly. The nurse tries. Nothing will satisfy. I assume the cancer makes her uncomfortable, and no proper placement of the pillow will fix that.

"Bring me my hairbrush," my mother croaks, "and hand me that little mirror."

I do as I'm told, as I always have with her. She brushes her blonde bob, reaches behind her, pulls out a lipstick from somewhere, and applies a tasteful coral color to her mouth.

"So, where have you been?" she asks. "You know they practically neglect you in here."

"I'm sorry, Mom," I mumble. She already knows where I've been. She knows the business is a bear, and she taught me to make it one. She was always working.

"Your sister has not been to see me; hasn't even called," she has found her voice now.

A plump and pleasant-looking woman knocks on the threshold of my mother's cubicle. "Hello, Mildred," she says to my mother. You and Julia are ready for the memory exchange?"

"I am," my mother says, her eyes scanning my face for a clue of something incriminating.

"I'm ready," I say. "Which one of us goes first?"

"Your mother goes first. She can transfer only one memory to you. Then, if she is up to it, you can transfer only one memory to her."

"They tell me your name is Laura," my mother says. "They told me to prepare. I did."

"Okay, Mildred, all three of us will drink some of this blue substance. Your memories will flow from you to me to the other of you. Let's begin. Please take a sip, each of you."

Laura wore a purple FLAX skirt and a starched white cotton short-sleeved blouse. Her hands were immaculately groomed. We all drank the Kool-Aid, so to speak.

"Lean back, Mildred," Laura said. "Get comfortable, Julia, as well. Please, everyone, close your eyes. Mildred, let your mind relax into your memory."

Suddenly, I felt as if I were my mother in this daydream. I stood outside a shack on a dirt patch. I wrung clothes and hung them on a line. My arms ached. Drops from the wet clothing fell and beaded on the sandy dirt, then dried almost instantly.

"Mildred?" my grandmother called from the shack door. "Come in here!"

I watched my feet carry me to my grandmother.

"Here is a dime. Pick up the supper food from Don Nelson's Market." My grandmother folded the dime in a small piece of cloth and folded that into my hand. She passed a market list to me. It said two cents of lard, three cents of flour, two cents of milk, three cents of ham.

"Okay, Mama," I heard myself say.

"Finish those clothes directly when you get back. Don't dawdle."

"Yes, Mama."

I watched my bare feet carry me down a long dirt road to the grocery store. My ankles and calves were dusty, and my homemade flour-sack dress showed wear.

I ordered everything as I was told.

"Is that two cents, or approximately two cents?" Mr. Nelson asked me about the lard.

"Two cents, Sir."

He placed a hunk of gelatinous white lard on a piece of wax paper and weighed it. He fussed with it for some time.

When it was time to pay, I opened my hand, which I had clasped closed so hard that my nails cut into my palm, and yet the dime was not there.

"What's the matter, Mildred?" asked Mr. Nelson.

"Good Lord. I've gone and lost the dime!" I said, and I began to weep.

"Now, now... You came straight here, right?" Mr. Nelson asked.

"Yes, Sir."

"Trace your steps back. You'll find it. I'll keep your groceries in the ice box."

Frantically, I walked the road back and forth. I saw my footprints where the dirt road was loose. I couldn't find the dime. I realized I sweated through my dress.

Finally, I went home, and Mama said, "Where is the supper food?"

"Mama, I lost the dime."

My grandmother began to scream, "Girl, don't you know there is a Depression on? Don't you know that is our only dime until Daddy gets paid?" She marched out to the yard and broke a switch from a bush. She marched back to me, grabbed me by the arm, and began to whip my legs, up and down, up and down until blood ran down.

"Please, Mama," I heard myself say, "I didn't mean to."

She slapped me across the face.

I woke up.

My mother woke up.

There were welts on my legs, but they quickly disappeared.

"Mom," I said. "You never told me that story. You all were so poor! And grandma was cruel."

"Well, now I told you," she said. She applied more lipstick. She took a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. "And you were never poor," she mumbled, "I saw to that."

Laura poured some cold water for my mother and me. She looked shaken herself.

"And you, Julia? Did you prepare a memory for your mother?"

I sat in shock. I had meant to share a memory of her criticizing and demanding, drilling the importance of properly walking with a book on our heads for posture. I wanted her to feel how distant she felt to me. But now, I couldn't do it. Desperately, I searched my brain for a good memory. Somehow, I sensed Laura was helping me find one. I remembered and said, "I'm ready."

My sister and I were in the bathtub when we were four and five years old. My mother had bought the foam from a spritz can kids could play with in the tub. My sister used the foam first. She used it to make her hair stand up straight like magic. We laughed, all of us laughed and laughed. I used the foam to make myself boobies. This made my mother laugh so hard tears ran down her cheeks. "Lord, you girls," she said affectionately. "Finish up in here, and get ready for bed now."

I woke up.

My mother was smiling. She started to laugh. "We had so many good times, didn't we?" she said.

"Yes, Mother," I lied. How had I found that rare terrific memory? I usually only remember her coldness.

"Oh, I loved you girls," she said.

I bit my tongue. She was never home, and when she was, she was quick with the back of her hand. I glanced at Laura. She had peace in her eyes. Did I have peace? I wondered. Why can't I show her how she was... why my sister won't call... or visit? Wasn't that what this whole exercise was about?

I closed my eyes and listened with my mind. I remembered how hungry, skinny, and tired my mother was that day she gave me as a memory. She was cold and hard as a mother, with very few exceptions. But she always made sure we had enough to eat. She made sure we ate with proper manners, studied French, and did well in school. To her, she did a great job. To me, I just remembered the Iron Matron.

"Does this mean I will l die now?" my mother asked Laura.

"Not today, I believe," Laura said gently.

My mother closed her eyes. For some minutes, her breathing became ragged. She pulled the oxygen tube away from her nose. A nurse came in and gently replaced the tubing.

"Mom, there were nine of you kids, right? I mean, we only know Aunt Judy, but there were nine?"

"Yes, nine mouths to feed, and no money," my mother said. "How is business?"

"Business is very good. The fall line is selling as fast as we can make things. The designing houses are all angry that we don't move faster."

"And how is that husband of yours?" my mother asked.

"He's feeling better," I said. "The doctors think he'll make a full recovery. COVID is a bitch."

"Well, make sure he doesn't stray. They do, you know. They stray... the men."

Of course, I thought, a dig. Something for me to worry about. Something negative. As per usual.

"Get some rest now, Mom."

My mom closed her eyes. Laura winked at me. It was time to leave my mother in peace.

When I left my mother's room, Laura said, "Thank you for leaving her in peace."

"It's like I'm bursting with the memory I prepared," I said.

"I know. You were brave not to share it," she said, "Do you want to transfer the memory to me?"

I looked at her and felt her eyes to be honest and direct.

"We still have enough medicine in us for me to receive it by your just thinking of it," she said.

We sat down in the lounge. I nodded. We both closed our eyes.

I was nine years old. I was delivering newspapers. The July Saturday sweltered, and I was getting sunburned. I had ninety houses on my route. Our house was on my way, and I stopped to cool off.

"Did you finish your route?" mother demanded.

"No, ma'am, I'm getting some water."

"Don't be a baby," she sniped. She turned to me, her coral lipstick and false eyelashes ideally in place. You're babysitting next door tonight. I arranged it. Your lazy sister didn't want the job. You're old enough."

"The doctor said she's anemic and very underweight," I retorted. "She's just tired."

The back of the hand. SMACK. "Don't talk back to your MOTHER."

I opened my eyes.

Laura opened her eyes.

"You were working from a young age," Laura said.

"Yes, and all the years since. My mother is allergic to laziness." I paused. "Would she have experienced this memory the way I experienced it? You know? The fear and exhaustion and her coldness and her hardness? Or would she have been proud that she raised me to work hard?"

"It would have been difficult for her to see your view. That's one reason I hoped you would pick a different memory. I know how you felt, and I'm sorry."

"Even as she's dying, she wouldn't have understood," I said.

"I don't think she would," Laura said.

I hugged Laura and left the hospice. I got into my red Saab and sped away.

My two sons were doctors. I reflected on how they rarely called or visited, though I had never realized that before. What would they share with me at the end?