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SEVEN

Mom still had a few good days left in her. One by one, she reached out to her closest friends, and one by one, they came to the house for brief farewell visits. That first weekend she chatted with them in the garden, but with each new day her rapid downhill slide was clearly visible, and by midweek she was relegated to welcoming her visitors from her bed.

Even so, she insisted that life at 811 Crystal Avenue remain as close to normal as possible. She forced Dad to go to work. He half-heartedly went in for the busy times, but most nights after the dinner rush, Grandpa Mike and the rest of the crew at McCormick’s held down the fort till closing.

Lizzie and I alternated shifts. One of us would go into work, while the other would sit at home with Mom. Dr. Byrne came by every day, and when Mom finally became too weak to do the simplest things for herself, a hospice nurse came in to help.

On July 3, 1997, I knew it was the beginning of the end. It was my turn to stay with her, so Lizzie and Dad reluctantly went to handle the heavy Fourth of July weekend crowd at the restaurant.

Mom slept most of the day. About 6:00 p.m. she woke up looking a little better than she had in days.

“Call Dad,” she said. “Tell him to come home. And bring Lizzie.”

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Nothing. I’ve been thinking about something, and I finally feel good enough to try it.”

Fifteen minutes later my father pulled into the driveway on his Harley, my sister right behind him in the Acura.

“What’s wrong?” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Mom’s hand.

“Nothing. I feel almost human, and there’s something I want to do.”

“Name it.”

“I want to take one last ride.”

“Please don’t say last ride. But sure, let’s go for one more ride. I’ll pull the Mustang out of the garage.”

“No,” Mom said. “I want to go on the bike. Like the old days.”

“Honey, are you sure you’re in any condition to ride around on a motorcycle?”

Mom smiled. “The only thing I’m sure of, Finn, is that I want one more ride . And it’s now or never.”

He smiled back, but I could see his blue eyes glistening with tears as he stood up and lifted her out of bed.

He carried her to the living room, and Lizzie and I helped her dress for the adventure.

“I don’t think I can handle leathers and a helmet,” she said. “See if you can find me a cardigan and some kind of kerchief to cover what’s left of my hair.”

Five minutes later, wearing a pink nightgown, a gray sweater, and a red, white, and blue bandanna tied up in a headscarf, she was ready.

Dad wanted to carry her, but she wanted to get to the bike on her own two feet.

“Okay,” Dad said, “but you are definitely not sitting behind me holding on for dear life. You’re sitting in front, and I’m behind you, making sure you don’t fly off.”

“Ooh, I love it when you get all macho biker boy with me,” she said.

He kissed her and helped her onto the Harley. Then he got on, his beefy body shielding her, his arms keeping her safe.

Helmets are mandatory in New York, and I picked his up from the driveway and tried to hand it to him.

“Not this time, kiddo,” he said. “Now you and Lizzie get in the car and follow us.”

“Where are you going?” I said.

“That’s up to your mom. Where to, love?”

“Finn, my good man, I’d like to go back to a place we haven’t been to in eighteen years.”

“And where might that be, my lady?”

Mom turned, and I could see a small twinkle in her eyes, a mischievous smile on her face.

“1979.”