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Simple, but difficult to do, unless you know a shortcut.
This afternoon the goal was simple: to get Dad to eat. The good news, he seemed better. More alert, not so yellow. Maybe a little less frail. Perhaps that is wishful thinking, the most dangerous kind, which explains why I’m drawn to it. I’ve always appreciated a good challenge.
First, we watched an old episode of M*A*S*H, which is what got me thinking about my strategy in general, then about how Dad was going to lose the fight, and about how soon that might happen. About how we all eventually lose the war.
Toward the end of the show, he looked over and asked if he’d ever been in the army. There was such a look of sadness on his face as he posed the question that it stirred something inside me, something buried deep, something that thinks it might want to come out. I told him no, he hadn’t served. He’d gone to grad school, married my mother. Had me.
He hadn’t seemed to believe me, but that didn’t stop him from dozing off nearly mid-sentence.
It was a bit of a relief. My plan was working. One can only sit so long watching reruns before one’s mind begins to unravel. I was grateful to excuse myself. After checking James’s schedule—the calendars on our phones are still synced up, one of the few things that hasn’t changed—I text to see if he wanted me to bring him lunch. I knew he’d probably skip lunch if he could get away with it.
There’s a deli around the corner from the nursing home, where my feet and my good intentions led me. I grabbed a sandwich, picking up an extra just in case. While waiting on my order, James texted me back. Four words. So simple. So loaded.
No, thank you. I’m good. Lunch meeting.
I replied with a thumb’s up emoji. It’s easier than mentioning that his meeting wasn’t on his calendar. Just another way tech makes things both easy and difficult, sometimes simultaneously.
At any rate, it’s safe to say, my husband isn’t always as thorough as I am.
I picked at my food as I re-read his text, looking for some sort of hidden meaning I knew I wouldn’t find. Lunch meeting. The words offer no comfort, only the familiar pang of envy I’ve become accustomed to, down just slightly from the typical twisted, stabbing sensation.
I managed to scarf down half of my sandwich, before trashing the rest. I saved the extra for Dad, just in case he didn’t like what the cafeteria was serving.
On the walk back to Caring Hands, I considered making a short detour, dropping by the office. But I thought better of it. There had been a scene the last time, and I realized I’m not ready to show face just yet. It’s probably better that way.
“It’s nice of you to visit with me,” Dad said. “People are so nice at this hotel. They give you all the chocolate pudding you could dream of. They just keep coming around with it…and then sometimes they send wonderful visitors…like you.” He furrowed his brow and peered at me like he was letting me in on a secret. “I’ll make sure to tell the manager.”
Suddenly, a tidal wave of pain swept over me. Searing, red-hot pain. The kind I am typically so good at avoiding. Not then. Not there.
“This is a skilled nursing facility.”
“Yes,” he said. “I said that, didn’t I?” And then, confusion painted on his face, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Huh.” He began to slap his forehead, over and over. It took some effort, but eventually, I moved his hand away. He did not fight me; instead, his face registered surprise and then something else, something unnamable.
Once again, as though it never left, blinding rage surfaced, infusing my every thought. It was jarring, the way it builds like a tsunami, destructive and inevitable. If my father were going to die—and he is—I don’t see why it couldn’t happen quickly. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Instead of this—this slow, torturous, festering wound of a situation, where something as innocuous as chocolate pudding can act as salt.
I was just about to excuse myself to the ladies’ room, so that I could throw a proper fit and maybe light a joint, when the man my father was talking about this morning knocked once and then peeked his head around the door.
Max Hastings.
Dad lit up like he’d just seen an old friend. He looked at me as though I was supposed to do the same. Strange, because I hardly know Max. Our fathers are childhood friends. Or rather, they were friends. Everything is in past tense these days. I think Dad said he died a few years back. I can’t recall, and now, neither can he.
“You remember Max, don’t you?” my father asked.
I nodded. Perhaps I’d seen him at a fundraiser here and there over the years. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to say we run in the same circles. I suppose
to say we’ve hung out on the fringes wouldn’t be a stretch.
“Laurel.” He greeted me with a tight smile. He folded his glasses and put them in the pocket of his white coat. I watched his hands.
“Let’s take a look,” he said to Dad. My eyes scanned the embroidered lettering on his jacket. Dr. Hastings.
He glanced up and half smiled, as though he could feel me watching him. Eventually, his long, thick, dark eyelashes fell south as he studied my father. I imagined what he looked like as a boy, even if I can’t remember. He shook his head and said, “I was hoping I might see you.”
For a second my brow raised, but then I forced myself to look away. Max Hastings looks like the television version of a doctor. Not a real one.
