Thank You for All Things

by Sandra Kring

  The light above the kitchen sink is working on Grandpa Sam’s eyes like a beam from an optometrist’s light, showing me just how lifeless they are. Before him, the women are buzzing like bees making honey for the hive, and his eyes don’t even budge when one of them brushes past to move between the refrigerator, the sink, and the stove. In the living room, Al is talking about the Packers and the outrageous amount of money athletes make, and I feel sorry for Grandpa Sam, having to be propped at the table to be spoon-fed like a baby, when he should be in the living room with the other guys.

  I take the edge of the dishcloth and wipe his chin and cheek, and I don’t cringe. Instead, I wrap my free arm around him and give him a pat.

  When he’s finished, his bowl is still half full. I tell Oma I can get him to his room and she lets me, but Marie comes to help me lay him down. She adjusts his pillow as I cover him to his chin, which is a bit glossy because I didn’t use water to wipe him clean. I’ll remember to do that next time. When we have him tucked in, Marie puts her arm around my shoulder and says, “It’s all a part of the cycle of life, honey.”

  I LOVE THE sounds as we sit crowded at the table and eat our luxurious meal: the chiming of the silver against the plates, the moans of pleasure with the first couple of bites of each new dish, the clips of conversation that I listen to carefully for any clue that will shed light on the missing parts of my family—namely, the men.

  The longer and more we eat, the slower the gestures and sentences get, until at last everyone is leaned back in their chairs, sipping coffee, smiling contentedly, and muttering softly. “You outdid yourself, Lillian,” Marie says, and everyone agrees.

  “May I be excused?” Milo asks. Mitzy looks disappointed by his request. She had insisted that Milo sit next to her and had fussed over him through the whole meal, asking him if he wanted more of this or that, sliding his milk glass over so he wouldn’t tip it, and various other motherly gestures that would be more appropriate if Milo were an infant. But Milo is fidgety. Probably because he can hear Feynman whining from the study, where he had to be put so he wouldn’t beg for table scraps.

  “Oh, sit with Auntie Mitzy a little longer,” she begs. “Don’t you want some more dessert?”

  “No, thank you, I’m full. And Feynman needs to go outside to do his duty.” This makes Mitzy laugh, and Milo look confused.

  “I’ll join you,” Mitzy says. Mom gets up to follow them out, as does Oma, her pack of cigarettes in hand. Marie starts clearing the table, so I help her. We leave Al and Ray’s coffee cups, though, because they’re still sipping.

  Al looks at Ray. He stifles a belch that puffs his already plump cheeks, then says, “Only thing missing from this good meal is the nap that should follow it.” Ray laughs and agrees.

  “Why don’t you boys take your coffee into the living room so we can get this table cleaned off?” Marie says. Oma is just coming through the door, the stink of smoke still clinging to her, when Al rises and stops abruptly midway to groan. “You okay, Al?” Marie asks as he winces.

  “I’m okay. I’m okay,” Al says.

  Oma tosses her cigarettes and lighter on the counter and hurries to Al. “Come on. I’m going to give you a treatment. I’ve got a brand-new table.”

  “I was just going to go out for a smoke,” Al protests. But he doesn’t win, of course.

  Al shakes his head. “You women and your hocus pocus,” he grumbles as Oma leads him into the living room by the hand. Oma starts unfolding her Reiki table. “I’m so glad I had this sent with speedy delivery. I knew I’d be needing it. This will help you. You can count on it.”

  “The only thing I can count on is that when the Creator decides it’s my time, He’ll cue someone to turn down the sod.”

  Marie shakes her head, then she starts scrubbing the last pot. I figure maybe this is my opportunity to fish for information from her, but I know I must be clever in how I ask, because Marie’s sharp.

  “Are you Native American?”

  “I am,” she says.

  “Oh,” I say. “Then how come you don’t live on a reservation?” Marie leans over and scrapes at some crust at the bottom of a pan with her fingernail.

  “I did,” she says. “But when I married Al, I moved off it. It’s still my reservation, though, and they are still my people. I go back home to see the family and for ceremonies.”

  “Oh!” I say, suddenly remembering that Marie has an Indian name too. “I learned … Oma told me … that you have an Indian name.”

  “I do,” she says, her fingernail still working. “An Wantin Nibi Quae. It means Calming Waters Woman.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” I tell her. “Mom should have used that for my middle name, when she named me after you. Well, not that Marie isn’t nice too,” I add, just so she won’t feel bad, even though I’ve never cared for my middle name.

  Marie laughs. She hands me the pan she’s finally gotten clean and rinsed, and I balance it on top of the mountain of pots and platters in the dish drainer. “On the reservation, does everyone speak in a different language?”

  Marie squeezes the dishcloth until it’s hardly dripping, then starts wiping off the counter. “Sadly, no. There are young people on that reservation who can’t speak even one word in our native tongue.”

  “Do you speak it often?”

  “Mostly with the older people when I go home, though the traditional songs help me stay connected to it too. I like speaking in my own tongue. Like going home, it helps me remember who I am.”

  Bingo!

  I let my smile wilt for effect. “I don’t know my people,” I say. “Just Oma, and Mom, and Milo. And now Grandpa Sam and Aunt Jeana. You’ve known my family longer than I have.”

  Marie gives me a smile that looks bittersweet. “Yes, I imagine that’s true. Your grandma was just newly married when we befriended each other. I was there when your uncle Clay and your mom were born, and I even helped welcome you and Milo into the world.”

  “Then you’ve probably met my dad too?” I say, more bluntly than I intended to.

  Marie is swirling her dishcloth in circles on the counter, and her hand pauses for a moment while she considers this. Then she clears her throat. She looks at me, and although her eyes have pity in them, the firmness of her mouth makes it clear that she won’t be saying a word about what she knows.

  Marie turns her attention to the mound of dishes dripping in the drainer and says, “Maybe you could dry for me, sweetie. Where are the dish towels?” I point to the drawer on the other side of her, and she pulls one out. She sniffs it, mutters, “Mmm,” then holds it under my nose. “I love the smell of things dried on a clothesline, don’t you?” she says. “They absorb the warmth of the sun and the scent of the breeze. And just sniffing the scent when we unfold the clothes can makes us feel sunny and happy inside.” I sniff, but at the moment—knowing that I can cross Marie off my list of possible informants—the smell doesn’t do much to make me feel sunny inside.

  BY THE time Mom, Mitzy, and Milo come inside, Oma has the living room lit with candles, Japanese music is playing, and poor Al is lying on the Reiki table like a sacrificial lamb set on an altar. Oma’s hands are cupped together and hovering over his private parts like a loose-fitting jock. Mitzy giggles with embarrassment.

  “Oh, God,” Mom grumbles, peeking over Mitzy’s shoulder into the living room, and Ray (who hurried back to the kitchen with his coffee when Oma got out the table) chuckles.

  “Shush,” Oma says, her eyes closed in a meditative pose. She moves her hands as though she’s tugging long, imaginary clumps of rupture from him, tossing them away, then cups her hands over him again.

  “Rupture remover extraordinaire,” Mom says, and Mitzy giggles again.

  “Do you girls mind?” Oma says. Al opens one eye for a second, so that it looks like he’s winking. We’re hardly back in the kitchen before we hear him snoring.

  Mom and Mitzy and Ray visit while I dry dishes and put them away. Ray is attentive. I l
ike the way he keeps his arm on the back of Mitzy’s chair. When I grow up, I’m going to marry a man who does that.

  “There, we’re done!” Oma says from the doorway. “I told Al to just lie and relax for a few minutes.” Al’s still snoring, so this makes everyone snicker. “I’m going to consult my intuitive, Sky Dreamer, to see if there’s anything else I might do for him.”

  “You can save your phone call. I’ll tell you,” Mom says flatly. “You can convince him to see a doctor.”

  The kitchen is crowded with chairs butted up near the table sitting too close to the doorway, so Oma puts her hand on Mitzy’s shoulder as she shimmies herself between Mitzy’s chair and the counter to get to an empty seat. She stops, still wedged. “Ohhhhh!” Oma says. “Did you feel that? When I touched your shoulder?”

  “Yes,” Mitzy says, her voice slow, her eyes expanded.

  “Mother,” Mom warns, saying “Mo-ther” in two slow, deep syllables.

  Oma ignores her. “I can feel him, Mitzy.” Oma’s words are soft, filled with awe.

  “Who?” Marie asks.

  “My baby … Dylan,” Mitzy says, her eyes glistening.

  Mitzy breathes in slowly, as though she’s breathing in something magical. “I felt him the second Lillian touched me. Right here,” she says in a whisper, tapping her right shoulder.

  “His spirit is standing right behind her back,” Oma says, her face filled with the same awe as Mitzy’s but with concentration too.

  I feel a little spooked, but more curious than anything. Ray stiffens, his hand moving up from the back of Mitzy’s chair to wrap around her shoulder.

  “He’s showing me something,” Oma says slowly. She scrunches her eyes, as though she’s trying to peer closely to see what it is. There’s not a sound in the house but for Al’s snoring.

  “It’s a ball, I think? And it has something scribbled on it?” Oma says this more like a question than a statement.

  Mitzy’s hand moves up to rest on the top of her chest, and tears spill over her cheeks. Ray squirms in his chair and leans closer to Mitzy. He looks like he wants to scoop her up and run. Mitzy puts her hand on his arm, like a mom does when she is cueing her child to stay put and shush.

  Oma cocks her head as though she’s listening.

  “He wants you to know that you don’t need to feel bad that he never got it or to think that you did anything to bring on his early birth.” Oma pauses again, cocking her head even more. “He slipped into that defective body knowing he’d not be staying, but he came anyway, because it was his chance to connect with you, even if only briefly. He wants you to know that time is irrelevant. And he watches over you as he always has, and always will, until you meet again.”

  Oma looks up then and lets out a big breath. She looks stunned. “He’s gone. Just like that.” She reaches for the back of a chair and Marie pulls it out so she can sit down. “My, I’ve never had anything like that happen before.”

  Mom hurries into the bathroom and comes out with a stack of Kleenex for Mitzy, who presses the wad to her eyes. Marie and Oma, and even Mom, gather around her and stroke her back, her arm, her hair.

  Mitzy blows her nose, then clamps the damp tissue in her fist and drops her hand to her lap. Ray cups his hand over hers, and I decide that I want a man who will cup my hand too, even if there’s a snotty Kleenex clutched in it.

  “I can’t believe you saw the football.” Mitzy looks at Mom. “Did you tell her about it?”

  I know Mom wants to say yes—to take the magic out of Oma’s words—but she can’t lie, so she shakes her head.

  Mitzy tells the bare bones of the story about the football—the story I overheard in the restaurant but am now listening to (hopefully) as if I’ve never heard it before.

  “You can forgive yourself for that now, dear. I saw your baby’s spirit standing in a white light. Well, not literally, but as if I was seeing him in my mind yet behind you at the same time. Oh, I wish I could explain it. Like a superimposed photograph, I suppose. But I saw him, Mitzy. I felt him. I felt him at peace.”

  “Well, that gave me the chills,” Marie says finally, filling the gap of silence. Mom opens her mouth to no doubt counter the experience, but then—perhaps so as not to rob her friend of a tiny bit of comfort—she closes it without uttering a word.

  Al comes into the kitchen, where everyone is sitting quietly (but for Mitzy, who’s sniffling), his footsteps groggy. He pats his big belly and belches again, causing a nervous twitter of giggles.

  “Get Mitzy some water, will you, Lucy? And get Al a glass too,” Oma says, then she asks Al how he’s feeling.

  “Full,” he answers.

  The second she hears the faucet run, Oma says, “Oh, I forgot to wash after Al’s treatment.” She jerks her hand away from her damp eyelids as though Al’s rupture is contagious and might infect her eye. She gets up to wash at the kitchen sink.

  Ray scoots closer to Mitzy and whispers something in her ear, and she nods. They stand up. There’s a silence that sounds awkward, until Marie says, “Good food, good friends, a little hands-on healing, and a psychic experience—boy, Lillian, you sure do know how to throw a dinner party!” Everybody laughs.

  * * *

  OMA SENDS me for Milo, so he can be a part of the goodbyes too, and after the hugs and thank-yous, Mom, Oma, Milo, and I stand outside and wave as the night wind blows the leaves and our company down the road. As we head toward the house, Mom says, “Mother? Messing with Al’s rupture is one thing—I suppose—but please don’t toy with Mitzy’s grief. Please.”

  Oma takes short, bouncing steps to catch up with Mom, her long tunic billowing. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Mom stops. “You know what I’m talking about. The psychic reading—or whatever in the hell you’d call it—on Mitzy’s dead baby. Ma, I know you’re only trying to help, but don’t go there with that magical shit. She doesn’t need that.”

  “Magical shit? You think I’m making this up? Why, healing energy and angels are from God, not ‘magical shit,’ as you call it.”

  Mom goes up the steps and yanks the front door open. She stops. “Adding a religious element to it is supposed to make it more legitimate? Religion is not a science, and neither is your metaphysical crap.”

  “What about the Christian Scientists?” Milo asks—making me believe this kid really is developing a sense of humor.

  “There’s scientific proof that prayer works. Isn’t there, Milo?” Oma says.

  “Well, quantum physicists are studying many things once considered only paranormal parlor games,” Milo says, his profoundly gifted seriousness safely back intact.

  “And there are plenty of scientists who believe in God,” I add. “Stephen Hawking himself said that when we know what caused the big bang, we’ll be looking into the eyes of God. Isn’t that right, Milo? And Einstein believed that religion, the arts, and science were all branches of the same tree. Tell her, Milo!” But Milo can’t tell her, because he’s darting behind the house to chase after Feynman.

  “End of discussion,” Mom says. “Just leave her be, Mother.” Mom slams the door, leaving Oma and me standing in the yard.

  chapter

  THIRTEEN

  TWO WEEKS pass, and in that time, according to Oma, Grandpa Sam suffers “ministrokes” and can no longer use his walker without help. He stops talking too, for the most part. Oma—or Persephone, as she insists Milo and I call her now, so she can “try it on” as her new name—arranges for hospice to come. They’ve got a whole team, and Mom says we’ll take help from all of them, except the chaplain, thank you. Aunt Jeana, who has power of attorney for health care, says we’ll take help from none of them (and doesn’t offer a thank-you), and she arranges for the county nurse to come by instead. The county nurse, Barbara, sees to it that Grandpa Sam gets a wheelchair and a bed he won’t fall out of. Oma orders him a chair he can sit on in the bathtub so she can bathe him more easily too. We all think it’s the chair coming when I see the brown van an
d yell, “UPS is here, Persephone!”

  Mom looks up from her laptop. “Will you stop calling her that!”

  “She told me to! And what’s wrong with the name, anyway? Persephone, the joyful queen of the underworld. I like it.”

  Oma stands at the back door and waits for the delivery-man to reach the house. “Hmmm,” she says. “Two boxes of the same size? That doesn’t look right. Must be something else. But I didn’t order anything besides that chair. You order something, Tess?” Mom doesn’t hear her.

  “What’s inside, Persephone?” I ask, as Oma stares at the invoice and I stare at the two good-size boxes.

  “Why, they’re from Best Buy and addressed to Milo and Lucy.”

  Mom hears that! “What?” she snaps. She grabs the invoice out of Oma’s hand.

  “Oh, my God,” she says. “He sent the kids each a laptop!”

  “Who sent them laptops?” Oma asks. I suddenly envision my dad having a rush of remorse for ignoring Milo and me since our birth and sending us these special gifts to show us he’s sorry.

  “Peter,” Mom says flatly.

  “Peter sent us laptops?” I shout, echoing Oma’s question.

  “Yes.”

  Now I know why people cry when they get good news.

  I race to Milo’s study, shove open the door, and shout inside, “He sent us laptops! Peter sent us laptops!”

  Milo rips himself from his chair and chases me back into the kitchen. The minute he sees the boxes, he starts in with little asthmatic barklike coughs.

  Mom calls Peter instantly. “What in the hell were you thinking, sending expensive laptops to these kids?”

  While Mom is talking, I plead to talk with Peter. I bounce rapidly while I wait, and when I can’t take it anymore, I snatch the phone right out of her hand. “Peter! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” I shout. “I’ve missed my computer sooooooo much! As much as I miss you!”

  “Lucy, did you just tear my cell out of my hands? Give that back to me now!”