The Hilltop Motel is run by Theresa Callanan, a tiny gray woman with a gravel-driveway voice and a cigarette in one hand. The inn is just off Interstate 81 in New York, halfway between Albany and Montreal, a few miles west of Lake Champlain. The low white building consists of half a dozen rooms set in a straight line, framed by the Office at one end the Laundry Room at the other. A monster satellite dish looms over the parking lot. The road curving up the ridge starts across from a gas station mini-mart and climbs past a newish-looking cubical building labeled as a Bible church. The motel is a nice place, classic Americana, clean and modest and friendly. A pair of plastic lawn chairs sit outside each door, so guests can enjoy the woodsy view. No phones in the rooms. Good.

Theresa lives in the office; her bed and refrigerator are visible through a doorway. A bowl of candy bars sits on the counter. A little brown dog and a fluffy white cat lie on the floor nearby. Paulette and I arrived after a 600-mile drive to pick up our daughter Gray from Meadowmount summer music camp. Paulette stayed at the Hilltop a couple of months ago when she dropped Gray off. Then Theresa's husband was there. Now he's dying.

Theresa is philosophical, even cheerful, about her situation. She tells us that they had 50 fine years together, and that next month would have been their 51st anniversary. Now, she says, "It's all in the hands of the Man Upstairs." Her husband is in the Plattsburgh hospital, 40 miles north of the motel, after a blood vessel burst near his heart last week. Theresa spends time with him every day, but he doesn't recognize anybody; he just struggles against the breathing tube and life-support machinery. Their son, a lawyer, is on the phone with the doctors trying to keep them honest.

Theresa tells us that she was impolite with a person checking in earlier that day — quite excusably, given her situation — and now she's heading down the line of rooms past ours, going to knock on his door and apologize. She laughs at her hesitation to do so, and says of herself, "We Irish don't bend easily!" Yes, Ma'am. You don't.

Tuesday, August 15, 2000 at 19:07:32 (EDT) = 2000-08-15

TopicProfiles - TopicPersonalHistory

(correlates: HarrietNowellSmith, PreemptiveDisclosure, SeriousPerson, ...)