An Imperfection in the Kitchen Floor

by Heather Greenleaf

  The roar of the hallway didn’t carry in to her room, and the bright lights passed away when we crossed the threshold. Dim and quiet, and now seemingly far from the chaos, we could hear Papa’s low keening. He rocked on his bent knees, chest heaving, head bent over the bed, firmly clasping Mama’s hand.

  I stared at her other hand—charred and sooty—and had trouble recognizing it. Mama’s hands were fine and well kept. This hand was a muddle of red welts, branding, and raw skin dappling darkness beneath. The fingernails were broken and blackened.

  With bravery I wasn’t sure I possessed, I looked at her face. Mama’s eyes were closed, and a wild gash of red wet the thick bandages wrapped around her head.

  “Mama?” Ollie whispered. Then, to me, “Is she…”

  He and I stepped closer, still clutching each other, and stood at the foot of her bed. Oliver released me and moved to Mama’s side. Grasping the foot of the bed frame with both hands, I stared hard in the dim light at her chest, searching and waiting for a rise in the bedsheets. It came. Slowly and without much of a crest, but she was breathing.

  A man in a white coat appeared behind me. “Are you the Hess family?”

  “Yes,” I said. “This is my mother.”

  The doctor looked at Oliver and then addressed my father.

  “Sir, may we have a word outside? I’d like to update you on your wife’s condition.”

  “No! I am not leaving her,” Papa growled, not turning from her, tightening his grip on Mama’s blood-drained hand.

  I touched Papa’s shoulder and said, “I’ll go.” I followed the doctor back out into the thundering hallway.

  “As you know, your mother was in the train wreck this morning,” he began. “She arrived here with a severe head injury; must have hit it hard on something during the collision. We did all we could to alleviate the pressure in her brain, but I am afraid it may not be enough. Most of her body is badly burned, and she has suffered significant damage to her lungs from the smoke. I’m very sorry, but it is likely she will not make it through the night. Now is a good time for goodbyes.”

  A nurse jogged up to the doctor, requiring his immediate assistance. He excused himself and hustled off. I nodded, a moment too late for him to have seen it as any kind of response, my mind slow and muddled in the absorption of his words.

  Head injury. Severe burns. Likely won’t make it through the night. Mama.

  My nose prickled and my eyes needled with tears. A sob boiled up out of my mouth and I clamped it down for fear that Oliver would hear. In the doorjamb, with my back against the frame, I laid my head back and shuddered. My one shoulder stuck out into the trauma melee that filled the hallway, the other shoulder hung softly inside Mama’s muted room. I stood on the edge of both scenes, alone in the knowledge of Mama’s condition, not yet ready to tip into the ringing chaos of losing her.

  So much pain filled this hospital. It echoed in the corridor and seized my chest as it bounced from tragedy to tragedy. Was Mama in pain? If there had been fear or pain on that train, her face showed no sign of it now. Her beautiful features held all of our comfort and security, soothed us when we were hurt, reassured us when we were frightened, and corrected us when we went astray. Her face was how we grew and learned. It was present in every moment of our becoming. Surely she would open her eyes and tell us that we could all go home together now.

  Digging around in my satchel, I found my handkerchief and wiped my dripping nose. I inhaled deeply over and over until I felt calm enough to face the next few moments.

  I left the doorjamb and went back to Mama’s side. My steps were heavy, full and frightened. I stood with Oliver and Papa around Mama. Papa looked up at me and I shook my head, unable to say the words aloud. His frame collapsed and, seeing this, Oliver knew as well. He flung his body on top of Mama’s with a wail. I stood aside, afraid to touch her, to cause her any pain, though perhaps she was beyond that. And in the end, it might pain her to be without my touch. I tentatively reached out and touched her leg to secure a connection, but lightly enough so I could barely feel the shape of her ankle.

  Our silent vigil was broken by Ivy’s breathless arrival.

  “Papa! What is going on? There are hundreds of people out there! It took me forever to find someone who could help me find you!” Her words flooded the hush, but she suddenly stopped when her eyes stilled enough to take in our tears, Mama’s injuries. “Papa…” she whispered.

  “It is good that we are all here. She would have wanted it this way,” Papa replied.

  Ivy joined our muted circle, and we let the frantic tragedy rush by outside the doorway. In the center of us, Mama’s chest slowly lifted the crisp white sheets, and then not at all.

  ●●●

  After Mama’s funeral, Ivy and William joined us at the house. We climbed the front porch stairs and entered through the heavy wooden front door as a family group, smaller and diminished greatly by the absence of just one. I collected the newspapers that littered the porch. Leaving them folded, I set them aside in the parlor.

  The house was quiet. No one had remembered to wind the clock. The kitchen stood empty, without the enticing smells of a lunch being prepared. Mama’s absence felt like a heavy blanket draped over us all, tamping our forward motion, confusing us in its darkness. We stood in the foyer together, eyes cast downward, all lost without Mama.

  It was Papa who moved first. He tugged at his tie, placed his hat on the rack and, without a word, walked up the stairs. Ivy and I watched him go, Oliver tucked at my side fiddling one shoe with the other.

  “Shall we stay for an early supper? I could help you set it up,” Ivy said, removing her coat and tugging at William’s from over his broad shoulders.

  “Yes, thank you,” I replied.

  I turned to Oliver, kneeling to look at him. His eyes were liquid and on the edge of overflowing. I stroked his cheek and gave him a cocked half smile. His face stayed immobile, but he let me help him out of his coat and then turned and shuffled away. Finding his blocks, he silently began building. William followed him into the sitting room and collapsed onto the couch. Ivy and I left them there and went to the kitchen.

  As Ivy laid out turkey, cheese, pickles, and mustard on a large platter, I sliced the bread.

  “What now?” I asked, as much to Ivy as to myself.

  “Well. Now, Papa will need a lot of help. Mama did all the laundry, cooking, shopping, cleaning. Everything. She did everything. And Oliver, well, he’ll need help with everything too. I’m too far away to help with the day-to-day tasks. Those will fall to you.”

  She only lived seven miles away, but her implications were clear. She and William would stay and help for the next few hours, but soon they would be leaving, resuming their own lives in Chestnut Hill. I was in charge here now. Ivy was not planning to take over Mama’s responsibilities with Oliver, Papa, or this house. I was infuriated by her lack of devotion to us, but so utterly exhausted that I didn’t have the energy to fight her on it.

  “Papa has the shop to run,” she continued, “and he’ll need help there too. But mostly he’ll need help here. Can you picture him washing a shirt? Or mopping the kitchen floor?”

  I thought about it. I had seen him mop countless times at the shop, but never here. He was utterly reliant on Mama for all household tasks. How long would his grief prevent him from managing without her?

  “Last I heard, Ellis’ job wouldn’t start until June. Possibly by then Papa could…” I trailed off, hopeful but without real hope. I continued, “I can talk to Ellis. We will know more details of his job when he gets back from New York.”

  “Yes, a summer departure could be feasible,” Ivy said, her voice cheering now that the situation was closer to settled. “Oliver will be finished with the school year by then too, and Papa won’t have to worry so much about him in the summer. Maybe by then he’ll even have found a new wife.”

  Shocked, I turned, eyes wide, and stared at Ivy. “How can you say that? Mama’s funeral was just
today. How can you even think about Papa remarrying?”

  “Oh come now, Tish. Think practically. I thought you, above everyone else, would understand that is a good solution. I miss Mama just as much as you do, but Papa simply is the kind of man who needs a wife. Now, grab the tea please. Let’s get this out on the table. There’s plenty for me to do at my own home before William starts the work week tomorrow.”

  ●●●

  We called the men to the table, and while Ivy settled Oliver and William, I ventured upstairs to tell Papa supper was served. At the top of the stairs, I found his door shut tight. I knocked softly. When I heard nothing, I wondered if he had decided to take a nap.

  Slowly, I turned the knob and peered in. He was still in his suit, sitting on his chair, legs splayed listlessly in front of him. He gripped his black recipe book tightly in his hands. His eyes looked straight ahead, focused on nothing, his mustache set in a straight, firm line.

  “Papa,” I ventured, “supper is on the table.”

  He said nothing. I could feel the tears pricking my eyes, the heavy sadness settling on me like an overcoat.

  “Please, Papa. It will do you good to eat something. This is a terrible day. Let’s all try to bear it together.”

  His eyes shifted slightly then, and he looked at Mama’s side of the bed. Silently, almost imperceptibly, he said, “She’s gone. Because of me. Because of this business.”

  His arms fell heavy and the black recipe book hit the floor splayed open and face down. I bent to pick it up. When I tried to hand it back to him, my hand hung in the air, ignored. Papa buried his head in his hands. He braced his elbows on his knees. His breath rasped, long and slow.

  “Papa?” I ventured. “Where can I put your book?”

  No response.

  “Papa? Please. I know how important this is to you. Let me put it somewhere safe.”

  He remained still. I wasn’t even there. I lowered the book.

  “Papa, maybe we should consider closing the store for a while. People would understand. You could use the time to hire some part-time help…”

  Getting no reply, I lowered my head. The leather of the book was soft. I flicked the tattered edge. What would happen to the business now that Mama was gone and Papa blamed himself? When I looked back up, Papa had raised his eyes. They met mine. It was if I had never seen them before. Gone was the strong man who set the rules and expected absolute obedience. These eyes were lost and pleading.

  Neither of us were able to comfort each other. We needed Mama. She was always the one who was best at that, the one for whom we longed when sad or scared or hurt. Tragically, she was the only one who could take away the pain caused by her absence.

  Tears began running down my face, the deep ache in Papa’s heart increasing the loss and worry in mine. As I walked to the doorway, he remained in his chair, both of us breaking at the loss of Mama. I carried his book downstairs and tucked it on the shelf for the day he forgave himself.

  ●●●

  After lunch, Ivy and William climbed into their touring car. They hustled through farewell kisses and drove away. Papa remained shut in his room, and so Oliver and I stood outside by ourselves, bundled up to watch them go. My arms were draped over Oliver’s shoulders, my hands clasped together at his chest. We lingered a bit in the crisp air. I wondered how long we could stand there, watching the now-empty street. I dreaded facing the house without Mama inside and the pile of dishes that Ivy neglected. I was disgusted by her callousness.

  “Do you miss Mama?” Oliver asked craning his neck to look up at me.

  “Yes, Ollie, I do. Very much.”

  “Do you think Ivy misses Mama?”

  “I’m sure she does, in her own way. I’m sure Ivy would rather stay with us, but she has responsibilities at her house now. Remember when Ivy got married and moved to Chestnut Hill with William? Well, she started her own life there and needs to get back to it.”

  “Are you going to leave too, Tish?” Oliver asked, clenching my wrists as they lay still on his chest. I could feel his tiny heart thumping beneath my fingertips, his desperate tight clasp of our arms entwined. I clung to him as he clung to me, and I knew I had to do all that I could to help him through this. I leaned down and kissed him on the top of his shiny blonde head, and the crack that had been threatening since I had heard the news of Mama finally split me in two. I suddenly knew I was mourning the loss of my independence as well as the loss of my mother.

  “No, Ollie,” I said. “I’ll stay right here.”

  ●●●

  We heard nothing from Papa for the remainder of the evening, and the tray of food I left outside his door lay untouched. When darkness fell, early on that winter evening, I shuffled Oliver upstairs. Dressed in his nightclothes, I settled him into his small bed and stroked his drowsy head.

  “Mama always sings to me, Tish. Can you sing to me?”

  “Of course, Ollie.”

  Mama sang Brahms’ “Lullaby” every night when Ivy and I were small. She had sung it every night to Ollie still. Sometimes she used the German words, the way Papa learned it, but most often we heard it in English. Our eyelids would get heavy and our bodies would relax, knowing that we were safe and warm and loved. Though I had long grown out of this bedtime ritual, I ached to hear her voice sing the song again, for me and for Ollie, whose childhood now lacked her reassuring presence.

  My rendition would have to do, and so I began, “Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight, with lilies o’er spread, is baby’s wee bed. Lay thee down now and rest. May thy slumber be blessed.”

  When I had finished, Oliver asked again, “You aren’t going to leave, right, Tish?”

  “No, Ollie. I’m staying.”

  “Can you stay with me now? Just for a little while?” His eyes were closed and the words came out slowly.

  “Yes, Ollie. I’ll be right here.”

  I lay down next to him, squeezing so that I fit in his small bed. His breathing became heavy and regular and I closed my eyes.

  I must have drifted off. An insistent knocking at the front door startled me awake. Moving slowly out of Oliver’s bed so that I didn’t wake him, I made my way downstairs in the dark. I passed Papa’s closed door and grasped the railing down the stairs.

  No one had turned on the lights against the darkness, so I fumbled for the switch when I reached the foyer. Disoriented and unsure of the time, I glanced at the clock, but it still stood hushed, the pendulum straight and motionless.

  The knocking continued. I found the outside switch, flooding the front porch with light, and saw Ellis standing at the door. I smoothed my hair and opened the door to greet him. He rushed in, taking me in his arms and holding me tight.

  We stood there for a long moment, the warmth of his embrace mingling with the cold air falling off his coat. I breathed him in, his frost-filled scent cooling my nose like menthol and pulling me up out of my sleepy sorrow. He held me until I let go, and even then, his arms stayed around me for a beat longer. He took my shoulders in his hands and looked straight at my face.

  “I came as soon as I could. I tried to get an earlier train, but with the holiday rush, I wasn’t able to change my ticket. I came straight here from the station.”

  “It’s all right, Ellis. I am glad you are here now. Come in. I’ll put the kettle on for tea and get you warmed up.”

  While he settled in the sitting room, I brought in the tea and sat next to him on the settee. “The services were nice and well attended,” I said. “I think Mama would have been pleased.”

  “Tish, I feel terrible that I wasn’t there. I wanted to be with you so very badly, help you through this. How is everyone holding up?”

  “Ivy is back in Chestnut Hill, and Papa has been in his room all day. Ollie is quiet and sad, afraid of being alone.”

  “And, how are you?”

  “Miserable. It was so sudden, none of us had the chance to say goodbye.” I fiddled with my tea cup, rattling it slightly against the saucer as
it sat on the table. “The morning of the train crash, we were all rushing out the door. She was our everything. She held this family together and did everything for us. Without her…” I couldn’t go on without breaking.

  We sat in silence for a while, my eyes downcast, my thoughts swirling. “How did it go in New York?”

  “Tish, we don’t have to talk about that now…”

  I was grateful to be allowed to let go of social graces, exhausted from keeping them up for the past few days. Inside I was screaming while on the outside, I had plastered on a bearing-up smile.

  Like a marionette whose strings had just been cut, my shoulders slumped, head drooped, and my back molded into the front of Ellis. The dam broke and the tears came. He held me for a long time, as the sobs hiccupped out of me, hitching my breath. Finally allowed to feel the loss myself, I let it overtake me. There was nothing but his arms and my sadness. There was relief in finally being able to cry safely in Ellis’ shelter.

  Ellis began to speak, soothing things, calming words. I couldn’t focus on them; the entire room had a fuzzy, muted quality. Ellis continued to talk and I murmured assent, dragging in deep breaths that caught in my throat on the way in. The tears did end, and eventually my chest stopped heaving, leaving me more exhausted than before.

  “Shhh, my darling,” Ellis continued, stroking my hair. “Soon we will be in California. Away from this pain. Shhh. In the midst of all this sorrow, I have some wonderful news. My meetings with the Standard Oil Company went very well. Apparently, they are booming out in California and need lots of men. They have offered me a position that starts in just a few weeks.”