“Okay, so what’s our plan?” Ben looked at me expectantly the next morning. From my perch atop the kitchen stool, I watched him pour the boiling water into the French press.
“Good morning to you too.”
“For someone who slept in a bed for the first time in a week, you’re awfully cranky.”
“And you’re Pee-wee Herman.”
“I know you are but what am I, infinity!” Ben squinted at me, a childhood tic he’d never outgrown. He handed me a black coffee. “Drink this fast. You should probably consider going back to bed, sis. I won’t tell anyone you’re playing Rip Van Winkle for the day.”
“You’ve always been so generous.”
“Oh, I know. Speaking of which, I’m stopping by the bakery to buy Dad a treat on the way to the hospital today. Any requests?”
“Nope, sugar is poison for our bodies. But speaking of treats, since when does Dad, Mr. Folgers himself, own a French press?” I gulped back a scalding mouthful of the smooth caffeine.
“Maya gave it to him for Christmas. She spent an hour explaining to him the subtleties of why he needed it. I broke the seal on it this morning; she must never know. Anyway, we need to decide what we’re going to do.”
“I say we don’t tell her.”
“No, what we’re going to do about Dad. He was supposed to be done with his treatments soon, but now…”
I didn’t know how to enter this discussion. I took a weak sip of my coffee and bit my lip. “If I go there’ll trouble, and if I stay it’ll be double.”
I knew Ben wouldn’t be able to resist, and he let out a high “Weeee” before adding, “Let’s at least pretend to have a real conversation about it.”
“Or we could rock, paper, scissor it.”
“Right.”
“And you need to tell that lady with the big bangs that she needs to leave.”
“Reese, she wants to help. Or to make amends with Dad before…” Ben cleared his throat. “Anyway. She wants to help.”
“She’s a psycho.”
“Just let it rest. You’re busy with your editing, and I am here to open a ‘preeminent think tank that produces compelling results for future minds,’ so I’m a little busy at the moment. It doesn’t hurt to have someone here strictly for Dad.”
“Ben, I don’t need your marketing pitch. You’re going to be in Omaha for six more weeks. And Dad is recovering. He’ll be fine.” I told myself this every day on repeat, to make myself believe it was true. “I just decided—I should probably leave soon too.”
“You told me last night you were staying, Reese. Make up your mind.”
“Ouch. You don’t have to be so mean.” I felt small.
“You’re right, though. If you hate being around our parents so much, then you should go back to Charlie and your exotic life.”
Unbelievable. I marched away from him to hide the sudden effusion of tears building behind my eyes.
I couldn’t tell him that the day he called and told me Dad had cancer, my entire world had swirled to a slow-motion stop and that my ears hadn’t stopped ringing in the days since. I couldn’t tell him that the realization of how close we’d come to losing Dad kept me up for hours each night and that when Death came knocking, he brought an offering of perspective I wasn’t yet ready to face. I didn’t want Ben to know that some small part of me was glad Bernice was here, her semi-familiar presence more comforting than I’d ever anticipated. I didn’t want to admit, even to myself, that I was glad for this excuse to escape from my life with Charlie, that I’d been unhappy on many fronts, but had been oh-so-unsure of how to fix it. I could tell my brother anything, and I needed him to know, but I wanted him to read it out of me. I knew he would, he always did. It was only a matter of time.
When I showed up at the hospital hours later, Dad and Ben were each three cupcakes in, high on sugar and laughs.
Ben dangled one with purple sprinkles in front of my nose.
“Ben, you know I’m trying to avoid sugar!” I planted my hands on my hips.
But when he went to eat it, I snatched it away and settled back as he danced to “Cotton Eye Joe” with Dad’s night nurse.
“This is a sight for sore eyes. I left for one afternoon and you went crazy. It’s not as if I was gallivanting around the town for the fun of it.” I looked up from using Dad’s bed as a bongo set to see Bernice standing in the doorway, all five-feet, two-inches of her sparkly and outraged.
I smiled as she stomped into the room in a sea of wisteria, hair lofty and proud, somehow preferring this fiery version of my mother to the docile one who’d been hovering about since her arrival. The clomp of her heels matched the beat pouring from Ben’s phone.
“After my nail and hair appointments, I went grocery shopping, for Pete’s sake. Those muffins don’t bake themselves.” She launched a basket of muffins into the window sill as her exclamation point.
“Welcome to the fun room, Mrs. Hamilton.” The nurse giggled as she passed Bernice to leave.
“She’s not—” I jolted upright. Ben and I made eye contact as Dad closed his eyes.
“And I turned up at the hospital to find you all giggling to beat a banshee, getting Carl all riled up. On second thought, a banshee would be calmer.” As she threw herself into the chair, her bracelets clinked. “You two need to get back to the house, no buts about it.” She pointed her ringed finger between me and Ben and didn’t wait for a response before turning her attention to Dad.
“Sure.” I was in no mood to stick around with Bernice. “Hey lumberjack in the see-through gown, do you need me to bring anything when I come to the hospital tomorrow? Maybe a razor?” His facial hair was scraggly, and decidedly taking over his face.
“No, I’m growing out my beard.” He glared at Bernice.
“Carl, are you sure? You know it looks terrible.”
“I know—” His face shaded red.
“Shh, Carl, shh.” She patted his head in a calming cadence. “Slumber calleth thee.” Dad offered her one quick look of resentment before closing his eyes. She looked up to find me unmoving. “Go, go.” Her hands twinkled us goodbye. “And don’t you dare take those treats. I saw three cupcakes of glory still poking up out of the box, and I’ll be darned if I let you get away with eating every single crumb of that goodness without saving any for mother dearest. I don’t mind the calories. You know what I say: Live today, no regrets tomorrow.”
By the time we’d gathered our stuff, she was unaware of our presence, her energy fully focused on Dad. I could have sworn her expression was almost tender, a surrender to something I didn’t understand.
“I think someone escaped from the psychiatric ward,” I told the first three nurses I saw, pointing them toward Dad’s room, and took the stairs two at a time down to the main floor.
A week later, we brought Dad home at night. Before we left, the doctor reminded us that Dad would be in a lot of pain. He talked of morphine pills, dizziness, and exhaustion.
“Carl, you’re getting better, should be back to full speed in a month, maybe two. But, you cannot drive until I say so.” The doctor looked at Dad.
“Humph.” Dad crossed his arms and looked away.
“That’s an order.”
Dad’s clothes hung loosely off his body, but he marched out of the hospital with all the pride of someone who knew what he wanted. He didn’t even blink as he neared the car, which Ben had covered in streamers and silly string, and headed to the driver’s seat.
“You wish, Dad.” Ben opened the passenger door for him and waited expectantly.
The following morning was rainy, and I was glad because it matched my mood. In the light of early dawn, while the birds chirped beyond the window, the tones inside were smooth and even. I sat at the foot of Dad’s bed and before I could change my mind, slipped my bare feet cautiously onto the cold, wooden floor and tiptoed to my room. I grabbed my Leica and glided back down the hallway. I focused on Dad’s sleeping form and recomposed before I pressed the shutter.
Click. Life should be lived; hope should be documented. It was the last frame; I rewound the film slowly. Though I doubted he’d stir for hours, before heading downstairs I made sure Dad’s slippers were on, his blanket wrapped tightly about him, and a glass of water waited beside his bed.
In the dim basement, I turned on the radio and pulled out the chemicals. They were under a mound of unlabeled boxes, and I spent half an hour organizing and mixing my supplies. Methodically, I lined the trays in a row, neighbors once more.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt an anticipation to see my photos. The smells of the developer and fixer pulled me back a thousand miles until I saw my life in one seamless mixing of what had been, what could be. For long moments, I stood still, doing nothing, letting the cool of the basement envelop me, settle me.
It had been years since I knew a desperation to hold my camera so heedfully, but I’d been carrying it with me everywhere. The sharp click of the shutter echoed as I documented Bernice in the kitchen, Dad reading, Ben talking to Maya.
Nothing else in my life seemed concrete, nothing but working with my hands again, in a way that was organic. I’d gotten into a routine of writing again too, every night for an hour before I went to sleep. It was my sweet therapy.
Charlie was the only person I’d told what I was doing, and he didn’t understand, but told me I should keep documenting if it made me happy.
“It doesn’t make me happy.” I listened to the rhythm of his breath through the phone and smiled.
“Okay, then, what does it make you?”
“Sane. It keeps me grounded. It’s hard to explain.” I shrugged although he couldn’t see me. It was hard to articulate, almost too sacred to expound upon.
“It seems like it’s enough?” His voice was kind, soft about the edges.
“It is.” I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish, only that it was vital.
It had been at least two years since I’d hand-developed my film and it felt good. Agitate, bang, wait. Agitate, wait, slam, bang.
This was peace.
This was happiness.
This was my small piece of stability in the disarray around me.
The only thing that made sense was my camera, letting the tiny row of negatives slowly but surely bridge the gap between my father and me, between me and some sort of greater understanding of my life.
“You’ve got mail.” Her voice echoed down the stairs a few hours later, and the fact she held an envelope up to the light when I entered the kitchen did little to lighten my mood.
“Thanks, Bernice,” I muttered as I grabbed the missives addressed to me and snuck away to a quiet corner.
It was a postcard from Charlie, with a photo of an ice cream cone and a skunk on the front. On the back he’d scribbled simply,
Sometimes life stinks, sometimes it’s sweet. Hang in there.
Love,
C.
I texted him a quick thanks. He’d know what I meant.
The last time I saw Charlie, back at the hotel room all in a rush, had been confusing.
“My Dad has cancer, Charlie,” I yelled through tears. “And you want to know where I’ve spent my time after work?” We’d been in Europe two weeks, Ireland one. We were three days into the shoot when Ben called me.
“Reese, I know,” his voice was full of compassion, “but I’ve barely seen you this trip. You freaked out yesterday when I tried to tell you about…And, well, I had this idea. About a cliff and the sea and us.”
“Wait, what? That makes no sense.” I looked up from my green duffel bag, knowing my last words came out harsh. Charlie looked away. The only sound was our breathing, intense in rhythmic staccato.
“I know.” His expression remained unreadable. “I care about you, and there are things I want to say. We haven’t talked in ages.”
Were we really having this conversation—whatever this conversation was—when my Dad was dying?
After a belabored interim, Charlie spoke. “Reese, I feel like I’m losing you.” He moved a step toward me, his tall physique hesitant. I smelled his soap, his piney aftershave, sharp and comforting.
I left my Leica in the guest room at Blake’s farm. And Blake; I’d departed his house in a frenzy that morning without explanation while he’d been out on an errand.
Seeing the look of hurt in Charlie’s eyes made me wonder if I was thinking out loud. “Charlie, you aren’t losing me. That’s dumb.”
“This was supposed to be our trip, a big break for us together.” His blue eyes watched me with a hundred questions.
“I know, but we both know it was actually just yours all along. I only helped you look good.” I had to break eye contact with him. I’d never known such distance from Charlie—the first man I loved, the person who knew me inside and out—but something was changing between us.
“Reese.”
I placed my luggage on the floor and walked over to him, throwing my arms around his smooth neck and kissing his cheek lightly.
“I’m sorry. I’m awful sometimes.” I held him tighter, burying myself into the safety between his arms. But you know it’s true. I choked down the words and truth between us and held him for a moment longer.
I missed Charlie. Since we moved away after high school, he was the piece of home that had stayed with me through the miles. He was the calm to the storm of my life. We attended the same college and since we had the same major, we took most of our classes together. We shared two internships and were hired together for various jobs post-graduation. He was often the last person I saw at night, the first person I saw each morning.
I tapped his postcard against my hands and wondered if he missed me too.
My heart did a rebellious flippity flop before I set aside his card and turned to the other offering, a letter from Blake.
Reese, Reese,
You disappeared less than a month ago, but it has already been too long. Even the sheep are growing unruly on the roadways without your charm.
Da asks about you every night at the dinner table. Yes, every night. I wasn’t lying when I said you were the most exciting thing to happen to the Kelly men in ages. When they are out at the pub, they still tell the stories about you traipsing about our sheep farm in too-big wellies and Gramps’s old shirt as if you’d been born to farm. And about the time you were attacked by a goose, of course, and tried to fight it off with your camera. Wars should be resolved with diplomacy but there was no convincing either you or the goose of this wisdom.
For unbelieving men, I do think they took the ewe giving birth to twins the first night you came out all those years ago, as sign of a sure friendship. They’d never say this in so many words, of course. Da complains every day that he only saw you once last month before you left. He assures me you are sad about this too.
I know you were just here, but I’m already planning your next trip out! (You know I loathe any sort of overt and unnecessary usage of exclamation marks in life or writing, but I find nothing else will do. Actually, it’s more like this—!!!!!)
I think of our next visit! (exclamation mark and all!) as I’m driving down the lane, walking around the farm, sitting in our corner of the pub with a pint of Gat.
We can re-visit our old haunts and find some new ones too. I will wet the tea and you can bore me with stories of your new friends and all your fabulous travels. I will be your most attentive listener, promise.
I’ve written down three new book ideas in the idea journal you made for me. What dreams are you writing in your own book?
I will be thinking of you from my little corner of the world and sending you hugs in the interim. They are warm and smell like cherries.
Yours, etc.
Blake
P.S. I thought of you yesterday when I read this (yes, I’ve been delving into Dumas of late): “There is neither happiness nor misery in the world; there is only the comparison of one state with another, nothing more. He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supre
me happiness. We must have felt what it is to die… that we may appreciate the enjoyments of life. Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that until the day God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words: ‘Wait and Hope.’”
What do you think?
“I think I’m so confused right now.” I peered at the collection of dishes Bernice had spent the whole day cooking. I’d avoided the kitchen and was ravenous, but from my vantage point at the foot of the table, the assemblage of food was baffling.
“Well,” Bernice stood at the head of the table, unsure, “since it was our first family dinner in a while, and your father’s first day home from the hospital…” She twisted her apron between ringed hands.
“This isn’t a family dinner.”
“I made everyone’s favorite.” She clicked back to the kitchen, red apron swishing over a coral dress. I caught whiffs of wisteria between the savory smells as she spun in circles, bringing more dishes to the table.
Chicken and rice for Dad. Spaghetti and meatballs for Ben. Macaroni and cheese for me. Rolls and a green bean casserole for her. Something unclassifiable for Rocky. The smell of garlic and butter hung low in the air. I plopped into my seat.
As stress seeped tangibly through the dining room, I shoveled food into my face between the sounds of scraping forks and growing silence. I was two minutes from escaping when Ben spoke.
“High and low?” He winked at my glare. When we were in elementary school, before our parents imploded, exploded, we ate family dinners religiously at six o’clock. Charlie joined us most nights as his parents were too important for a regular schedule, and every evening, Dad asked us the high and low of our day. I hadn’t missed the nightly counseling sessions.
“Pass.” Bernice had fancied the table, and the stiffness of the red tablecloth brushed my thighs as I reached for my glass of water.
“Pass the sass, don’t be an ass.” Ben’s overt attempt at cuteness was annoying but of course our parents laughed.
“Story of my life,” I muttered.
Remember Us Page 5
