Falling Out Of Bed

“Yeah, I was always in a hurry.”

“Oh, we survived. Do you remember the rest of the poem?”

“I do.”

“Remember, sometimes Mom interrupted, finished a line for you.”

He sits up a little, pushes back against the pillow but doesn’t say anything.

“Mom gave me the book of poetry you and she used to read from, when you were both in college.”

He turns his head a little. “Oh, really?”

“It was years ago, when I was going to school. She said I might be able to use it.” I place the water glass on the nightstand and watch the straw circle to the other side. “There are margin notes by some of the poems.”

“She and I used to go to the park, read poetry out loud.”

“‘Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’ I always liked that even though you wouldn’t stop for Cokes.”

He shakes his head. “Back then there never seemed to be enough time. Now there’s too much.”

Another memory surfaces—Lena and I in the back seat, my parents in the front, my mother sitting close to him, and he has his arm around her.

“I forget. Who’s the poem by?”

Dad closes his eyes, licks his lips. They look dry and chapped. I need to get him some Chap Stick at the store tomorrow.

“Coleridge. It’s the ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’”

“I used to love when you’d recite it.”

“‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!’” He smiles at me and I smile back.

“Did Mom memorize some of it, too?”

“I don’t know. I had to memorize it to win a contest in school. First prize was ten dollars. Back then ten dollars was like a million. We didn’t have much money. It took me three months.”

“You memorized the entire poem?”

He nods and I imagine my father as boy, trying to put each line to memory. I’m not surprised though. He’s always been determined.

“Yeah, I was the only one in the school who could recite it perfectly.”

“What did you buy with the money?”

“I gave it to my mother for food.” He closes his eyes again. “I’m so tired.”

I pat his shoulder, get up and walk through the living room into the kitchen. Three mugs half full of cold tea sit next to the sink. Dried-out tea bags, like winter leaves on our front porch in Texas, dot the counter, stain the white Formica. Jan loves tea and makes cup after cup, leaving a trail of tea bags behind her like Hansel and Gretel.

I look through the pass-through above the sink. She is sitting on the couch, the phone pressed between her right shoulder and ear. I hear her laugh, say, Oh, Donny, and I know she’s talking to her only child. Before Dad, Jan was married to a colonel in the air force and they had Donny. He’s thirty-three, a problem man-child who’s been in jail three times for drunk driving.

“Things are the same. Oh, Stanley’s daughter, Melinda, is here.”

Jan looks back to me, holds up her mug and smiles deeply. I have learned this means she would like another cup of tea. I turn to the stove, grab the kettle, fill it with water, place it on the burner, snap the control to high and hear the familiar hiss—fire licking metal.

“We’re bonding, Donny. She’s nice. You’d really like her.”

Jan’s words remind me I have not seen my ex-stepbrother in a long time. I try to think of the last time but only know it was when he was a child.

“It’s a lot of work for me, but I have to do it for Stanley. Work, work, work, there’s nothing else,” she says in her breathy persona as she flips her hand back and forth.

Jan has her back to me now, and I wonder if she knows I can hear her.

Work, work, work, my foot! Since I’ve been here, she sleeps till ten, sits on the couch and goes to lunch with Verna and Bob Skilly. I have encouraged her to do these things because I know it must be difficult for her to see my father depressed and in bed most of the time. And I appreciate that she has come to help him.

But in the last four days, I’ve cleaned the condo, arranged for the garage and water heater repairs, driven my father to his appointments, tried to get him to eat and drink and listened to her complain about how inept he was as a husband.

I have swallowed back the hurt that rises in my throat when she talks about him. I haven’t said anything to her about this because I don’t want to cause a problem.

The teakettle whistles, I fill her mug, dunk the tea bag up and down until the water is dark. I add two teaspoons of sugar, get the milk from the fridge. The carton’s opening is smeared with her red lipstick. I pour milk in the tea, put the carton back in the refrigerator.

Yesterday morning I was going to have cereal, but when I found the carton in such shape, I put it back, pictured Jan, late at night, lit in the glaring refrigerator light, head tipped back, guzzling milk. Instead I poured orange juice over my Raisin Bran, hoping she didn’t drink that from that carton, too.

I walk out to the living room, hand her the tea. She smiles and so do I. I know she is trying to be nice. I make it across the living room, to the edge of the dining room where I’ve folded my blanket and stacked pillows—the place where I sleep because Jan is in the guest room. She also told me when I first got here that she needs the couch late at night when she can’t sleep.

“Okay, baby, I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hangs up, sighs. “Melinda.”

I turn back reluctantly, want to like her, but there are so many things about her that drive me crazy.

“I’ve probably talked to him more this week than I have in months.”

I want to say, And all on my father’s dime, but I don’t. I feel bad for even thinking it. She has come here to take care of my father, and I should be thankful for that. I only wish she would actually do a little work while she’s here.

I nod, press my mean thoughts and words back where I hope they stay. “It’s nice you can talk to him.”

“He remembers you. He’s had his problems, but he’s straightened out.”

I think, It’s about time, close my eyes against the words, then I smile at her again.

“That’s good, Jan.” I walk into the kitchen, begin cleaning up. Through the pass-through, I see her get off the couch, cross the living room and head toward the kitchen. She sits at the pine table that holds the computer my father bought three months ago but has not used.

I sweep tea bags and crushed napkins into the trash, run water for the dishes. I really don’t feel like cleaning, but it will keep me from having to shift my full attention to her.

“Before Stanley and I were married, he was so nice to Donny.” Her voice is thin, baby-like.

I know she’s gearing up for one of her negative stories about my father. I wash a mug and watch a tea bag float in between the soap bubbles.

“The first year we were dating, Stanley fixed Donny’s bicycle, took him places, but then after we got married…it was like Donny didn’t exist. When Stanley moved down here and volunteered at the grammar school, well, I thought that is the perfect place for Stanley. He can help then walk away with no commitment.”

The anger I’ve tamped down turns over, groans, but I press it back. Maybe if I don’t say anything she’ll stop or talk about how she misses Seattle. That I can relate to. Right now I’d like to be sitting in my sunrise-filled breakfast nook, drinking from the coffee mug Jenny gave me.

“I never understood why he volunteered at the grammar school. He never liked kids.”

“I suggested he volunteer,” I say, remembering when he called me from Las Cruces right after he moved here and told me how lonely he was. I told him to call a senior volunteer program. He did and for a year he was a first-grade teacher’s aide at a school filled with Hispanic children. I was happy for him because he was getting a kick out of the kids and making friends with other volunteers.

“Like I said, I thought it was strange, but then I realized it was perfect for him because he didn’t have to make a commitment or really get involved. That’s how he likes it—his life without any ties.”

“Don’t we all. But he took some great pictures of the kids.” I submerge my hands in the hot water, remember the black-and-white photos he showed me of the happy young faces staring up into his camera lens. He snapped the photos right before Easter. They were perfect—artistic, beautiful.

“Some of those kids never had their pictures taken till Dad took them.” I manage to keep the edge out of my voice.

“Well, you know Stanley. He’s not much of a kid person. He’s never come to see Donny’s son.”

“Weren’t you two divorced by then?” This slips out as I stare at the dishwater. Oh, God, why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? She’s so sensitive about their divorce and my father not moving to Seattle.

“Well…” There’s a tiny bit of shock in her voice, and this makes me feel better for a moment before I realize my remark was small and petty.

“But we were always good friends, even after our divorce. Oh, I don’t know what I’ll do without him if this doesn’t come out okay.”

I wash the last mug, turn around, know I have to get out of the kitchen before I say something else I’ll be sorry for. Plus I need space, some air. “Are you finished?”

“Not quite. I’m nursing it a little.” She takes a small sip of her tea, looks at me over the rim. “You know your father and I had a great sex life.”

Oh, my God.

I face the sink, mop the clean counter with the sponge. This I do not need to hear.

“He’s a great lover. I never liked it with any other man, but with Stanley, well, that’s a different story—”

“Dishes are finally done! Tea bags are where they should be, in the trash,” I say over her whisper. “I’m going to the store.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I’ m standing in the doorway of Dad’s bedroom trying to convince him he should eat dinner. His condo smells of baked chicken, like our home in Grapevine does on winter evenings when it’s cold outside and the windows gleam yellow against the darkness.

Homesickness fills my chest and eyes, but I push it back, focus on my father.

“Dad, you should eat,” I say again, try to sound happy. I’m stuck between trying not to be too pushy and wanting the best for him.

His condo is quiet tonight. An hour ago, Jan drove over to the Skillys’ for dinner. She asked Dad to go with her, but he shook his head, said he was too tired. This morning, I called his doctor’s office and explained my father is always tired. The nurse told me the exhaustion could be the effects from the radiation. Dad now has an appointment for next week.

Before Jan left, she asked if I minded if she went to the Skillys for dinner. Did I mind? I laughed and told her I was happy she could get out, and I am. But I’m also enjoying the quiet. Jan follows me around the condo and talks nonstop. I know talking helps her relax, feel calmer, but it drives me crazy, so crazy I now look forward to taking my father for his radiation treatment just to get away from her.

Dad turns over.

“Do you want to eat some dinner?” I ask. “I made chicken, mashed potatoes, spinach.”

He sits up a little, gives me a half smile. “That was nice of you, honey, but I’m not hungry.”

I walk into the room, stand by his bed.

“Dad, do you think you’re depressed?”

“I don’t know what I am.”

“Your home health nurse said it’s important you eat. I don’t want to nag, but could you eat just a little?”

“Did Jan leave?”

“About an hour ago.” I cross my arms. “Is she being okay? I mean, is she being nice to you?”

“Yeah, she’s fine.” He sits up more, swings his legs to the floor. His gray hair is matted in places, sticking out in others. He doesn’t look like himself.

“Okay, I’ll eat, just something small. If you will,” he says.

My heart pounds with happiness. “I’ll go fix our plates.”

In the kitchen, I take the chicken out of the oven. Dad has the minimum cooking utensils, so putting dinner together was interesting. I baked the chicken in a frying pan, and the mashed potatoes are a little lumpy because I had to mash them with a fork. Before, Dad ate at Luby’s Cafeteria almost every night. While I was cooking tonight, I realized how one can make do, substitute one thing for another.

My father walks into the living room and sits on the couch, smoothes his wrinkled pajamas legs.

“Dad,” I say through the kitchen pass-through.

He glances back to where I am.

“You want chicken, mashed potatoes and spinach?”

“I don’t know.” He sighs, turns back around and my spirits fall.

I stare at the back of his head, his hair so messy, and wonder what I should do. A memory surfaces, when I was eleven. My mother said the back of my father’s head looked like Cary Grant’s.

“Your father has a wonderfully shaped head,” she said from across the dining table. It was the year before they divorced. “Just like Cary Grant’s.”

“Who’s he?” I asked.

My mother looked at me in wonder, as if she couldn’t believe her eleven-year-old daughter didn’t know who Cary Grant was.

“Melinda, Cary Grant is the most handsome movie star in the world. And he has a perfectly shaped head.” Her beautiful white hands, nails painted ginger-pink, pressed against the warm wood.

“Stanley, did you hear me? You have the most beautifully shaped head.”

My father was in the living room putting on a Mantovani record, and it felt nice they weren’t arguing, seemed so happy.

“What?” he yelled.

“The back of your head is shaped just like Cary Grant’s.”

He walked back into the dining room laughing. “I know, Hanna. You always say that when you’ve had a glass of wine. My head does not look like Cary Grant’s.”

“Oh, you’re so hardheaded.”

They laughed at the same time. And Lena and I looked at each other, began laughing, too. My father kept smiling, went around the table, stood in front of my mother and took her hand, stroked her arm.

“You know, Hanna, I’m easy to get along with. You said so the other night.”

“I never said that.”

He drew an invisible circle on the back of her hand and she giggled like a girl.

“Oh, yes, you did.”

She smiled deeply, stood up and began singing “Some Enchanted Evening” along with the music playing in the living room.

I sat very still, held my breath.

“Dad, dance with her,” Lena yelled, stood and then immediately sat in her chair.

I couldn’t utter a word because I was too busy staring at how beautiful they looked together—my mother in her yellow Easter dress, my father in a crisp white shirt and dark green slacks.

“Okay, I’ll dance with your mother.” He pulled her to him and they glided around the dining table three times.

Dad coughs, brings me back to the condo kitchen.

“Dad, you need to eat something.” I stare at the back of his head, the memory of our family that happy Easter still washing through me.

“Okay, I will.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But not a lot.”

I pick up the empty plate that has been waiting patiently for my father and place a slice of chicken, two tablespoons of spinach and a small, irregular circle of mashed potatoes on the plate. I feel a little like I’m encouraging a bird. Steam curls up around my fingers from the small hill of food.

A moment later I’m standing in front of him with my offering. He takes it. The house has a church-like silence without Jan, and I breath in its blessings—my father eating, the quiet.

“Would you rather eat at the table?” I ask.

“I’m fine here. Get something for yourself, honey. There’s some wine in the cabinet.”

I want to say, Oh, I’ve found the wine, but I nod instead, hope if I eat he’ll eat more. I go back to the kitchen, plop mashed potatoes on my plate, spear some chicken. I think about the bottle of wine, but I’m afraid to have another glass because my emotions are as fragile as glass.

I go back to the living room and sit next to Dad on the couch.

“This looks really good if I say so myself.” I fork potatoes into my mouth. My father takes a bite of spinach and my heart fills with hope. Spinach is filled with vitamins, antioxidants. It has to be good for fighting cancer.

We are quiet as we eat. I wolf down my plate of food, nod as I’m eating, hope to show him how good it is.

My father eats slowly, chewing with determination.

“I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” I put my empty plate on the coffee table, look at him, smile.

“You’ve worked hard. You should be hungry.” He forks a dab of potatoes into his mouth, swallows and sighs.

“Oh, not that hard.” I lie. “I had fun making dinner. Working in your kitchen is a real challenge.”

“You know, I’ve never been sick a day in my life…till now.”

I rack my brain trying to think of something I can say to encourage him, make him less depressed, yet I feel like I’m talking to someone I barely know.

“Remember when Lena and I were kids, you were the healthiest parent on the block? Every father wanted to be like you. Didn’t you have weights in the garage you used to lift?”

Dad nods, his lips thin. “Yeah, after dinner. I’d go out there. That seems like a long time ago.”

“I was just thinking about an Easter you and Mom danced around the dining room. She always said the back of your head looked like Cary Grant’s.”

“Your mother was quite the exaggerator.” He chuckles and my body relaxes more. Funny how, in just a few weeks, the road to happiness can change direction, be resurfaced with consumed food, a father’s joke.

“Yeah, I was always so healthy. If I ever get out of this mess…I’ll…”

“You’ll what, Dad? Do you want to travel more?”

He shakes his head.

“What do you want to do?”

“You notice they aren’t giving me chemo. Most cancer patients get chemo, not just radiation. I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Maybe you should ask the doctor.”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.”

“The doctor said every case is different.” But the tiny bit of dread in the pit of my stomach rolls over, reminds me it’s there. “I’ll ask your doctor if you want me to.”

“No.” He places his plate on the coffee table, leans back and grips his thighs as if he’s trying to gather enough strength to get up. Instead of standing, he looks at me.

“They aren’t telling us everything. And I’m too damned afraid to ask any questions.”

“I’d be afraid, too. But maybe there’s nothing to tell. Lots of people have cancer, get better, return to their normal lives.”

“Right.”

Always so healthy.

My worry bubbles to the surface and suddenly tears are filling my throat, my nose. I sniff them back. I certainly don’t want to upset my father any more than he is.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I rub my eyes with my fingers. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You should go home, honey. Jan’s here. I’ll eat more, I promise. You need to be home.”

I stare at the carpet, feel light-headed, numb. “I’m fine. Really. I want to stay and help you get better.” When I look up, he shakes his head.

“I’d feel better if you went home. There’s no need for both you and Jan to be here.”

“No, I’ll stay, help Jan.”

He stares at me for a moment, worry filling his gaze. “I’m going to try to do better, you’ll see. You gave Jan a break. That’s all she needed. You can always come back in a few weeks.”

I do want to go home, yet I feel like shit for wanting to. “No, I’ll stay.”

“I think I’d do better if I knew you were home.”

What can I say to that? My father asking me to leave. Maybe he just doesn’t want me here.

“I’d feel better if I knew you were with Dave. He must miss you. The diagnosis shocked me. I’ll try to eat more. And I’d feel more relaxed if you were home.”

He forks mashed potatoes into his mouth, swallows. “See. We’ll be fine.”

I nod.

“You go home, honey. David must miss you.”

Jan has just come home from the Skillys’, and she and I are standing in the living room. Dad’s in bed. I think she’s had too much to drink, but it’s difficult to tell with her.

“I’m going home in the morning,” I say. I feel tense because deep down I know she’s not going to like this news.

She looks at me as if I’ve told her hell froze over while she was at the Skillys’.

“You’re what?”

“Dad ate dinner and we talked. He said he’d feel better if I went home. In fact, he said he wants me to go home. I’ll come back in a few weeks.”

“He ate?” Her eyes narrow and her lips flatten against each other. “He won’t eat for me.”

“He didn’t eat a lot.” I go back into the kitchen, stand at the stove, stir the spaghetti sauce that’s been simmering an hour. After I called the airline, I made the sauce so I could leave an extra meal in the refrigerator.

I place the stained wooden spoon on the folded paper towel next to the stove. I hear Jan walk in and I turn around. She sits at the oak table.

“What’s that smell?” She lifts her chin, sniffs the air, makes a face.

“I’m making spaghetti sauce for you.” Why do I always lie to make people happy? I’ve never liked this about myself but can’t seem to stop. The sauce isn’t for her. It’s for Dad because I want him to eat, get better, be healthy.

“This way you’ll have meals for a few days.”

“That’s nice, but what about the other days? With all the work around here, I don’t have time to cook.”

“You can pick up Luby’s takeout.”

“It’s hard for me to drive at night. And I don’t like Luby’s.”

“You drove tonight and did okay.” I turn back, pick up the spoon and stir the sauce. She clucks her tongue.

“That’s different. Why are you going home?”

I want to say, Because you are driving me crazy, but I swallow back the words, take a deep breath and turn to her.

“Dad wants me to go home. He said so while we were having dinner. I can come back in a few weeks.”

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