by Lori L. Lake
The new sofa was quite the contrast to the old shag carpet, meticulously kept up, but ugly cocoa brown just the same. Mel’s eyes scanned the room. The same circa 1950 knockoff Goya paintings. The same wingback chairs on either side of a never-used fireplace containing two well-dusted ornamental logs and a clear glass pitcher of fake pink flowers. The ancient German beer steins on the mantel. A lighted corner cabinet contained her mother’s collection of Birds of Prey. Eagles, falcons, owls, kestrels—Mel wasn’t even sure what all the various figurines were, though her mother, who was a member of various associations like the Raptor Research Foundation and The Peregrine Fund, could name each of them and discuss their habitat, prey, and mating rituals. Mel had always thought her mother should have worked at a zoo.
Following the distant, tinny sound of a laugh track, she moved through the living room, down a narrow hallway, and to the doorway of her parent’s bedroom.
“Dad?”
The double bed was made, and a white-haired man lay on top of the bedspread reclining against a stack of pillows, his head tilted slightly to the side. He opened his eyes. “Ahhh…” A sharp cough cleared his throat, and he said. “Hi, honey. Come on in. I was just watching a little TV.” He scooted up, wiped at his mouth with his pale fingertips, and waved toward a white wicker chair on the opposite side of the bed. “Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know.” Mel shrugged, then sat. “She didn’t answer when I came in.”
He picked up the remote from on top of the flowered spread and hit the mute. From her seat, Mel saw a TV game show was playing, but she wasn’t sure which one it was. Somebody had apparently won a new refrigerator, and the woman was jumping up and down with her over-large bosom coming close to hitting her voluminous chin.
Her father wore olive green khakis, a white button up shirt, and a black sweater. Mel squinted and saw a splotch of something yellow on the chest of the shirt, but before she could ask about it, he said, “So what are you up to today? Off work?”
“No, it’s my lunch hour, Dad. You called and asked that I stop by?”
“What?” He frowned. “I asked—” He turned back to the TV. “You kids always get what I want confused with what your mother wants. You mean your mother called.” He hit the channel select, and Mr. Rogers face popped onto the screen. “Look there, Mel. Mr. Rogers. Did you hear he died? Why, I was floored. That guy’s younger than me!”
Confused, Mel looked down into her lap. What was going on with her father? He seemed fine, just like old times, but lately he’d taken to saying or doing odd things, then refusing to admit it later. Before she could ponder it further, she heard a noise, and then a yip-yip-yipping. Pete, newly clipped, came tearing into the room and launched up toward the foot of the bed, hitting the end of the mattress and scrabbling wildly with his rear paws. Once safely up, he stopped, startled, and looked at Mel as though she were a ghost. Then with a bark of glee, he came to the edge of the bed nearest to her and turned around in a circle, panting and wagging with excitement.
“Hiya, Petey,” she said. She stood and reached over to pet the poodle’s head, scratching him behind the ears.
From the doorway she heard her mother’s voice. “Well, well, what are you doing here, Imelda?”
“Hi, Mom. I just stopped by for a visit on my lunch hour.” Her mother had only ever called her by her given name, and Mel hated it. When she was 14, the shoe queen, Imelda Marcos of the Philippines, went on trial. Ninth graders are a rude lot, and Mel was teased. She decided that once she grew up, at her first opportunity she’d change her name. Of course, that was back when she thought she might get married one day and easily obtain a new name. By age 20 she knew that wasn’t a reality, and she’d never gotten around to filing the paperwork to dump her old-fashioned name.
She stepped away from Pete, and the little dog turned and scurried the few feet to nestle under Nathan’s arm next to the remote.
Agnes stayed in the doorway. “I suppose you’ll be wanting something to eat then.” It wasn’t a question. Her mother’s dark eyes looked Mel up and down, inspecting, scrutinizing in the same way that had always driven Mel crazy. “I see you’ve taken off some weight. Looks good on you. Now if you’d just let your hair grow out.” Her mother disappeared from the doorway leaving Mel to bite her tongue. Dropping thirty pounds as the result of chemotherapy for first stage breast cancer wasn’t her preferred method of weight loss. She knew exactly how she looked: haggard, bones emerging from her like knobby sticks with precious little flesh attached. But the doctors thought she had beaten it, so that was all that mattered. That—and the fact that the illness had drawn Calli closer to her. After all the horrors of the last year’s treatments, it was clear Calli was hers for life and vice versa.
She met her father’s eyes and he grinned up at her. “Guess you’d better go help your mother, Mel.”
With a nod, she left the bedroom, wondering how her father, who was usually so kind to his daughters, had managed to stay with his wife for nearly forty years.
In the kitchen, Agnes, now clad in an apron over her pantsuit, was all business. She kicked the fridge shut, her arms full of containers and jars. Arranging them on the counter, she said, “Did you prepare something for your father?”
“Who, me?”
“Yes, you.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a mean-looking butcher knife.
“I only arrived a few minutes ago. I haven’t even been in this room ’til now.”
Agnes set down the knife and turned to point at the microwave. “Open that.” Arms crossed over her chest, she set her face in the angry grimace Mel had come to know so well over the years.
She pulled on the door to the ten-year-old silver appliance, and it clunked open. She bent to look inside. “I think a hotdog or sausage died a very ugly death here.”
Her mother snorted. “Do you think it would have been so hard for him to clean up afterwards?” She turned back to the counter and hacked away at a hunk of salami three-inches in diameter.
Mel slid the plastic garbage container across the floor and used two paper towels to scrape out the mangled hotdog remains. She dampened the towel and wiped out the interior, then closed the door and returned the can to its regular space.
She heard a swishing sound as her father came up behind her in stocking feet. A second later, the click-click-click of toenails on linoleum announced Pete’s entrance.
The bottom of a glass jar smacked against the counter. “Nathan, why on God’s green earth can’t you tidy up after yourself?”
Her father frowned. “Now what are you blatting about?”
Agnes pointed at the microwave. “If you’re going to make hotdogs, you have to pierce them so they don’t blow up all over the place. And when they do explode, kindly consider cleaning up afterwards.”
“Hotdogs? What are you talking about? I didn’t monkey with any hotdogs.” His rheumy blue eyes came to rest on Mel. “Ask your daughter about this, Aggie. She looks like the guilty party to me!” He pivoted and stomped out of the room in a huff.
Agnes turned back to the sandwiches on the counter. Mel waited for some comment, some response. When one didn’t come, she said, “Mom, what’s going on with him? And I told you I haven’t been in the kitchen.”
With a sigh, her mother wheeled around and crossed her arms in front of her. “I know, I know. He’s the one with the mustard stain down the front of his shirt, not you. I’m sure I’ll have a dandy time trying to get that out.” She paused as if debating her words. “The doctor says he has some memory loss due to mini-strokes.”
“What?”
“For goodness sake, don’t blame me, Imelda. He’s old. He’s 79 now. This sort of thing happens.”
“I wasn’t blaming you. I just didn’t know.” Mel’s hands went cold, and she felt shaky, as though she wasn’t getting enough air. “When—when did this happen?”
“How should I know? It just did.” Agnes opened the cupboard door, took down three plates, and stacked
a sandwich on each.
“But, but—strokes? Plural? How many strokes?”
Agnes ignored the question, instead handing her daughter a sandwich on a plate and a bowl of potato salad with a silver spoon sticking out of it. “Here. Go sit down and eat.”
Mel did as she was told, using the opportunity to take the deep, calming breaths a past counselor had taught her. Two bites of the peppery potato salad anchored her, made her feel solid again, but she watched her mother, waiting, knowing that Agnes had heard her question. She picked up the sandwich. The small bite of salami and cheese on rye went dry in her mouth, and unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears.
Agnes moved through the room, skirting the breakfast table where Mel sat, and disappeared down the hall. A moment later her parents returned to the kitchen, her father first and her mother nagging at him from behind.
“I do not need slippers,” Nathan said.
“But the A/C is cranked up high.”
“It’s goddamn summer out! I’m not an old man who can’t make decisions, Aggie.”
“I was just asking if you wanted any. I didn’t mean a damn thing by it.”
“Hmpph!” He jerked the chair away from the table and planted his behind in it. The expression on his face was so petulant that Mel suddenly choked out a laugh, which she quickly repressed. Oh, no. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, realizing that she was back on the merry-go-round again, one minute feeling teary, the next slightly hysterical. How do they do this to me?
Her father looked down at the plate and bowl before him, and in an instant broke out in a smile. “Well, look here, my favorite! Tuna and cheese.” He picked up half of the sandwich, took a bite, and grinned again. “Excellent, Aggie. Just excellent.”
Agnes stood, one hand on the hip of her dark blue pantsuit. “That’s salami and cheese.”
Mouth full, he looked up at her in amazement. Between chomps, he said, “Of course it is. What do you take me for—a moron?” He glanced at Mel, then back to his wife. “Oh, boy, you two are in rare form today. What did you have? Another fight?”
Mel met her mother’s eyes, and for the first time in years, her mother’s face showed helplessness. Anger, too, but also a silent plea for help. Before Mel could respond, the expression was gone, replaced by a narrowing of eyes and a sharp retort. As Agnes berated her husband, Mel blocked out the volley of harsh words and tried to calm her rapidly beating heart. Looking down at the cheery, plastic table cover, all pink fuchsia and deep purple violets on a white background, she realized she felt thirteen again. In the past three years—ever since Calli came into her life—she thought she’d progressed so much, and now here she was once again, sitting like a wooden horse in the kitchen as her father and mother exchanged insults. Horses up, horses down, ’round and ’round, never reaching any sort of destination. From experience, she knew the merry-go-round would slow for a while, but inevitably, it would resume. Sooner or later the bizarre tune always returned.
“What’s that damn noise?” Nathan hollered.
Mel’s head came up fast as she heard the same peel. She rose smoothly and hustled through the kitchen, to the short hallway, and out to the living room where she pulled her daypack open and grabbed her phone. “Yes?”
“Mel, honey, it’s me.”
“Calli.” She let out a sigh of relief.
There was silence on the phone for a couple seconds. “Mel? What’s the matter? Where are you?”
“I’m at my parents’ place.”
She heard a warm chuckle. “You must be a glutton for punishment. My parents last Sunday, now yours.”
Mel looked around the living room, then lowered herself to the rose-colored couch. It made a whooshing sound as she sunk into it, and though she couldn’t see any dust, she felt a tickle in her nose and thought she’d sneeze. She said, “I thought you were painting today,” as she rubbed her nose.
“Quick job after all. We just wrapped it up, and I’m off for the rest of the day. I got home, took a shower, and thought I’d call and check on you.”
“Good idea.”
“I get the impression that you can’t say much, hmm?” Mel could tell Calli was smiling.
“Bingo.”
“The only thing you really need to know, hon, is that the doctor’s office called, and they need to reschedule tomorrow’s blood draws. They can get you in today at 3:30 or else you have to wait until a week from Friday.”
“Imelda?” Agnes stood in the doorway.
Mel wondered if her mother’s x-ray eyes were scanning her slacks and blouse to see if any harm would come to the davenport. “Calli, will you give them a quick buzz for me and tell them I can come by for the blood draws today?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be home right after.”
“Okay, love. See you in a bit. Try to get out of there with your humor intact, and I’ll take you to the movies tonight.”
“Deal.” Mel met her mother’s eyes, and frowned.
Calli said, “Love you.”
“Mmm hmmm…” Mel disconnected with the sound of Calli’s purring laugh in her ear, and it gave her heart. “I’ve got to go, Mom.” She hoisted herself up from the depths of the davenport and glanced back at it, thinking it was, after all, an engulfing, uncomfortable monstrosity.
“Wait a minute. What blood draws?”
Mel looked down toward her left breast, then looked away quickly. “Just another check for the—”
“Oh, I see.” Her mother’s voice was high and fast as Mel bent and dropped her cell phone in her bag. “Sure is lucky these days how they can excise the little problems so easily. Not like in the early days when that disorder was so dangerous to women.”
“I’m not sure how much safer it is now, Mom. All I know is that chemotherapy is no fun.”
“Well, dear, that’s another thing you’re lucky you didn’t have to have.” Mel’s quick intake of breath caused her mother to pause and frown. “What? I’m no dummy, Imelda. Chemotherapy makes a woman go bald, and your hair looks fine, though you have always kept it too short.”
Mel couldn’t keep the look of disbelief from her face. The chemo she’d been through and the drugs for side effects hadn’t caused much of her hair to fall out, but she’d gone through days of fever, vomiting and chills. Obviously her mother had not been paying attention, nor had she been listening to Izzy’s progress reports. Mel scooped up her bag, stepped away from the rocking chair, head down, and made for the door.
“You want me to wrap up the rest of the lunch?”
“No, thanks, Mom. Let Dad have it. He seemed pretty hungry.”
“It’s probably better that you don’t eat all that salami anyway. Too fatty, and now that you’ve finally got your figure where you want it, you don’t want to run to seed.” Agnes came close enough to reach out and touch Mel on the chin with a blue-veined finger. Her hand dropped away as she said, “You and your sister look so different. If only I had known. Look at those cheek bones, that nose, the eyes…maybe I should have named you after Isadora Duncan.”
“Might have been a good idea, Mom. I’m never going to be the saint Imelda was, and Izzy won’t ever dance.”
“Ha. As if you ever dance,” her mother said coyly.
Mel made sure her face didn’t betray a thing, but inside, she was shrieking, Yes, I do dance, and I’m damn good at it! She pulled the door open. “Will you tell Dad I said ‘So long’?”
“Sure will.”
Mel stumbled to her car, thinking about names, and dying, and Catholic saints. In the year 1333, a day before Saint Imelda Lambertini’s eleventh birthday, the little girl saint had died. She received her first Holy Communion and immediately afterwards dropped over dead, reportedly filled with ecstasy and joy. Saint Imelda was Mel’s mother’s patron saint. It occurred to Mel now, as she drove away from her parents’ merry-go-round house, that little Imelda had probably killed herself after a run-in with her mother.
LATER IN THE afternoon Mel walked out
of the doctor’s office picking at the sticky tape holding down a piece of gauze in the inside crook of her left elbow. She’d never expected to become such a pin cushion. If the cops ever arrested her, she was sure they’d think she was a junkie and not the law-abiding owner of an art gallery in Lowertown St. Paul.
She wandered out into the hot parking lot, her mind full of thoughts about her mother’s comments regarding her father’s strokes. He didn’t appear unhappy, and except for when his wife nagged at him, he seemed content. Yes, he was 79, but he looked just fine physically, though today he had been a bit bleary-eyed. His cataract surgery five years earlier had been successful, but Mel thought he might need the procedure again.
She got in her Honda Accord, started it up, and adjusted the air conditioning vents. The warm, humid air quickly cooled. With it blowing on her, she actually felt too cold and turned it down to low.
All the way home she worried about her father, and when she walked into the townhouse she shared with Calli, she felt tired and wrung out. She found Calli in the kitchen assembling a salad.
“Hiya, sweetie,” Calli called out. “Thought we could have something to eat, then go see what’s playing at The Lagoon.” Mel stepped into the kitchen, and Calli wrapped her in her arms. “Bad visit, huh?”
Mel sighed and pressed her lips against Calli’s soft neck. “Yeah. No fun at all.”
The phone rang, and Mel let go to look at the caller I.D. “Hey, it’s the Venture Capitalist.” She picked up the phone and said, “Nate! What’s happening? How are you, bro?”
Her brother’s voice sounded guarded. “We’re fine here, just fine.” He cleared his throat. “I called to let you know that I just talked to Mom.”
She leaned against the fridge and watched Calli set the table. “Oh, so she told you about the strokes?”
“Ah, well, yeah. That came up. Actually, she asked me to tell you that Dad had a little accident in the car today.”
“What! I was just there at noon! Is he okay? What happened?”
“Slow down, Mel. He’s fine.”
