Falling Out Of Bed

“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.”