When parking the car, leave enough room on the passenger side so he can place one foot on the roadway. Too close and he teeters on the uneven edge of the curb. It’s difficult enough with his uncertain balance. When setting the table, give him a salad fork. His wrist is stiff, his shoulder tight, and angling both is a challenge. Larger tines of a dinner fork guarantee that at least half of the meal will land on his lap. Oh, and if possible, cut his meat in the kitchen before serving him. He’ll never ask you to do it but he’ll always appreciate the effort.
“I’ll go around,” I say after trying the door closest to the handicap space and learning it’s locked from the outside, the force of my tug rattling metal against metal. A guy at the soda machine looks up, sees me through the window, and goes back to filling his cup.
I break into a trot and skip down the sidewalk. My father adjusts his walker, places one foot on the curb. His other leg locks straight, the toe of his shoe tapping the arc of the cement until he wills his knee to bend. My mother stands behind him with one hand on his back, the other on the hood of the car.
“I could’ve gotten the door,” a woman says as I pass her table.
I glance at her half-eaten salad, wisps of frisee and blue cheese crumbles glistening with dressing. A small pile of discarded pecans sits off to the side. I smile. “Eh, it’s okay. Thanks though.”
For an hour, we sit together picking at our food. We discuss the details of Christmas in Sarasota. We talk about books we’ve read, movies we want to see. We list the ways Panera could improve upon the texture and taste of their chicken.
“Is your tea sweetened?” My dad asks with his eyes focused on the lip of the plastic cup in front of me.
“With a Splenda. But Mom said you didn’t want anything to drink.”
“I don’t. But I have some medicine to take.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, presents colorful capsules that look like confetti. “I only want a sip,” he continues. “You can have the rest.”
“It isn’t about the sip.” I shift in my seat, study the lines that slice across my palm. The nail of my index finger rides along the deepest ridge. “Dad, what if your condition is a virus?”
My mom turns her head, observes my face, and then shifts her gaze to my father and awaits his response.
“They know it isn’t a virus,” he calmly argues.
“They don’t know shit. There are what, six hundred people with PLS? Not to sound negative but no one’s funding research. So, as of today, some random doctor in Minnesota ruled out a virus. He also said it wasn’t hereditary but there are two brothers with it.”
I push the cup further away, collapse against my seat back. My shoulders roll forward, my chin drops lower. Because, though the words came from my mouth, it feels like I am hearing them for the first time. Everyone is still, the restaurant suddenly quiet. For one solid second, it feels as if someone hit the pause button.
I am looking into a void but can feel my mom rest her hand on my forearm. My lips part and I expel a deep breath, blowing out until my lungs are empty. My father places a pill on his tongue and reaches for the tea. I stand up, stack our dirty bowls and drop them at the designated counter. When I return, my mom helps him to his feet, leads him to the exit. And when my father isn’t looking, I take the half-filled cup of tea he left sitting on the table and toss it in the trash.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Look But Don't Touch
Reserved tables dot the perimeter of the dance floor, thin slats of polished wood. Everything is foreign: the song, the club, the city. Even the man I am with is unfamiliar. I observe the way he leans on the bar when he orders our drinks. I study his fingers (lean), his posture (straight). When he speaks, I listen for hints to his accent, a hybrid of inflection and tone. I rule out South Africa but keep Brasil on the list.
We sway to the music, the song an unending traffic jam of synthesized notes. Sometimes I look down, close my eyes. Other times I look up, offer a wry smile. As the tables fill, the crowd clutters the dance floor. The air thickens and warms.
“Let’s head out,” he says with a nod toward the door, flashing lights illuminating the path.
Standing in his kitchen, my hips resting against the cold granite counter, I lift a goblet to my lips and take a sip. After loading a disc, pressing play, he walks toward me. His movement is slow. Slow motion, I think, as he lowers his head closer. His breath warms my skin. His touch stutters my pulse. The music fades to the background.
He laces his fingers with mine and leads me to his bedroom. I neatly fold my clothes and place them atop my purse, my presence limited to the footprint of a messenger bag. He hangs his pants, returns them to the closet. The tall door swings smoothly on the hinge. He offers a toothbrush, a bottle of water, a t-shirt and boxers. The gentlemanly gestures remind me of a concerned concierge.
He lifts the folded edge of the pressed sheet, as if holding open a door. The bed seems to go on forever. No matter how far I stretch my leg, I can’t reach the edge. That’s when I realize I am making snow angels.
“Come here,” he says, with a playful laugh.
“Okay,” I purr, crawling closer.
I straddle him at the waist. Our chests press together. Our legs tangle. We fall into a rhythm. His hand runs along my leg, glides up my thigh. Then he tugs at the waist of my panties.
“I can’t,” I mumble into his mouth. “I can’t sleep with you.” As a writer, I am disappointed at the simplicity of my word choice. Efficient, but lifeless and limited.
I roll off him, fall onto my back. My gaze is ahead but I feel like I am looking behind me, glancing in a rear-view mirror. I rub my temples, tighten my jaw. I yearn for a distraction, like a ticking second hand, so I can quietly lull myself back to center.
“It’s okay,” he says as he runs his fingers through my hair, pulls me closer.
“I’m sorry. It’s complicated.” Actually it isn’t.
“Paige.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “You’re amazing.”
I don’t feel amazing. I feel uncertain and scared, hesitant and awkward. I turn away from him, curl onto my side. Light from a streetlamp passes through the windowpanes. I study the shapes and shadows that fall across the floor, over the bed. If I flex my ankle, a square became a trapezoid.
When I know he is asleep, I roll over. My head propped in my hand, I watch his chest rise and fall. The pace is soft and even. My eyes trace the heart shape of his parted lips. With one hand extended, I reach to brush the back of my fingers against his cheek, to rest my open palm on his arm. But before I touch him, I retreat.
My weight shifts as I tuck my hand tight under my side, pinch it between my hip and the mattress. He stirs, moving his arm, adjusting his leg. But he won’t wake, not until the alarm chirps. I can tell by the limpness of his limbs, the evenness of his breaths.
I know I won’t sleep. The bed is comfortable, the sheets soft, but my head swirls. Thoughts collide, fight for attention. Eventually I close my eyes and make my world dark. I count backwards from a hundred. Then I do it again.
We sway to the music, the song an unending traffic jam of synthesized notes. Sometimes I look down, close my eyes. Other times I look up, offer a wry smile. As the tables fill, the crowd clutters the dance floor. The air thickens and warms.
“Let’s head out,” he says with a nod toward the door, flashing lights illuminating the path.
Standing in his kitchen, my hips resting against the cold granite counter, I lift a goblet to my lips and take a sip. After loading a disc, pressing play, he walks toward me. His movement is slow. Slow motion, I think, as he lowers his head closer. His breath warms my skin. His touch stutters my pulse. The music fades to the background.
He laces his fingers with mine and leads me to his bedroom. I neatly fold my clothes and place them atop my purse, my presence limited to the footprint of a messenger bag. He hangs his pants, returns them to the closet. The tall door swings smoothly on the hinge. He offers a toothbrush, a bottle of water, a t-shirt and boxers. The gentlemanly gestures remind me of a concerned concierge.
He lifts the folded edge of the pressed sheet, as if holding open a door. The bed seems to go on forever. No matter how far I stretch my leg, I can’t reach the edge. That’s when I realize I am making snow angels.
“Come here,” he says, with a playful laugh.
“Okay,” I purr, crawling closer.
I straddle him at the waist. Our chests press together. Our legs tangle. We fall into a rhythm. His hand runs along my leg, glides up my thigh. Then he tugs at the waist of my panties.
“I can’t,” I mumble into his mouth. “I can’t sleep with you.” As a writer, I am disappointed at the simplicity of my word choice. Efficient, but lifeless and limited.
I roll off him, fall onto my back. My gaze is ahead but I feel like I am looking behind me, glancing in a rear-view mirror. I rub my temples, tighten my jaw. I yearn for a distraction, like a ticking second hand, so I can quietly lull myself back to center.
“It’s okay,” he says as he runs his fingers through my hair, pulls me closer.
“I’m sorry. It’s complicated.” Actually it isn’t.
“Paige.” He presses his lips to my forehead. “You’re amazing.”
I don’t feel amazing. I feel uncertain and scared, hesitant and awkward. I turn away from him, curl onto my side. Light from a streetlamp passes through the windowpanes. I study the shapes and shadows that fall across the floor, over the bed. If I flex my ankle, a square became a trapezoid.
When I know he is asleep, I roll over. My head propped in my hand, I watch his chest rise and fall. The pace is soft and even. My eyes trace the heart shape of his parted lips. With one hand extended, I reach to brush the back of my fingers against his cheek, to rest my open palm on his arm. But before I touch him, I retreat.
My weight shifts as I tuck my hand tight under my side, pinch it between my hip and the mattress. He stirs, moving his arm, adjusting his leg. But he won’t wake, not until the alarm chirps. I can tell by the limpness of his limbs, the evenness of his breaths.
I know I won’t sleep. The bed is comfortable, the sheets soft, but my head swirls. Thoughts collide, fight for attention. Eventually I close my eyes and make my world dark. I count backwards from a hundred. Then I do it again.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Take Two
It Sounded So Much Better In My Head
I’m horizontal on my sofa, head propped on a pillow and legs tucked under a throw. The Phillies are playing the Dodgers and the commentator’s analyzing the data flashing across the bottom of the screen. A glass of red wine sits on the coffee table. A tattoo of my lips, Laura Mercier Peony, stains the rim of the glass. Just beyond is a bowl of fresh made popcorn. My apartment smells like a movie theater.
“What do you want now?” I ask with feigned anger when I answer the phone.
“Love you too,” Leslie says.
I mute the television, roll onto my back, listen to her talk.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking, when I’m making more money, I want to take in a foster child,” I randomly blurt out.
Leslie laughs. I’m quiet. “Oh my God, you’re serious?” She’s clearing her throat, swallowing down her giggles.
“Yeah. Kids don’t make the choice to be abandoned. And once they get older, they’re all but discarded. It’s shitty.”
“Wow, that’s admirable. Why don’t you become a Big Sister in the meantime?”
“Oh hell no! That’s too much of a commitment.”
Degrees of Class, Or Lack Thereof
A bellman insists on golf-carting me to my room, but I politely decline the offer. My legs, stiff from the flight, can use the stroll. Except I regret my decision when I see I have to climb two flights of stairs, suitcase and ten-pound purse in tow. It’s arid Arizona but I’m sweating when I reach the landing. Once in the room, I tend to pressing issues like peeing, hanging my dress, setting up my iPod, opening the sliding glass doors to let fresh air fill my room.
“Hey!” I say when I answer my phone, flopping down diagonal across the bed.
“I’d like to order ten Aztec print ponchos,” Leslie requests.
“Already bought you twelve.” I sit up, cross my legs, reach for the sealed bag of trail mix I brought with.”
“Cool. I can flip them for a profit. All the rage with the Buckhead ladies. So it’s nice?”
“I mean, the topography’s rather unappealing. It’s so flat, I feel like I have a bird’s eye view of the entire state. And I’m 5'4". Plus everything is turd brown. This is probably the only region where I’d thrive as a landscape designer. It’s like dead plants are chic out here.”
“How’s the room?”
“Nice. Though I’m certain the interior decorator was color blind. I can’t decorate for shit but even I know a moss green rug has no business being paired with pink and orange armchairs. Aztec print, of course. And then there’s the issue of red throw pillows and a striped ---”
“Paige?” Leslie breaks the silence.
“My Trader Joe’s trail mix just exploded all over the place.” I’m crawling across the bed, plucking pistachios and pumpkin seeds off the crisp white, 1000-thread count duvet.
“Well done.”
“Listen, if you think I’m going to spend seven dollars for a handful of stale cashews, you’ve got another thing coming to you. Which reminds me,” I say before popping some stray craisins in my mouth. “I need to get out and find some bottled water that doesn’t cost ten dollars.”
“That’s my girl! So you already pocketed the complimentary toiletries?”
“God no. That’s so tacky.”
I’m horizontal on my sofa, head propped on a pillow and legs tucked under a throw. The Phillies are playing the Dodgers and the commentator’s analyzing the data flashing across the bottom of the screen. A glass of red wine sits on the coffee table. A tattoo of my lips, Laura Mercier Peony, stains the rim of the glass. Just beyond is a bowl of fresh made popcorn. My apartment smells like a movie theater.
“What do you want now?” I ask with feigned anger when I answer the phone.
“Love you too,” Leslie says.
I mute the television, roll onto my back, listen to her talk.
“Hey, I’ve been thinking, when I’m making more money, I want to take in a foster child,” I randomly blurt out.
Leslie laughs. I’m quiet. “Oh my God, you’re serious?” She’s clearing her throat, swallowing down her giggles.
“Yeah. Kids don’t make the choice to be abandoned. And once they get older, they’re all but discarded. It’s shitty.”
“Wow, that’s admirable. Why don’t you become a Big Sister in the meantime?”
“Oh hell no! That’s too much of a commitment.”
Degrees of Class, Or Lack Thereof
A bellman insists on golf-carting me to my room, but I politely decline the offer. My legs, stiff from the flight, can use the stroll. Except I regret my decision when I see I have to climb two flights of stairs, suitcase and ten-pound purse in tow. It’s arid Arizona but I’m sweating when I reach the landing. Once in the room, I tend to pressing issues like peeing, hanging my dress, setting up my iPod, opening the sliding glass doors to let fresh air fill my room.
“Hey!” I say when I answer my phone, flopping down diagonal across the bed.
“I’d like to order ten Aztec print ponchos,” Leslie requests.
“Already bought you twelve.” I sit up, cross my legs, reach for the sealed bag of trail mix I brought with.”
“Cool. I can flip them for a profit. All the rage with the Buckhead ladies. So it’s nice?”
“I mean, the topography’s rather unappealing. It’s so flat, I feel like I have a bird’s eye view of the entire state. And I’m 5'4". Plus everything is turd brown. This is probably the only region where I’d thrive as a landscape designer. It’s like dead plants are chic out here.”
“How’s the room?”
“Nice. Though I’m certain the interior decorator was color blind. I can’t decorate for shit but even I know a moss green rug has no business being paired with pink and orange armchairs. Aztec print, of course. And then there’s the issue of red throw pillows and a striped ---”
“Paige?” Leslie breaks the silence.
“My Trader Joe’s trail mix just exploded all over the place.” I’m crawling across the bed, plucking pistachios and pumpkin seeds off the crisp white, 1000-thread count duvet.
“Well done.”
“Listen, if you think I’m going to spend seven dollars for a handful of stale cashews, you’ve got another thing coming to you. Which reminds me,” I say before popping some stray craisins in my mouth. “I need to get out and find some bottled water that doesn’t cost ten dollars.”
“That’s my girl! So you already pocketed the complimentary toiletries?”
“God no. That’s so tacky.”
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Happy Ending
"So listen, the instructor will call you out during class. Like if your position is wrong, she'll say something," Maya noted as she shifted the car into reverse.
"Fantastic," I said as I clipped my seat belt.
"Oh, and your legs will probably shake when you do the exercises. It'll feel like they're going to give out."
"Wow, it's like law school and a Chinese prison got it on and Bar Method is the bastard child."
In the lobby of the gym, women collected, lots of women. And from the way they walked, the way they unlaced their sneakers, I could sense their Type A tendencies. They stood straight, had perfectly pinched ponytails. These are the women that lead me to drink. I glanced down at my half-filled bottle of Dasani and hoped for the best.
The music started. The class began.
"You're new. What's your name?" The instructor stood there, hands on hips.
"No thank you," I politely responded as I reached for a 2lb weight.
"No, what's your name?" She pressed, like she was interrogating a murder suspect.
"Right, no thank you."
"Paige," Maya offered with a giggle.
"Dead," I muttered beneath my breath.
We started with quick arm pulses, tensing and flexing the tricep. Then we moved onto push-ups, ballet squatty things, and leg extensions. Sometimes my muscles ached, my joints burned, and I dropped out of the pose and took a break.
"Your leg should be higher, Paige," the instructor said from across the room. "Excellent form, Maya."
"Fuck you," I grunted.
"Now everyone grab a mat."
Lying on my back, crunching my abs and flapping my hands, I started counting the slats in the blinds. Then I thought about how to better develop a character in a story I'm writing. It wasn't until my head was finally off someplace else that I felt at ease. My form was all wrong and I know this because nothing hurt as I moved. But by this time, the instructor had given up on me, galloping off to another pupil to adjust the reach of her arms.
"So what'd you think?" Maya asked as we walked into her neighborhood cupcake boutique.
"I think I like ending a workout with cake. I also think I'm not cut out for a class where you have to pay attention to exercising. I want to go in there, bust it out to blaring Beastie Boys and be ignorant to my reality."
The baker pulled a square plate from the case, presented mini-cupcakes and offered samples. I popped one in my mouth. "I mean listen, if I can't flip off the instructor, what's the point of working out? That whole zen, inner-peace shit is lost on me. Which is exactly why I hate yoga and running." I paused, savored the buttery flavor in my mouth. Maya glanced over, witnessed my expression.
"Okay, you just redeemed yourself," I said as I plucked another mini-cupcake off the plate.
"Fantastic," I said as I clipped my seat belt.
"Oh, and your legs will probably shake when you do the exercises. It'll feel like they're going to give out."
"Wow, it's like law school and a Chinese prison got it on and Bar Method is the bastard child."
In the lobby of the gym, women collected, lots of women. And from the way they walked, the way they unlaced their sneakers, I could sense their Type A tendencies. They stood straight, had perfectly pinched ponytails. These are the women that lead me to drink. I glanced down at my half-filled bottle of Dasani and hoped for the best.
The music started. The class began.
"You're new. What's your name?" The instructor stood there, hands on hips.
"No thank you," I politely responded as I reached for a 2lb weight.
"No, what's your name?" She pressed, like she was interrogating a murder suspect.
"Right, no thank you."
"Paige," Maya offered with a giggle.
"Dead," I muttered beneath my breath.
We started with quick arm pulses, tensing and flexing the tricep. Then we moved onto push-ups, ballet squatty things, and leg extensions. Sometimes my muscles ached, my joints burned, and I dropped out of the pose and took a break.
"Your leg should be higher, Paige," the instructor said from across the room. "Excellent form, Maya."
"Fuck you," I grunted.
"Now everyone grab a mat."
Lying on my back, crunching my abs and flapping my hands, I started counting the slats in the blinds. Then I thought about how to better develop a character in a story I'm writing. It wasn't until my head was finally off someplace else that I felt at ease. My form was all wrong and I know this because nothing hurt as I moved. But by this time, the instructor had given up on me, galloping off to another pupil to adjust the reach of her arms.
"So what'd you think?" Maya asked as we walked into her neighborhood cupcake boutique.
"I think I like ending a workout with cake. I also think I'm not cut out for a class where you have to pay attention to exercising. I want to go in there, bust it out to blaring Beastie Boys and be ignorant to my reality."
The baker pulled a square plate from the case, presented mini-cupcakes and offered samples. I popped one in my mouth. "I mean listen, if I can't flip off the instructor, what's the point of working out? That whole zen, inner-peace shit is lost on me. Which is exactly why I hate yoga and running." I paused, savored the buttery flavor in my mouth. Maya glanced over, witnessed my expression.
"Okay, you just redeemed yourself," I said as I plucked another mini-cupcake off the plate.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Extra! Extra! Read All About It!
“Man, that crane falling in town was nuts,” my friend said as I rifled through my purse for a piece of gum.
“What crane?” I asked.
“Um, the one that fell off the roof of a building. It was at 21st and Walnut.”
“Oh, well that explains the helicopters hovering over the city. I just assumed it was for an accident on the expressway. But hey, Ron Howard helped the Phillies win!”
“Ryan Howard. Ron Howard is Opie.”
The next day, when I got to work, I made some tea and wrapped my bare legs in my fleece jacket that I keep around for chilly winter days.
“It’s freezing out there,” I said to my coworker when I got up to fax something.
She did a once over, a head to toe scan of my attire: black pumps, black knee-length skirt and a black three-quarter sleeved sweater.
“I know, I look like I’m going to a funeral. But admit it, my legs look hot in these pumps.” I posed.
“Didn’t you check at the weather?” Her expression matched her tone.
“Do I look like I checked the weather?”
The thing is, I pride myself on being up on current events. My mouth waters at the chance to debate current topics. And it’s really poor form to debate a topic you know nothing about. We are all aware that Glen Beck is a narcissistic dumbass, but I prefer to point this out with evidence. And man does he provide oodles of it.
But for as interested as I am in current events, I feel like I’ve spent the last three months living on the moon. Listen, I rarely follow local news simply because Philadelphia papers suck and the newsworthy stories in Philadelphia suck more. I’m well aware there’s a nightly shooting in North Philly. And I know this because I can’t get down Broad Street without having to scoot out of the way of a zooming cop car.
Then, this morning, I realized I do most of my reading on planes and trains. It’s at 35,000 feet, with three hours to spare, that I devour The Economist cover to cover. It’s at a hundred miles per hour, racing down the tracks that lead to New York or DC, that I curl up with the New Yorker. But when I’m in Philadelphia my reading time tapers back to schoolwork and headlines splashed across the New York Times website. If it weren’t for my WaPo morning feed, I’d probably be as informed as my four year old niece.
“Dinner Saturday?” Joe asked this morning.
“I’d love to. But I’m going to Chicago.”
“How about next weekend?”
“Phoenix. Wedding.”
And that’s when I finally got excited about my upcoming adventures. Not that I wasn’t already looking forward to laughing for thirty-six hours straight with Maya. Or wasn’t already squealy about spending a weekend at the Four Seasons celebrating Elyssa’s wedding. The mere thought makes my tummy flutter. But when I realized how much time I’ll have to catch up on what’s going on in the world, I just about melted.
“What crane?” I asked.
“Um, the one that fell off the roof of a building. It was at 21st and Walnut.”
“Oh, well that explains the helicopters hovering over the city. I just assumed it was for an accident on the expressway. But hey, Ron Howard helped the Phillies win!”
“Ryan Howard. Ron Howard is Opie.”
The next day, when I got to work, I made some tea and wrapped my bare legs in my fleece jacket that I keep around for chilly winter days.
“It’s freezing out there,” I said to my coworker when I got up to fax something.
She did a once over, a head to toe scan of my attire: black pumps, black knee-length skirt and a black three-quarter sleeved sweater.
“I know, I look like I’m going to a funeral. But admit it, my legs look hot in these pumps.” I posed.
“Didn’t you check at the weather?” Her expression matched her tone.
“Do I look like I checked the weather?”
The thing is, I pride myself on being up on current events. My mouth waters at the chance to debate current topics. And it’s really poor form to debate a topic you know nothing about. We are all aware that Glen Beck is a narcissistic dumbass, but I prefer to point this out with evidence. And man does he provide oodles of it.
But for as interested as I am in current events, I feel like I’ve spent the last three months living on the moon. Listen, I rarely follow local news simply because Philadelphia papers suck and the newsworthy stories in Philadelphia suck more. I’m well aware there’s a nightly shooting in North Philly. And I know this because I can’t get down Broad Street without having to scoot out of the way of a zooming cop car.
Then, this morning, I realized I do most of my reading on planes and trains. It’s at 35,000 feet, with three hours to spare, that I devour The Economist cover to cover. It’s at a hundred miles per hour, racing down the tracks that lead to New York or DC, that I curl up with the New Yorker. But when I’m in Philadelphia my reading time tapers back to schoolwork and headlines splashed across the New York Times website. If it weren’t for my WaPo morning feed, I’d probably be as informed as my four year old niece.
“Dinner Saturday?” Joe asked this morning.
“I’d love to. But I’m going to Chicago.”
“How about next weekend?”
“Phoenix. Wedding.”
And that’s when I finally got excited about my upcoming adventures. Not that I wasn’t already looking forward to laughing for thirty-six hours straight with Maya. Or wasn’t already squealy about spending a weekend at the Four Seasons celebrating Elyssa’s wedding. The mere thought makes my tummy flutter. But when I realized how much time I’ll have to catch up on what’s going on in the world, I just about melted.
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Normal
My dad’s been sick for so long, it’s normal. I can’t recall how he walked before he became dependent on a cane, reliant on a walker. Though the sound of his voice hasn’t changed, I don’t remember how he spoke before the slurring and stuttering. Some days I think he sounds clearer. The words are more enunciated. Other days he has to repeat a himself three times before I can figure it out.
“You’re going to feeble hair play?” I guess.
He shakes his head, smiles, says it again.
“You’re going to Frisbee air pee. Wait, what the fuck is ‘Frisbee air pee’ and should I be concerned that you’re going there?”
He laughs, licks his lips and says it one more time. This time the movement of his mouth is deliberate, exaggerated.
“Ohhhhhhhhhh, you’re going to physical therapy. Got it. Have fun,” I say as I duck out of his office and return to my desk.
It’s normal that my dad can’t partake in conversations at loud restaurants, his vocal cords too tight for him to project his voice. He’ll still chime in. People rest their utensils on the edges of their plates. They lean closer. Some understand him, respond. The rest nod and smile.
It’s normal that my dad can’t tie his laces or button the cuff of his shirt. It’s normal that he can’t pick up something he’s dropped, the bending over process dangerously compromising his balance. It’s normal that he can’t carry a glass, regardless of it being filled with liquid. My dad lives in a world with different rules.
“So last night we went out with the Gilberts. Remember how he had been in the hospital and no one was sure what was wrong? Well, it turns he had a stroke,” my mom informs me as she opens a menu.
“That’s a shame,” I say, my tone flat.
It isn’t that I don’t care. Family friends since I was a tot, I don’t want to hear that he’s not doing well. That sometimes he loses his balance and falls. He’s forgetful. Memories are blurry, words are hard to find.
“It’s sad seeing him this way,” my mom continues.
And I’m sure it is. But it rolls right off me. I dismiss that emotion the same way I wave off a pesky mosquito or pluck a stray piece of lint from my black crepe skirt.
“Isn’t it sad, PJ?” I look up, see my mom waiting for an answer.
“Sure. But you know what, he lived a damn good life the last thirty-five years, skiing in the winter, swimming in the summer,” I explain, my voice calm and quiet.
She gets what I’m saying. She knows I’m not being bitter or keeping score. My mom nods her head, purses her lips, follows the movement of the maitre d’ as he seats a party across the room.
“Want share some dumplings?” I ask as I scan the menu.
“Fried or steamed?”
And like that, everything is back to normal.
“You’re going to feeble hair play?” I guess.
He shakes his head, smiles, says it again.
“You’re going to Frisbee air pee. Wait, what the fuck is ‘Frisbee air pee’ and should I be concerned that you’re going there?”
He laughs, licks his lips and says it one more time. This time the movement of his mouth is deliberate, exaggerated.
“Ohhhhhhhhhh, you’re going to physical therapy. Got it. Have fun,” I say as I duck out of his office and return to my desk.
It’s normal that my dad can’t partake in conversations at loud restaurants, his vocal cords too tight for him to project his voice. He’ll still chime in. People rest their utensils on the edges of their plates. They lean closer. Some understand him, respond. The rest nod and smile.
It’s normal that my dad can’t tie his laces or button the cuff of his shirt. It’s normal that he can’t pick up something he’s dropped, the bending over process dangerously compromising his balance. It’s normal that he can’t carry a glass, regardless of it being filled with liquid. My dad lives in a world with different rules.
“So last night we went out with the Gilberts. Remember how he had been in the hospital and no one was sure what was wrong? Well, it turns he had a stroke,” my mom informs me as she opens a menu.
“That’s a shame,” I say, my tone flat.
It isn’t that I don’t care. Family friends since I was a tot, I don’t want to hear that he’s not doing well. That sometimes he loses his balance and falls. He’s forgetful. Memories are blurry, words are hard to find.
“It’s sad seeing him this way,” my mom continues.
And I’m sure it is. But it rolls right off me. I dismiss that emotion the same way I wave off a pesky mosquito or pluck a stray piece of lint from my black crepe skirt.
“Isn’t it sad, PJ?” I look up, see my mom waiting for an answer.
“Sure. But you know what, he lived a damn good life the last thirty-five years, skiing in the winter, swimming in the summer,” I explain, my voice calm and quiet.
She gets what I’m saying. She knows I’m not being bitter or keeping score. My mom nods her head, purses her lips, follows the movement of the maitre d’ as he seats a party across the room.
“Want share some dumplings?” I ask as I scan the menu.
“Fried or steamed?”
And like that, everything is back to normal.
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Bartender, What Can You Do With These Lemons?
"So how was your date with Saddam?" Leslie asked when I answered the phone, her car idling in the carpool line.
"His name is Sandeep," I corrected.
"Whatever."
"Sure, whatever. One's Iraqi and killed a lot of people and the other is Indian and socially retarded. I can see how you'd get the two confused."
"Are you going to tell me or not?"
So I started sharing the details, telling her about the other girls, and the two boys that showed up shortly thereafter. That sometimes I was part of the conversation and other times I was on the periphery, seated on the edge with my date's back facing my front. Though he repeatedly apologized for their presence, claiming it was a coincidence, an accident, I eventually tired of the circumstances. That's when I swiveled in the opposite direction and chatted up the guy to my right.
"They have the best burger in town," he claimed.
"No way. Rouge? That's the best burger in town," I countered.
"Hey aren't you with that group?"
"I think I'm on a date with one of them but I'm not sure," I explained with a wave of the hand.
That's when a server placed a burger and fries down on the bar. I eyed the food, inhaled the smells. With utensils in hand, the guy cut a triangle of burger and pointed to it, "Yours."
"You're adorable. But I can't. I don't even know you."
"Yes, you can. You will," he insisted as he dragged an empty bread plate closer. "And I'm Matt."
As I bit into my share of his burger, my mouth watering from the savory Gruyere and juicy beef, my date tapped my shoulder to announce his clan was leaving. That after three rounds of drinks stretched across two hours of time, they were heading up the street for dinner. I nodded farewell and returned my attention to the last bite of burger in my hand.
"I'll be right back," my date said, kissing me on the cheek before hopping off his stool and wandering toward the bathroom.
"Oh my God, you are on a date! I'm such an ass. I can't believe I just hit on you while you were on a date! I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," I said, dabbing my fingers on a cocktail napkin before reaching into my wallet and pulling out a card. "You made a rather lame night fun. So much so, I think we should do it again."
He gazed down, studied my card held between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted it to catch the light. "Paige, nice name," he said as he tucked it in his pocket. Then he looked up, smiled and wished me a good night.
"His name is Sandeep," I corrected.
"Whatever."
"Sure, whatever. One's Iraqi and killed a lot of people and the other is Indian and socially retarded. I can see how you'd get the two confused."
"Are you going to tell me or not?"
So I started sharing the details, telling her about the other girls, and the two boys that showed up shortly thereafter. That sometimes I was part of the conversation and other times I was on the periphery, seated on the edge with my date's back facing my front. Though he repeatedly apologized for their presence, claiming it was a coincidence, an accident, I eventually tired of the circumstances. That's when I swiveled in the opposite direction and chatted up the guy to my right.
"They have the best burger in town," he claimed.
"No way. Rouge? That's the best burger in town," I countered.
"Hey aren't you with that group?"
"I think I'm on a date with one of them but I'm not sure," I explained with a wave of the hand.
That's when a server placed a burger and fries down on the bar. I eyed the food, inhaled the smells. With utensils in hand, the guy cut a triangle of burger and pointed to it, "Yours."
"You're adorable. But I can't. I don't even know you."
"Yes, you can. You will," he insisted as he dragged an empty bread plate closer. "And I'm Matt."
As I bit into my share of his burger, my mouth watering from the savory Gruyere and juicy beef, my date tapped my shoulder to announce his clan was leaving. That after three rounds of drinks stretched across two hours of time, they were heading up the street for dinner. I nodded farewell and returned my attention to the last bite of burger in my hand.
"I'll be right back," my date said, kissing me on the cheek before hopping off his stool and wandering toward the bathroom.
"Oh my God, you are on a date! I'm such an ass. I can't believe I just hit on you while you were on a date! I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," I said, dabbing my fingers on a cocktail napkin before reaching into my wallet and pulling out a card. "You made a rather lame night fun. So much so, I think we should do it again."
He gazed down, studied my card held between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted it to catch the light. "Paige, nice name," he said as he tucked it in his pocket. Then he looked up, smiled and wished me a good night.
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