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Falling Out Of Bed
Mary Schramski
WAKE UP! WAKE UP! LIFE IS HAPPENING WHILE YOU SLEEP…Melinda had never questioned her perfect life. Why should she? Her husband's successful, she's not working for the first time in years and their only daughter is in college. Her father–a workaholic, perfectionist, runner and health nut to boot–is happy and healthy, too.Or so Melinda thought until her father quite literally falls out of bed. Suddenly her formerly robust parent is in jeopardy, and their roles are reversed. Melinda's life changes in the blink of an eye.But with the changes, unexpected blessings come her way, too. Because as she and her father bond, Melinda realizes she's been sleeping through life–and starts discovering what really matters….



“Dad,” I finally said.
He turned around and his expression was a study in wonder. He gestured to the world outside. “You know, life is really beautiful.”
I went over to the window, stood next to him. More light flooded the room, us, the yard.
“It is, isn’t it?”
“I’d forgotten how really wonderful life is.”
“Most mornings I come out here and take a few minutes to enjoy it.”
“You’re a smart girl.” He stared at me for a moment. “I was just thinking how much I’ve missed. I was always working.” He sighs. “Trying to make buildings perfect.” He glances out to the yard again. “But life doesn’t have to be perfect, does it?”
“Maybe our flaws are beautiful, too.” I think about this, hope it’s true, feel good that we’re talking. We both stare at the yard and, suddenly, it turns bright with sunlight.

Mary Schramski
Mary Schramski began writing when she was about ten. The first story she wrote took place at a junior high school. Her mother told her it was good, so she immediately threw it away. She read F. Scott Fitzgerald at eleven, fell in love with storytelling and decided to teach English. She holds a Ph.D in creative writing and enjoys teaching and encouraging other writers. She lives in Nevada with her husband, and her daughter who lives close by. Visit Mary’s Web site at www.maryschramski.com.

Falling Out of Bed
Mary Schramski

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

From the Author
Dear Reader,
The idea for Falling Out of Bed came to me through a conversation with a dear friend. Over cups of tea we talked about what we thought to be important in our lives, and how those ideals guide us. After our conversation, I began imagining a character struggling with what she believed in and how her family might help her evolve. Melinda is the brave protagonist in Falling Out of Bed, the one who learns about love, hope and believing in things she cannot explain.
Sincerely,
Mary Schramski
www.maryschramski.com
To you, the reader
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
Even the seasons form a great circle in their
changing, and always come back again to where
they were. The life of a man [woman] is a circle
from childhood to childhood and so it is in
everything where power moves.
—Black Elk

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PROLOGUE
Second Week in October
I’ m on my knees by the oak tree. For my forty-second birthday my father sent me fifteen daffodil bulbs from a mail-order catalog. I don’t garden, so after I opened his gift I walked down to Elizabeth’s house and asked her how to plant them.
She smiled, patted my shoulder. “Dig really deep, Melinda. Then wait for miracles to appear in the spring.”
I looked at the bulbs. “All that from daffodils?”
“Oh, they’re more than that. They prove there’s always hope.” Then she reached inside the box, touched one of the rough woodlike seeds and looked at me. “We all need hope.”
I shook my head, laughed. “I guess you’re right, but my life’s pretty wonderful right now. I’m not sure why my father sent me these. Maybe I’ll find out someday.” I closed the box, gave her a hug and walked home.
The telling autumn breeze washes over me and I stare at the daffodil bulb in my palm. The tiny orb looks so dark against my skin. How can something so hard and ugly produce a delicate flower?

CHAPTER ONE
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.

CHAPTER TWO
I watch Jan walk into the El Paso airport baggage area. She sees me, smiles, and I wave. I haven’t seen her in years, but she looks the same—slim, pretty, but a little older. She’s wearing a purple sweater and black stretch pants with a filmy lavender scarf draped around her shoulders.
“Hi,” I say.
To my surprise, she wraps her arms around my shoulders, hugs me. She is smaller than I remember—for some reason I think of her as being bigger.
“How are you?” I ask.
She brushes at her sweater and her curly red hair falls forward a little. “This is what they’re wearing in Seattle.”
She has the same breathy Marilyn Monroe whisper. She looks up and studies me for a long moment. “How’s Stanley?”
“He seems a little depressed, but I guess that’s to be expected. We have a meeting with the doctor tomorrow, so we’ll get some answers then.”
She nods, stares at me again.
I’m still stunned that my father is ill. When the nurse brought in all his pills this afternoon, I was amazed by the number. My father was always the one who insisted my sister and I eat whole-wheat bread when it wasn’t popular, drink skim milk when no one else in the neighborhood drank the translucent liquid.
“I can’t imagine my life without Stanley.” Jan’s voice sounds more childlike.
“A lot of people survive cancer. They have so many new treatments.” I have the urge to tell her about my intuition—the dread I felt a few days ago but managed to push back. I’m determined to stay upbeat.
She looks at me, eyes wide. “That’s all I’ll let myself think about, too.”
“Good.” I pat her arm and we walk to the baggage carousel.
When we reach my car, I place Jan’s huge suitcase in the trunk.
“It’s so cold.” She hugs herself. “I didn’t think it would be this cold here.”
“Did you bring a coat?”
She shakes her head.
“How long can you stay?”
“I’ll stay as long as Stanley needs me.”
“I brought an extra coat. You can borrow it, if you want. Or we can go buy you one tomorrow.”
“Thanks. That’s nice of you.”
We climb in the car. I turn on the heater and soon we are out of the parking lot and on the highway to the hospital. I look over and she smiles at me then runs her fingers through her hair.
“Stanley and I were going to take a driving trip to Colorado after he got better from his back surgery.” She sighs. “You know how he loves to travel.”
“I bet you still will be able to. This afternoon, at the hospital, he told me about that trip.”
“I just can’t believe Stanley has cancer.” She shakes her head and her feathery voice fills the car.
“It’s nice you came to help my father.”
She touches my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Stanley.”
My muscles relax a little. “I know, so am I. It just seems weird that Dad’s sick. He’s never sick.”
“It’s going to be okay.” Her eyes narrow a little and she pats my right arm again then stares straight ahead.
She still has a pretty profile. When I first met her, she told me she loved being an Earl Carroll showgirl in Hollywood. I smile at the memory. When I was young, I was fascinated that Jan was a dancer. After my parents’ divorce, my mother and I fought a lot, sometimes bitterly. I was probably looking for a friend, and I wanted so much for Jan to like me.
Maybe now we can get to know each other a little better.
“How are Bob and Verna?” she asks halfway to the hospital.
“Fine. They brought Dad to El Paso the other day.” Three years ago, when Dad retired, he planned to move to Seattle. He and Jan were going to try to live together again, but they had a major blowup, over what I don’t know. Then, suddenly, Dad moved to Las Cruces where his friends the Skillys live.
I park in the hospital parking lot and we go inside. David is sitting in the same chair where I left him, reading a Time magazine, and Dad is staring out the window.
“Hey, look who’s here.” I smile, make an effort to sound and look happy.
Dad turns, sees Jan and his expression softens.
“Hey, honey, how are you?” Dad’s voice is not as tense as it was before I left for the airport.
Jan starts to cross the space between them, but in the middle of the room she stops, begins to sob and covers her face with her hands.
“Oh, Stanley! I can’t believe this is happening.” Jan manages to go to my father and hug him.
I look at David. This is just the kind of behavior that makes him uncomfortable. He rolls his eyes.
A moment later a nurse walks in with a tray. “Mr. Howard, here’s your dinner.”
Jan, now sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, straightens, looks at her. Her face is streaked with tears and smeared black mascara rims her eyes.
“Hello,” she says. Her normal voice is deep and reminds me of a cartoon cat. We reshuffle, Jan in a chair by the bed, holding my father’s hand, David and I sitting across from them. After the nurse leaves, we dive into conversation about Jan’s flight as if it’s a heated swimming pool.
My father doesn’t eat, only takes two sips of water. Jan begins eating large forkfuls of chicken and mashed potatoes. Suddenly my husband shakes his head and I know he’s going to say something I won’t like.
“Don’t you think Stan should be eating that?” he asks Jan.
She stares at him, still chewing, spoon midair. “Well, I—I’m hungry.”
“There’s a cafeteria downstairs.”
I laugh nervously, give everyone my let’s play nice smile. My father’s ex-wife is here to take care of him. And I want to think about other things besides illness and making an ex-stepmother happy.

David and I are standing by Dad’s hospital bed, listening to Dr. Garces talk about my father’s condition. The doctor is younger than I imagined he would be. Jan isn’t here. When she heard we were meeting with Dad’s doctor, she decided to go to the gift shop to buy her grandson a present.
“Your father’s cancer has metastasized from his prostate and settled in his spine,” Dr. Garces says in a quiet voice. “I’m going to refer him to an oncologist in Las Cruces.”
David and I nod and Dad stares straight ahead, doesn’t move. I have questions that have been roaming around my mind for days—like how long it will be before my father gets better—but I can’t make the questions come out of my mouth. I guess I’m afraid if I ask a question and there’s a negative answer, the desperate look on my father’s face will deepen.
“What’s really important is we keep a positive attitude,” Dr. Garces says.
“I think so, too. I read somewhere that a positive outlook can really help any illness,” I say, then smile.
“No one can predict how the cancer will progress. If a patient and his family are positive, it has a better effect on everyone.”
I focus on my father. He looks as if someone has just turned a garden hose on him. I’m on the verge of crying, but I shake the feeling away. My tears won’t help him and that’s all I want to do.
“I think that’s right,” I say instead.
“If you have any questions, call me, anytime.” Dr. Garces shakes my father’s hand, then ours and walks out of the room.
David and I sit in our chairs. I expected the doctor to tell us my father’s cancer is very curable and he should have no problems recovering, that in a few months his life will be back to almost normal. But all he really told us was that Dad would be seeing another doctor and to keep a positive attitude.
Jan walks into the room, hugging a large, fuzzy, brown teddy bear. She stops in the middle of the room, glances from face to face, and her expression crumbles. She puts the teddy bear on the bed at my father’s feet and sits in the chair closest to him.
“Stanley, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
David gets up, walks into the hallway, and I follow him to give my father and Jan some time alone. My husband leans against the wall, folds his arms.
“We probably should go home tomorrow.” His tone is flat, dry.
“What?”
He stares at the floor and then looks at me. “I’ve got work waiting for me at the office. Besides, there’s not a lot we can do here.”
My heart begins to pound and my mouth feels dry. I know he has things to do at work, and this isn’t his responsibility, but it’s so nice to have my husband here while I try to help my father.
“I’d like you to stay. I know it’s not a lot of fun, but I want to be here for a few more days to make sure Dad’s okay.”
David shakes his head. “You should come home, too. Your father will be okay with Jan here.” He nods back toward the hospital room. “The doctor said he’s going to release him tomorrow.”
“Maybe I can make Dad look at his condition more positively. He seems a little depressed. I mean, I would be, too, but maybe I could help him see that his attitude is going to affect his recovery time.” I stop, look down the hall and then back to David, hoping he’s smiling, but he isn’t.
“I wish Dad would have asked the doctor some questions.” I gesture to the room.
“Maybe he doesn’t want to know the answers.” David stands straighter, uncrosses his arms. “It’s got to be tough for him.”
At least this is something we both agree on.

David and I are at our neighbor Elizabeth’s house. She and her husband Brad invited us over for dinner. We came home from Las Cruces three days ago, the day my father was released from the hospital. I never managed to cheer up my father, and I’ve been worried about him since we left.
Yesterday Elizabeth called and I gladly accepted her invitation to dinner. I want to be with friends, laugh and not worry for a few hours. Elizabeth invited another couple, Jim and Deanne Smith. The six of us have spent many evenings together, like this one, enjoying drinks, eating dinner, talking about the neighborhood. Sometimes Deanne and I talk about our children. Elizabeth and Brad don’t have children, yet she seems happy to hear about my Jenny and Deanne’s two.
Right now, our husbands are standing at Brad’s bar, a throwback from his bachelor days. They are laughing about something. David is behind the bar, and I’m happy he is having a good time.
Deanne, Elizabeth and I are sitting on stools at the kitchen counter. Stuffed manicotti bakes in the oven and everyone is drinking Sapphire gin and tonics. If someone were to look through the kitchen window right now, they would see a perfect evening.
Elizabeth touches my hand and I turn toward her.
“I’m glad you and David came over.” She takes a sip of her drink and I watch the lime slice bob between the ice cubes.
“Yeah, it’s good we can all get together,” Deanne says.
I don’t feel as close to Deanne. At times, she’s distant, almost cold, the opposite of Elizabeth. I felt an instant connection with Elizabeth when we met eight years ago at one of David’s work-related dinners. Elizabeth is a hospice nurse and Brad has worked with David for years.
“I’m glad we’re here, too. After the last few days, I need some laughs.” I glance over at David again. He’s listening intently to Jim. He looks nice in his long-sleeved white shirt and khakis. I catch his eye, lift my glass and he does the same.
“How’s your father?” Deanne asks. She studies her left hand and picks at the cuticle of her ring finger.
Elizabeth takes my hand and squeezes it for a moment. “Yeah, how’s he doing?”
“Dad’s doing great,” I say, although this isn’t true.
Deanne looks up. “What did the doctors say?”
“That Dad needs to keep a positive attitude. The cancer came from his prostate. You know, he’s never been sick a day in his life. But he’ll be okay. He’s so strong.” I force myself to smile. I feel like I’m about to cry, but I don’t want to do that here.
How can I explain that the doctor never really gave us any real information except that we need to stay positive? And since David and I came home, my father won’t come to the phone when I call?
“That’s understandable,” Elizabeth says in her calm voice. “You know, if you wanted, you could bring him here, and I could help you take care of him.”
I study her. She’s so kind, thoughtful, but I can’t imagine my father coming here or me taking care of him. We don’t have a relationship like that. He’s so independent and we’ve never really spent a lot of time together. Besides, in a few months he’ll be better.
“I don’t think he’d come here. Plus he has to take six radiation treatments.”
“When he gets worse, it’ll be difficult to bring him here,” Elizabeth says.
When he gets worse! For a moment, the words make my chest hurt and my throat burn. I swallow, breathe in. I’ve heard a lot of stories about people beating cancer, and if anyone can do it, my dad will.
“I think he’s going to get better,” I say.
“Prostate cancer can be unpredictable when it’s in the bone. I’ve dealt with a lot of patients like your father,” Elizabeth says.
“And I’ve heard of lots of people surviving. My father’s a strong man.”
“Yes, some do.”
“Dad’s that kind of person. In a year they’ll probably write about him in the Journal of the American Medical Association.” My father used to run for miles, train for marathons and still work long hours.
The guys laugh, the three of us look over at them, and I’m grateful for the diversion.
“Listen to them,” Deanne says. “They’re sure having a good time. What do you suppose they’re talking about?”
“Let’s see, either sports or work, or both. Certainly not us,” Elizabeth says.
There won’t be any need for my father to come here. In a few months, he’ll be taking a trip with Jan, laughing, feeling relieved that he beat cancer.
“I’m sure my father’s going to get better.” The words fall from my lips before I can stop them.
The two women turn to me and Elizabeth’s eyes narrow a little.
“He’s always been so strong, a runner…anything he put his mind to he did.” I gesture toward where I think Las Cruces might be from Elizabeth’s kitchen.
Deanne nods. “I’m sure he will.”
“Everyone is different,” Elizabeth says.
“My goal is to cheer him up. I call him every day.” I leave out the fact that Jan has told me he won’t talk to anyone.
Over at the bar, David is looking at me. Did he hear what I just said? He lifts his gin and tonic. I raise my glass again then take a long sip. An ice cube touches my tongue, feels so cold.
I place the chilly glass back on the napkin, right in the middle and press the lifted corner with my fingertip.
“I don’t understand men. They just don’t want to be sick or inconvenienced,” Deanne says. “When I told Jim about your father, he asked me if we could talk about something else. They certainly don’t want to think about illness. When I was in labor with Ellie, he couldn’t stand it.”
I imagine my father lying in his bed. I push the image out of my mind. Elizabeth’s kitchen clock says six-thirty. I wonder what Jan and Dad are doing right now? Maybe they’re watching TV, sitting on the couch, laughing.
“…and then, when I came home from the hospital, Jim didn’t even want to hear about my sore nipples.”
Elizabeth laughs. I laugh, too, pretend I was listening.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to hear about them, either.” Elizabeth gets off the bar stool, goes to the oven and opens the door.
I sniff. The gin has kicked in and I feel more relaxed, the alcohol buffing some of my edginess. The manicotti smells delicious, rich, comforting, and for the first time in days I’m actually hungry.

I am standing in the breakfast nook of our brick home, looking out at the front yard. The morning is flooded with pink sunrise and the bare tree branches make an interesting pattern against the opal-like sky. The purple pansies David planted weeks ago ring the ground around the tree trunk. The bright flowers are doing fine, even though it’s been cold. Beneath the pansies, deep in the earth, are the rough daffodil bulbs I planted months ago.
This morning, right before David left, he announced he’d be home late. I stood in the garage, next to the door to the house and smiled, told him not to worry, I have plenty to do. Then I explained that I was going to clean house, straighten some drawers, rearrange the hall closet and then maybe go to the library and help out. He waved like he always does and climbed into his Avalon.
I sit at the breakfast table, take a sip of my coffee. I love our home in the mornings. Watching the sunrise from our breakfast nook always gives me an awesome feeling. At times, when I’m really busy, I forget about nature’s beauty until I sit here and watch the world turn pink and gold.
My favorite coffee mug is warming my hands. Jenny gave it to me for Easter eleven years ago, when she was nine. She was such a cute and serious little girl. That year, she made David drive her to the drugstore, and she came back with this oversize white mug filled with blue jellybeans. On the outside of the mug is a picture of a cartoon rabbit catching jellybeans in an upside-down umbrella. The rabbit is drawn in thin circles and there’s a tiny raised blue jellybean for his nose. That beautiful afternoon, she and I sat at this table in our old house and ate all the candy.
After, we laughed, and I could see that her mouth had turned blue. I told her about it, and we both got up and looked in the mirror. Mine was blue, too. Now she’s a serious college student at the University of Texas, majoring in pharmacy. I miss the bubbling of a child in the house, going to PTA meetings, listening to gossip about her friends.
I turn a little and the neat stack of papers I brought home from the hospital—information about cancer and treatments—catches my eye. I should read all of it, learn about my father’s disease, but there is something deep inside me that doesn’t want to know any more than I already do.
More sunshine breaks through—yellow-white—eating up the opal-like sky. I get up, take my mug into the kitchen, stand at the sink and pour out my coffee. I need to keep busy, vacuum, dust, scrub bathrooms. The last year I taught junior high I began feeling restless. I told David and he suggested I quit because financially we were doing fine. But I didn’t want to break my teaching contract, so I trudged through each day, telling myself the school year would end soon.
I quit June first, the same day the kids climbed on the buses for the last time. The moment I walked out of the principal’s office, I felt better. I’m not sure I want to go back to teaching, but I don’t know what else I could do. And for the past seven months I’ve enjoyed staying home, cleaning out closets, keeping the house in perfect order.
David says it’s fine, that I’ve worked for years and I should take a break or retire early, but in a lot of ways I miss working—the friendships, the creativity of teaching.
The phone rings and the sound startles me a little. It’s probably David, letting me know what time he’ll be home for dinner. I pick it up and hear Jan’s whisper.
“I can’t understand you,” I say. “What’s the matter?” I’m in the breakfast nook again, looking out the window, my heart pounding.
She says more breathy words I can’t decipher.
“Is Dad okay? Jan, you have to speak up.”
“The garage door is broken and the water heater went out last night,” she says in her normal voice—the cartoon cat one.
I take a breath, relax a little. Dad’s household problems can be fixed. “Did you call a repairman?”
“Stanley is so depressed. He won’t eat, won’t get out of bed. I don’t know what to do.”
“Why won’t he eat?” I’ve never known my father not to eat, not take care of himself.
“I don’t know. And he said he’s not going to do any more radiation treatments.”
My heart races more. He’s had half the treatments, Jan driving him to the radiation clinic a few miles from his condo.
“Let me talk to him.” But I know he won’t come to the phone. I’ve called twice a day since we came home and have only spoken with Jan.
“He’s so depressed, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“What can I do?” I begin to feel a little sick to my stomach.
“Come here. He seemed okay when you were here.”
I was hoping my father and Jan would get into a routine, Dad going to his radiation treatments, Jan taking care of him. At night when the house is quiet, I imagine Dad getting better, and later, talking about how awful this time was. Yet, deep down, I knew when I left Las Cruces, it wasn’t going to play out that way.
“He wants me there?”
“Yes, he wasn’t so depressed when you were here.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to David and call you back,” I say then hang up. Although my father is ill, I’m happy he wants my company, that I can help him in some way.
I look out to the yard and wish things were the way they were the day I planted the daffodils. My life was so calm, so perfect that early October afternoon.

CHAPTER THREE
D avid and I are standing in the garage by his workbench. After I hung up with Jan, I called him and explained that I need to go back to New Mexico. He didn’t say much except we’d talk when he got home.
I cleaned house all morning to keep busy then packed and repacked my suitcase. I kept changing my mind on what I should take, folding different jeans, T-shirts and sweaters then hanging them back up. After I finally got packed, I spent three hours in the kitchen, making dinner—Paprika Chicken, David’s favorite and chicken stew. When I heard the garage door open, I rushed through the house to meet him.
The garage door is still open and a crisp winter wind blows brown leaves under our cars.
“Why do you have to go back there so soon?” he asks.
“I told you, Dad’s condo has some problems, and Jan said he’s depressed. Maybe I can cheer him up.” I stop, realize I’m breathless. “She said he feels better when I am there.”
David rubs his left eye with the back of his hand. He looks tired, and I feel awful for not even letting him come into the house before I started telling him about this.
“I’d be depressed, too, if I had an ex-wife taking care of me. Hasn’t that woman ever heard of a repairman? If she can’t handle the house, how is she going to help your father?”
“I had a feeling Jan taking care of Dad wasn’t going to be that easy. She says he won’t eat, doesn’t want any more radiation treatments. Maybe they need some moral support.” I shrug. “What else can I do?”
“She couldn’t leave you alone for a few more days? We just got back. I don’t think it’s a good idea to run there every time she calls. What did Stan say?”
“He won’t come to the phone.” I hug myself. “You’d do the same for your mother.” This isn’t true. David would send money, call—but he wouldn’t worry like I have. Most men are different that way, and maybe they’re better off.
“No, my sister would do it. And what about your sister?”
I laugh, shake my head at his question. David knows how my sister Lena is. She won’t fly, won’t take car trips. She’s a barrel of anxieties, lives on disability and borrows money from Dad. She still tries to get money from me, and I used to lend it to her until I realized she was never going to pay us back.
“You know how my sister is.”
“Yeah.”
Whenever I bad-mouth my sister to my father, he always explains what a hard beginning Lena had, before my parents adopted her. My mother was told she might not be able to get pregnant and she wanted a child desperately. They adopted Lena when she was six months old. She only weighed nine pounds. Her fourteen-year-old mother had left her with relatives who’d neglected her.
Every time Dad tells me she had a rough beginning, I know he’s right, until the next time Lena tries to hit me up for five hundred dollars. And even though she’s four years older than I am, most of my life I have felt like the older sister.
“So how long do you think you’ll stay?” David moves a screwdriver with a yellow handle from one side of his workbench to the other.
“Not long. I’ll just get the condo straightened out, cheer Dad up, come back as soon as I can. I figure three days will be enough to get the repairs done.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“I got an airline ticket for tomorrow. I was looking online and it was such a good deal, I was afraid I’d lose it. You could come with me if you want to. Dad was better when you were there.”
“I’ve got too many projects. Besides, with Jan there, your father’s condo is too crowded. I’ll hold the fort down here.”
He walks to the remote button, hits it hard and the garage door rumbles shut.

We are in bed. I have the TV on, and David is lying on his back waiting for me to turn off the TV so he can go to sleep. The gray-and-white light from “Leave It to Beaver” illuminates our bedroom. June is talking to Ward in their spotless kitchen, but I have the set on mute so I have no idea what problem they’re solving.
“Isn’t it wonderful I got a good deal on an airline ticket,” I say, although this isn’t true.
“What airline again?” He yawns and so do I.
“American.”
“How much?”
I close my eyes, continue to shade the truth. “One ninety-eight.” The ticket actually cost almost three hundred dollars. I put it on a credit card I have that David doesn’t know about—one I got when I was teaching. I don’t like doing this, but sometimes I don’t tell the truth about money just to avoid a fight. David has always worried about our finances. I’m sure it’s because his father died when he was eight and their family struggled financially after that. He’s explained how they never had enough and he wouldn’t have been able to go to college if he hadn’t gotten an academic scholarship. I guess our childhoods follow us around whether we want them to or not.
“That price isn’t bad,” he says.
I relax a little, wet my lips. “While I’m gone you’ll have plenty to eat. There’s the leftover Paprika Chicken, and the stew I made this afternoon.” I felt good as I neatly stacked food in the fridge—knew David would have home-cooked meals until I come home.
But now guilt slides up my spine, hitting each vertebra. I’m spending too much money and then lying about it, leaving my husband to fend for himself, and I’m sure the food won’t last for long.
“Great.” He turns to me, reaches out and musses my hair. “We’d better go to sleep. We both have long days in front of us.”
I turn off the TV, lean over, kiss his cheek. His skin is warm.
When David begins to snore softly, I quietly get out of bed and walk through the house. Icy winter moonlight illuminates each room and the tile floor feels cold against my feet. In the breakfast nook, I look out to the yard and the oak tree. The full moon is dousing the earth with cold glassy light. The tree branches, the grass and pansies are the same color as June and Ward.

I’m sitting on the edge of my father’s king-size bed, holding a large glass of water. He has been in here most of the day. A little while ago in the kitchen I put a red plastic straw in the glass, hoping he would drink more water.
Dad’s eyes are closed, but I know he’s not asleep. Gina, his home health care nurse, who left thirty minutes ago, told me he’s dehydrated and needs to drink water. So for the last thirty minutes I’ve been urging him to take sips of water. He did drink some, but a moment ago he said he’d had enough.
This morning I drove him to the radiation clinic. After I got to Las Cruces, I convinced him to continue with the treatments. All I did was sit next to him on the couch, tell him I thought it would be best that he go back to the radiation center. He nodded his head, said he would. Then I explained I thought everything was going to be okay. A moment later he got up and went back to bed.
When Dad and I got to the clinic this morning, we sat quietly in the waiting room. I leafed through old Southern Living magazines, and my father stared at the carpet. I looked over at him, realized he’s lost a lot of weight.
I’ve been in Las Cruces for four days. David told me this morning that he ran out of the food last night, and tonight he’ll stop by JR’s for dinner.
“Dad,” I say, resettle myself on the edge of the bed because my back is beginning to ache from no support.
He looks at me.
“Have a little more water.”
“No.” He shuts his eyes again.
I stare at the three Frank Lloyd Wright awards on the wall. My father has won many awards for building designs, but these are the most prestigious, proof that he has an ironclad will for doing everything flawlessly.
“Dad, the nurse says you need to drink more water. You’re dehydrated. Just take a few sips, then I’ll leave you alone.” It feels so strange telling my father what to do.
“’Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’” His voice is raspy, as if he’s thirsty, yet he enunciates each word perfectly.
I laugh. He used to quote this poem when I was a kid and we were traveling. Lena and I, from the back seat of the car, would beg him to stop at a Quick-Stop so we could get Cokes. When he refused, Lena would tell him we were dying of thirst. He’d look at us through rearview mirror, recite that line.
He opens his eyes. “Melinda, I don’t want any more water. I’ve had enough.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods once.
“If you’re hungry I’ll fix you something to eat.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“I’m too tired.”
He closes his eyes again and I study his face. His skin is smooth and he doesn’t look seventy-two. After he retired, I called him every two weeks, worried that since he’d been such a workaholic, he might not adapt to retirement. But he got along just fine and was busy as ever with traveling, his volunteer work, his friends, Jan. On the phone we’d discuss politics, his trips or teaching, nothing personal, but it was nice to talk to him.
“Okay,” I say.
He looks at me. “Okay?”
“I can’t make you drink more water. I do remember that poem, though. Lena would claim she was so thirsty she was dying, and you wouldn’t stop the car because we were on a tight schedule.”
“Yeah, I was always in a hurry.”
“Oh, we survived. Do you remember the rest of the poem?”
“I do.”
“Remember, sometimes Mom interrupted, finished a line for you.”
He sits up a little, pushes back against the pillow but doesn’t say anything.
“Mom gave me the book of poetry you and she used to read from, when you were both in college.”
He turns his head a little. “Oh, really?”
“It was years ago, when I was going to school. She said I might be able to use it.” I place the water glass on the nightstand and watch the straw circle to the other side. “There are margin notes by some of the poems.”
“She and I used to go to the park, read poetry out loud.”
“‘Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.’ I always liked that even though you wouldn’t stop for Cokes.”
He shakes his head. “Back then there never seemed to be enough time. Now there’s too much.”
Another memory surfaces—Lena and I in the back seat, my parents in the front, my mother sitting close to him, and he has his arm around her.
“I forget. Who’s the poem by?”
Dad closes his eyes, licks his lips. They look dry and chapped. I need to get him some Chap Stick at the store tomorrow.
“Coleridge. It’s the ‘Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’”
“I used to love when you’d recite it.”
“‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!’” He smiles at me and I smile back.
“Did Mom memorize some of it, too?”
“I don’t know. I had to memorize it to win a contest in school. First prize was ten dollars. Back then ten dollars was like a million. We didn’t have much money. It took me three months.”
“You memorized the entire poem?”
He nods and I imagine my father as boy, trying to put each line to memory. I’m not surprised though. He’s always been determined.
“Yeah, I was the only one in the school who could recite it perfectly.”
“What did you buy with the money?”
“I gave it to my mother for food.” He closes his eyes again. “I’m so tired.”
I pat his shoulder, get up and walk through the living room into the kitchen. Three mugs half full of cold tea sit next to the sink. Dried-out tea bags, like winter leaves on our front porch in Texas, dot the counter, stain the white Formica. Jan loves tea and makes cup after cup, leaving a trail of tea bags behind her like Hansel and Gretel.
I look through the pass-through above the sink. She is sitting on the couch, the phone pressed between her right shoulder and ear. I hear her laugh, say, Oh, Donny, and I know she’s talking to her only child. Before Dad, Jan was married to a colonel in the air force and they had Donny. He’s thirty-three, a problem man-child who’s been in jail three times for drunk driving.
“Things are the same. Oh, Stanley’s daughter, Melinda, is here.”
Jan looks back to me, holds up her mug and smiles deeply. I have learned this means she would like another cup of tea. I turn to the stove, grab the kettle, fill it with water, place it on the burner, snap the control to high and hear the familiar hiss—fire licking metal.
“We’re bonding, Donny. She’s nice. You’d really like her.”
Jan’s words remind me I have not seen my ex-stepbrother in a long time. I try to think of the last time but only know it was when he was a child.
“It’s a lot of work for me, but I have to do it for Stanley. Work, work, work, there’s nothing else,” she says in her breathy persona as she flips her hand back and forth.
Jan has her back to me now, and I wonder if she knows I can hear her.
Work, work, work, my foot! Since I’ve been here, she sleeps till ten, sits on the couch and goes to lunch with Verna and Bob Skilly. I have encouraged her to do these things because I know it must be difficult for her to see my father depressed and in bed most of the time. And I appreciate that she has come to help him.
But in the last four days, I’ve cleaned the condo, arranged for the garage and water heater repairs, driven my father to his appointments, tried to get him to eat and drink and listened to her complain about how inept he was as a husband.
I have swallowed back the hurt that rises in my throat when she talks about him. I haven’t said anything to her about this because I don’t want to cause a problem.
The teakettle whistles, I fill her mug, dunk the tea bag up and down until the water is dark. I add two teaspoons of sugar, get the milk from the fridge. The carton’s opening is smeared with her red lipstick. I pour milk in the tea, put the carton back in the refrigerator.
Yesterday morning I was going to have cereal, but when I found the carton in such shape, I put it back, pictured Jan, late at night, lit in the glaring refrigerator light, head tipped back, guzzling milk. Instead I poured orange juice over my Raisin Bran, hoping she didn’t drink that from that carton, too.
I walk out to the living room, hand her the tea. She smiles and so do I. I know she is trying to be nice. I make it across the living room, to the edge of the dining room where I’ve folded my blanket and stacked pillows—the place where I sleep because Jan is in the guest room. She also told me when I first got here that she needs the couch late at night when she can’t sleep.
“Okay, baby, I’ll call you tomorrow.” She hangs up, sighs. “Melinda.”
I turn back reluctantly, want to like her, but there are so many things about her that drive me crazy.
“I’ve probably talked to him more this week than I have in months.”
I want to say, And all on my father’s dime, but I don’t. I feel bad for even thinking it. She has come here to take care of my father, and I should be thankful for that. I only wish she would actually do a little work while she’s here.
I nod, press my mean thoughts and words back where I hope they stay. “It’s nice you can talk to him.”
“He remembers you. He’s had his problems, but he’s straightened out.”
I think, It’s about time, close my eyes against the words, then I smile at her again.
“That’s good, Jan.” I walk into the kitchen, begin cleaning up. Through the pass-through, I see her get off the couch, cross the living room and head toward the kitchen. She sits at the pine table that holds the computer my father bought three months ago but has not used.
I sweep tea bags and crushed napkins into the trash, run water for the dishes. I really don’t feel like cleaning, but it will keep me from having to shift my full attention to her.
“Before Stanley and I were married, he was so nice to Donny.” Her voice is thin, baby-like.
I know she’s gearing up for one of her negative stories about my father. I wash a mug and watch a tea bag float in between the soap bubbles.
“The first year we were dating, Stanley fixed Donny’s bicycle, took him places, but then after we got married…it was like Donny didn’t exist. When Stanley moved down here and volunteered at the grammar school, well, I thought that is the perfect place for Stanley. He can help then walk away with no commitment.”
The anger I’ve tamped down turns over, groans, but I press it back. Maybe if I don’t say anything she’ll stop or talk about how she misses Seattle. That I can relate to. Right now I’d like to be sitting in my sunrise-filled breakfast nook, drinking from the coffee mug Jenny gave me.
“I never understood why he volunteered at the grammar school. He never liked kids.”
“I suggested he volunteer,” I say, remembering when he called me from Las Cruces right after he moved here and told me how lonely he was. I told him to call a senior volunteer program. He did and for a year he was a first-grade teacher’s aide at a school filled with Hispanic children. I was happy for him because he was getting a kick out of the kids and making friends with other volunteers.
“Like I said, I thought it was strange, but then I realized it was perfect for him because he didn’t have to make a commitment or really get involved. That’s how he likes it—his life without any ties.”
“Don’t we all. But he took some great pictures of the kids.” I submerge my hands in the hot water, remember the black-and-white photos he showed me of the happy young faces staring up into his camera lens. He snapped the photos right before Easter. They were perfect—artistic, beautiful.
“Some of those kids never had their pictures taken till Dad took them.” I manage to keep the edge out of my voice.
“Well, you know Stanley. He’s not much of a kid person. He’s never come to see Donny’s son.”
“Weren’t you two divorced by then?” This slips out as I stare at the dishwater. Oh, God, why can’t I just keep my mouth shut? She’s so sensitive about their divorce and my father not moving to Seattle.
“Well…” There’s a tiny bit of shock in her voice, and this makes me feel better for a moment before I realize my remark was small and petty.
“But we were always good friends, even after our divorce. Oh, I don’t know what I’ll do without him if this doesn’t come out okay.”
I wash the last mug, turn around, know I have to get out of the kitchen before I say something else I’ll be sorry for. Plus I need space, some air. “Are you finished?”
“Not quite. I’m nursing it a little.” She takes a small sip of her tea, looks at me over the rim. “You know your father and I had a great sex life.”
Oh, my God.
I face the sink, mop the clean counter with the sponge. This I do not need to hear.
“He’s a great lover. I never liked it with any other man, but with Stanley, well, that’s a different story—”
“Dishes are finally done! Tea bags are where they should be, in the trash,” I say over her whisper. “I’m going to the store.”

CHAPTER FOUR
I’ m standing in the doorway of Dad’s bedroom trying to convince him he should eat dinner. His condo smells of baked chicken, like our home in Grapevine does on winter evenings when it’s cold outside and the windows gleam yellow against the darkness.
Homesickness fills my chest and eyes, but I push it back, focus on my father.
“Dad, you should eat,” I say again, try to sound happy. I’m stuck between trying not to be too pushy and wanting the best for him.
His condo is quiet tonight. An hour ago, Jan drove over to the Skillys’ for dinner. She asked Dad to go with her, but he shook his head, said he was too tired. This morning, I called his doctor’s office and explained my father is always tired. The nurse told me the exhaustion could be the effects from the radiation. Dad now has an appointment for next week.
Before Jan left, she asked if I minded if she went to the Skillys for dinner. Did I mind? I laughed and told her I was happy she could get out, and I am. But I’m also enjoying the quiet. Jan follows me around the condo and talks nonstop. I know talking helps her relax, feel calmer, but it drives me crazy, so crazy I now look forward to taking my father for his radiation treatment just to get away from her.
Dad turns over.
“Do you want to eat some dinner?” I ask. “I made chicken, mashed potatoes, spinach.”
He sits up a little, gives me a half smile. “That was nice of you, honey, but I’m not hungry.”
I walk into the room, stand by his bed.
“Dad, do you think you’re depressed?”
“I don’t know what I am.”
“Your home health nurse said it’s important you eat. I don’t want to nag, but could you eat just a little?”
“Did Jan leave?”
“About an hour ago.” I cross my arms. “Is she being okay? I mean, is she being nice to you?”
“Yeah, she’s fine.” He sits up more, swings his legs to the floor. His gray hair is matted in places, sticking out in others. He doesn’t look like himself.
“Okay, I’ll eat, just something small. If you will,” he says.
My heart pounds with happiness. “I’ll go fix our plates.”
In the kitchen, I take the chicken out of the oven. Dad has the minimum cooking utensils, so putting dinner together was interesting. I baked the chicken in a frying pan, and the mashed potatoes are a little lumpy because I had to mash them with a fork. Before, Dad ate at Luby’s Cafeteria almost every night. While I was cooking tonight, I realized how one can make do, substitute one thing for another.
My father walks into the living room and sits on the couch, smoothes his wrinkled pajamas legs.
“Dad,” I say through the kitchen pass-through.
He glances back to where I am.
“You want chicken, mashed potatoes and spinach?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs, turns back around and my spirits fall.
I stare at the back of his head, his hair so messy, and wonder what I should do. A memory surfaces, when I was eleven. My mother said the back of my father’s head looked like Cary Grant’s.
“Your father has a wonderfully shaped head,” she said from across the dining table. It was the year before they divorced. “Just like Cary Grant’s.”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
My mother looked at me in wonder, as if she couldn’t believe her eleven-year-old daughter didn’t know who Cary Grant was.
“Melinda, Cary Grant is the most handsome movie star in the world. And he has a perfectly shaped head.” Her beautiful white hands, nails painted ginger-pink, pressed against the warm wood.
“Stanley, did you hear me? You have the most beautifully shaped head.”
My father was in the living room putting on a Mantovani record, and it felt nice they weren’t arguing, seemed so happy.
“What?” he yelled.
“The back of your head is shaped just like Cary Grant’s.”
He walked back into the dining room laughing. “I know, Hanna. You always say that when you’ve had a glass of wine. My head does not look like Cary Grant’s.”
“Oh, you’re so hardheaded.”
They laughed at the same time. And Lena and I looked at each other, began laughing, too. My father kept smiling, went around the table, stood in front of my mother and took her hand, stroked her arm.
“You know, Hanna, I’m easy to get along with. You said so the other night.”
“I never said that.”
He drew an invisible circle on the back of her hand and she giggled like a girl.
“Oh, yes, you did.”
She smiled deeply, stood up and began singing “Some Enchanted Evening” along with the music playing in the living room.
I sat very still, held my breath.
“Dad, dance with her,” Lena yelled, stood and then immediately sat in her chair.
I couldn’t utter a word because I was too busy staring at how beautiful they looked together—my mother in her yellow Easter dress, my father in a crisp white shirt and dark green slacks.
“Okay, I’ll dance with your mother.” He pulled her to him and they glided around the dining table three times.
Dad coughs, brings me back to the condo kitchen.
“Dad, you need to eat something.” I stare at the back of his head, the memory of our family that happy Easter still washing through me.
“Okay, I will.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But not a lot.”
I pick up the empty plate that has been waiting patiently for my father and place a slice of chicken, two tablespoons of spinach and a small, irregular circle of mashed potatoes on the plate. I feel a little like I’m encouraging a bird. Steam curls up around my fingers from the small hill of food.
A moment later I’m standing in front of him with my offering. He takes it. The house has a church-like silence without Jan, and I breath in its blessings—my father eating, the quiet.
“Would you rather eat at the table?” I ask.
“I’m fine here. Get something for yourself, honey. There’s some wine in the cabinet.”
I want to say, Oh, I’ve found the wine, but I nod instead, hope if I eat he’ll eat more. I go back to the kitchen, plop mashed potatoes on my plate, spear some chicken. I think about the bottle of wine, but I’m afraid to have another glass because my emotions are as fragile as glass.
I go back to the living room and sit next to Dad on the couch.
“This looks really good if I say so myself.” I fork potatoes into my mouth. My father takes a bite of spinach and my heart fills with hope. Spinach is filled with vitamins, antioxidants. It has to be good for fighting cancer.
We are quiet as we eat. I wolf down my plate of food, nod as I’m eating, hope to show him how good it is.
My father eats slowly, chewing with determination.
“I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” I put my empty plate on the coffee table, look at him, smile.
“You’ve worked hard. You should be hungry.” He forks a dab of potatoes into his mouth, swallows and sighs.
“Oh, not that hard.” I lie. “I had fun making dinner. Working in your kitchen is a real challenge.”
“You know, I’ve never been sick a day in my life…till now.”
I rack my brain trying to think of something I can say to encourage him, make him less depressed, yet I feel like I’m talking to someone I barely know.
“Remember when Lena and I were kids, you were the healthiest parent on the block? Every father wanted to be like you. Didn’t you have weights in the garage you used to lift?”
Dad nods, his lips thin. “Yeah, after dinner. I’d go out there. That seems like a long time ago.”
“I was just thinking about an Easter you and Mom danced around the dining room. She always said the back of your head looked like Cary Grant’s.”
“Your mother was quite the exaggerator.” He chuckles and my body relaxes more. Funny how, in just a few weeks, the road to happiness can change direction, be resurfaced with consumed food, a father’s joke.
“Yeah, I was always so healthy. If I ever get out of this mess…I’ll…”
“You’ll what, Dad? Do you want to travel more?”
He shakes his head.
“What do you want to do?”
“You notice they aren’t giving me chemo. Most cancer patients get chemo, not just radiation. I’ve been wondering about that.”
“Maybe you should ask the doctor.”
“Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“The doctor said every case is different.” But the tiny bit of dread in the pit of my stomach rolls over, reminds me it’s there. “I’ll ask your doctor if you want me to.”
“No.” He places his plate on the coffee table, leans back and grips his thighs as if he’s trying to gather enough strength to get up. Instead of standing, he looks at me.
“They aren’t telling us everything. And I’m too damned afraid to ask any questions.”
“I’d be afraid, too. But maybe there’s nothing to tell. Lots of people have cancer, get better, return to their normal lives.”
“Right.”
Always so healthy.
My worry bubbles to the surface and suddenly tears are filling my throat, my nose. I sniff them back. I certainly don’t want to upset my father any more than he is.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I rub my eyes with my fingers. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You should go home, honey. Jan’s here. I’ll eat more, I promise. You need to be home.”
I stare at the carpet, feel light-headed, numb. “I’m fine. Really. I want to stay and help you get better.” When I look up, he shakes his head.
“I’d feel better if you went home. There’s no need for both you and Jan to be here.”
“No, I’ll stay, help Jan.”
He stares at me for a moment, worry filling his gaze. “I’m going to try to do better, you’ll see. You gave Jan a break. That’s all she needed. You can always come back in a few weeks.”
I do want to go home, yet I feel like shit for wanting to. “No, I’ll stay.”
“I think I’d do better if I knew you were home.”
What can I say to that? My father asking me to leave. Maybe he just doesn’t want me here.
“I’d feel better if I knew you were with Dave. He must miss you. The diagnosis shocked me. I’ll try to eat more. And I’d feel more relaxed if you were home.”
He forks mashed potatoes into his mouth, swallows. “See. We’ll be fine.”
I nod.
“You go home, honey. David must miss you.”

Jan has just come home from the Skillys’, and she and I are standing in the living room. Dad’s in bed. I think she’s had too much to drink, but it’s difficult to tell with her.
“I’m going home in the morning,” I say. I feel tense because deep down I know she’s not going to like this news.
She looks at me as if I’ve told her hell froze over while she was at the Skillys’.
“You’re what?”
“Dad ate dinner and we talked. He said he’d feel better if I went home. In fact, he said he wants me to go home. I’ll come back in a few weeks.”
“He ate?” Her eyes narrow and her lips flatten against each other. “He won’t eat for me.”
“He didn’t eat a lot.” I go back into the kitchen, stand at the stove, stir the spaghetti sauce that’s been simmering an hour. After I called the airline, I made the sauce so I could leave an extra meal in the refrigerator.
I place the stained wooden spoon on the folded paper towel next to the stove. I hear Jan walk in and I turn around. She sits at the oak table.
“What’s that smell?” She lifts her chin, sniffs the air, makes a face.
“I’m making spaghetti sauce for you.” Why do I always lie to make people happy? I’ve never liked this about myself but can’t seem to stop. The sauce isn’t for her. It’s for Dad because I want him to eat, get better, be healthy.
“This way you’ll have meals for a few days.”
“That’s nice, but what about the other days? With all the work around here, I don’t have time to cook.”
“You can pick up Luby’s takeout.”
“It’s hard for me to drive at night. And I don’t like Luby’s.”
“You drove tonight and did okay.” I turn back, pick up the spoon and stir the sauce. She clucks her tongue.
“That’s different. Why are you going home?”
I want to say, Because you are driving me crazy, but I swallow back the words, take a deep breath and turn to her.
“Dad wants me to go home. He said so while we were having dinner. I can come back in a few weeks.”

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