Читать книгу Falling Out Of Bed - Mary Schramski - Страница 10

First Week in January

“D ad’s back still hurts,” I say as I walk into our family room. My husband is sitting in his recliner watching TV and canned laughter fills the room.

David looks at me. “It’s probably just a pulled muscle. Your father’s healthy as a horse. He’ll be fine.”

“I know.” Deep down I’m not sure this is true, but I press my lips together, tell myself not to worry. At seventy-two years old, Dad’s a health nut, a runner, a person who is never sick.

David turns his attention back to the TV. The huge Sony big-screen, the actors and the fake laughter have taken over our living room as they do most nights. The woman on TV is having a baby and the entire family—husband, children and mother-in-law—are in an uproar, worried and nervous for her.

Our lives, on the other hand, are easy. Our only child is doing well in college, by choice I haven’t worked in over a year, and David is happy. I taught junior high for eighteen years, but I quit because I was bored and dreaded going in each day. We didn’t need the money and now I spend my time volunteering at the library, thinking about what I’d like to do when I go back to work, and keeping our house immaculate.

David, in the TV’s shimmery light, looks rested from our uneventful weekend. He laughs again and the sound echoes against the ten-foot ceilings of our home. My husband loves TV. He always has. When we were first married, I asked him why he watched so much. He explained that watching TV was the only thing to do while his mother worked nights.

This was the opposite of what I experienced. When I was growing up, before my mother and father divorced, the four of us sat in our living room, listened to music and read.

I guess parts of our childhoods stay with us forever.

For a moment, there is a square of silence before another TV commercial comes on. I hear the winter wind moving outside. It is extremely cold tonight and for some silly reason I think about the daffodil bulbs I planted months ago and wonder if they are all right.

I lie back on the couch, pull the soft beige Pottery Barn throw over my legs and open the book I was reading before Dad called. Yet the feeling my father’s backache is something more slips around me like a silk curtain.

Every once in a while I experience a weird intuition I can’t deny. These intuitive feelings aren’t anything supernatural or scary, but since I was about eight, some things turn out exactly the way I know they will. When this happens I always feel uncomfortable.

The most poignant one was the time when I was eight months pregnant. I dreamed about our unborn daughter Jennifer. I saw her dark thatch of hair, her beautiful slanted eyes and cupid lips. That morning, right after I woke, while David was still sleeping and sunlight sprang into the bedroom, I had no doubt our child would be a girl. And I was overjoyed even though David was hoping for a boy. Our daughter was born with the beautiful little face, the one that appeared in my dream.

Women seem to understand this story better than men. When I tell a woman about my Jennifer dream, she usually nods and smiles. Men don’t. David thought my dream was a coincidence. But I knew it wasn’t. And I tried to explain to him how I felt like a fraud and guilty about my best friend Vanessa’s death. How I couldn’t stop wondering why, if I have this intuition, I didn’t know my college roommate shouldn’t have gone for a ride with her boyfriend the night their car overturned.

David always says to forget all that. But it’s not that easy.

I’ve explained to Elizabeth about my intuition and she claims it’s a gift from God. Elizabeth and I are different in that way—she has a strong faith, I don’t. Before Vanessa’s death I believed there was some sort of God and maybe a plan for us all. But after, it was like someone took a rag and wiped my beliefs away. Now I think life is just a big petri dish.

David laughs again, looks over at me. “That was funny.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t watching.”

“Your Dad’s gonna be okay, Melinda. Quit worrying.”

“I know.” I smile and he smiles back, but at this moment, underneath my happy facade, I know our lives will never be the same.

My father and I are talking on the phone again.

I’m determined to cheer him up. Last night I left David to his TV shows and went to bed early. This morning I woke feeling better, upbeat. Beautiful winter sun was blazing into each room of our home and I thought, Of course Dad will be fine. Before I could phone him, my mother called and I told her about Dad’s backache.

“Stanley has always been strong as an ox. He’s flawless, and if he isn’t, he’ll make himself that way. Don’t worry, he’ll survive,” she said.

Her words of encouragement made me feel even better.

“I know I’ll be okay, honey,” Dad says through the phone line. “But my back sure hurts.”

“Does Motrin help?” I’m happy I can give him moral support and a little advice. We aren’t close and I’ve always wanted to be.

“No.”

“The doctors in El Paso will fix you up. Once you get their diagnosis, you’ll be better.”

Dad is going to an orthopedic surgeon this afternoon in El Paso, fifty miles from Las Cruces, New Mexico, where he lives. I wish we lived closer so I could drive him to the doctor. He and I see each other maybe once every three years. The last few years since his retirement, we’ve talked more on the phone and it’s nice. But this morning Grapevine, Texas, seems very far away from Las Cruces.

“Maybe today the doctors will have an answer,” he says.

“Of course. Call me when you get back with the good news.”

We say goodbye. I walk into the living room where there is a mélange of family photos on the wall. I study the photo of my mother and Dad before they divorced—smiling, standing close. Then my gaze settles on a worn black-and-white picture—my father at six months—staring into the camera with a look of baby surprise. His thatch of dark hair and slightly slanted eyes remind me of my daughter Jennifer.

I touch the glass with my right index finger, hope I don’t leave a smudge.

Of course you’ll be okay.

Of course.

For nine hours, David and I have been speeding down ribbons of Texas and New Mexico highways in my blue Toyota Camry. He is driving and I have asked him three times not to go over seventy-five but he won’t slow down. A little while ago I gave up trying to save our lives. Instead I got my stack of magazines from the back seat and began flipping through the glossy pages in an effort to not worry about my father.

The car slows and I look up. We turn off the freeway—the El Paso Exit 7. I sigh. We are here to lend moral support to my father who was diagnosed with bone cancer three days ago. When Dad informed me of what the doctors had found, I told him I would drive to El Paso to be with him, help him. He didn’t say, No, don’t come, but wondered out loud how I was going to make the drive alone. I pulled the phone away from my ear, looked in disbelief at the receiver, then reminded myself my father hadn’t been around much when I was growing up and maybe that’s why he didn’t think of me as an adult.

I look over at David as he navigates through the El Paso streets. I was surprised when he said he’d come with me. I imagined him staying home, working his regular thirteen or fourteen hours a day on his projects. But yesterday he called from his office, told me he’d rearranged his appointments so he could drive me to El Paso.

I was happy I wouldn’t have to make the trip alone. I’ve never told him or my father I don’t like El Paso with its dirty air and the long drive up the snakelike highway to Dad’s condo in Las Cruces.

“There it is,” David says.

I look through the windshield, see the large sign: El Paso Hospital.

“Yeah, there it is.”

David makes the turn then parks in the parking lot that spans two blocks. I climb out of the car and take a deep breath. The air is cold, dry, and I feel like a twig about to snap. I take my husband’s hand as we walk through the double doors and begin looking for Dad’s room. David’s skin is warm, moist. We stay connected, and for a few soft moments I feel young and in love. When we find the room number Dad gave me, we break apart.

My father is propped up in bed. His tanned, muscled arms contrast the stark white sheet and blanket. He is staring out the window and doesn’t hear us come in.

“Dad.”

David walks to a chair in the farthest corner, places his hand on the back.

“Hi, Melinda.” Dad’s brown eyes are wide.

I cross the space between us and hug him as my heart pounds harder.

“I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry.” I begin to cry. He starts crying, too, his lips pulled into a shape I’ve never seen before.

“I’ll stand right by you through this,” I say, feel like I’m in a movie speaking words someone wrote.

“Hey, let’s not get carried away around here,” David booms from his chair. “This is curable, you know.”

I turn, look at him. David’s expression is one I don’t recognize even though we’ve been together for twenty-two years. I pull away from my father. My husband has never been good with showing his emotions and this is just more proof.

“Hey, Dave, how’s it going?” Dad says as if he wasn’t crying a moment ago.

“Stan, how ya’ doing?”

“Not so well. I guess you heard.”

“Don’t worry, they have lots of new methods for curing cancer.”

I walk to the window across from the hospital bed and the two men slip easily to where they feel comfortable—talking about architecture and David’s work. My father retired three years ago, but before, everyone thought it funny I married an architect—the same occupation as my dad.

They begin talking about David’s latest contract and my father’s strong voice fills the room. I look out the window. Below, at the back of the hospital, is a small play area with swings, a little bit of grass. The spring before my parents divorced, most evenings, Dad and my mother took my sister Lena and me to the small park by our house. We would run to the swings, squealing, hop on. A moment later Dad would stand next to us and instruct us on how to pump our legs to make the swings go higher, then he would explain velocity.

I was so afraid I would fall, but I gripped the metal chains, pumped my legs hard because I wanted to show him I could do better than Lena, swing perfectly. That spring I felt I could touch the cool spring sky with my bare toes.

My mother always sat at a picnic table silently watching us.

“Melinda?”

I glance over to Dad.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind picking up Jan from the airport? I don’t want her to take a cab.”

“Jan’s coming here?” I point to the floor and my father nods.

After my parents divorced, Dad married Jan, but then they divorced five years later. She’s never wanted anything to do with my sister or me. I know this because when David and I moved to our new house in Grapevine, Dad stayed with us for two days on his way to Mexico. While I was unpacking dishes and David was at his office, I asked my father why we never spent a Christmas together after I turned sixteen. I was feeling brave, in the mood to fix our distant relationship.

There was a long silence, then he rubbed his face. “Jan never wanted me to have too much to do with you kids. I shouldn’t have listened to her, but…” He got up from the couch and walked back to the guest room, closed the door.

I have never figured out what he was going to say. His life has always seemed so ideal. But that day I wanted him to tell me he was sorry. Before I had always thought my father didn’t want to be close, he was a loner, as my mother had often said when she’d tried to explain him.

Silly as it sounds, his confession made his distance from me easier to think about and validated why I never liked Jan.

“Jan’s coming here?” I ask again, then smile, try to cover up my disappointment.

Three months after he and Jan were married, when I was sixteen, I visited my father for the last time. Jan backed me against the kitchen counter and explained in her breathy, Marilyn Monroe voice the many ways my father hated my mother. After, she put her index finger to her pursed lips and swore me to secrecy.

“Yeah, she thought I might have to have back surgery and she volunteered to take care of me while I was recovering. But that’s all changed.” He turns, stares out the door as if he’s looking for someone. “So will you pick her up?”

“Of course I will.”

I glance at my husband. We make eye contact and David raises his right eyebrow slightly. I turn away, tell myself the whole thing with Jan was a long time ago, she and my father are friends, and I need to get over any hard feelings.

“It would be easy for her to take a cab from the airport,” David says.

I shake my head, try to signal to him to be quiet. Like most husbands, there are times he drives me crazy.

My father’s expression turns to worry and he pulls back the blanket a little.

“It’s okay, Dad. I can pick her up.” I glance at David, narrow my eyes. “I’d love to pick her up.” And I wonder if all families play nice games, move tiny dry lies around so they don’t have to talk about what they’re really thinking.

“Thanks. I know she’ll appreciate it.” And then his gaze fills with something I’ve never seen before—maybe it’s a mixture of appreciation and fear, but I just don’t know my father well enough to be sure.