Or families that go on camping vacations in minivans and watch their kids play Little League. Families that leave the city they were born in, to divide and scatter.
Normal American families.
We’re not like them, like on TV, with a mom and a dad. Nor are we ethnic Americans: happy-go-lucky Italians or the truly Irish, raucous on St. Patty’s Day. We are not of those tribes, of those races. We are something else entirely. We are our own invention. We are what we do.
And what we do, what one of us in particular is doing, is sleeping. In an inhospitable chair, clutching a full cup of water. The full cup of water is significant, an act unto itself, and my heart tells me who the water is for.
For me, when I wake up.
It will be the first thing she offers, because she cannot say
I understand that now, watching her sleep in the chair. I understand, too, how blessed I am to have her wait while I sleep, with a cup of water on her knee. I don’t feel a need to confront her any longer. There’s no reason to shake my fist in her face, to call her to account. That much is past, not present.
That much is over.
Let it go.
The door opens and a nurse comes in, luminous in a white uniform that seems to catch and hold the moonlight. She walks directly over to the bed and looks at me with concern. She bends over and whispers, “Are you in pain?”
I am not in pain. I was in pain when my face looked fine. I shake my head.
“Are you hungry?” A single lustrous pearl dots each earlobe in the darkness. She smells like Dove soap and White Linen.
I shake my head, no.
“Do you need anything?” Her teeth are white and even. Her breath is fresh, like peppermint Life Savers.
“No. Thanks.”
She pats my shoulder and leaves.
I feel myself smile at her receding silhouette. This is her job and she does it well, but her shift will end soon. My real nurse, the one snoozing at the switch, stinks of cigarettes, but ten to one she’s been sitting there for a long, long time. Her shift never ends, as mine will not.
I should let her sleep, but I owe her a rather large apology.
“Ma,” I say, and she stirs.
“Honey?” she says hoarsely.
Her eyes aren’t even open before she offers me a cup of water.
32
“Will you look at that!” Artie says in amazement at the kitchen window. We all gather around and look out at my backyard. I’m so happy my face hurts.
“I can’t believe it,” Sarah says. “She never did that before, even for Armen.”
“She’s gonna do it again,” Eletha says, casual today in a sweater and jeans.
We all watch as Bernice rolls over like a champ and comes up smiling. Miss Waxman stands over the dog like the Ubersecretary and gives Bernice a treat, delivered professionally to the mouth. Bernice snarfs it up and sniffs the grass for left-overs.
I open the window and yell through the screen, “Way to go, Miss Waxman!” It stings my cheeks, but the woman is working miracles out there. “Isn’t she great, Maddie?”
Maddie rolls her eyes.
“Wish I had a dog like that!” Eletha says. “Boy are you lucky, Maddie!”
“
“No!” Miss Waxman says, her voice resonant with authority. Her transformation is as radical as Bernice’s, and probably as ephemeral. “No talkie!”
Artie shakes his head. “Did she really say that?”
I elbow him in the basketball. “Give her a break, it’s working. What have you done for me lately?”
“I brought you a get-well present.”
“You did? Where?”
“It’s in the living room. Wait.” He runs heavily out of the kitchen and Sarah laughs.
“Wait’ll you see this.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.” She smiles as Artie lumbers in with a package wrapped in Reynolds Wrap.
“Nice paper, Weiss,” Eletha says.
Artie thrusts the present at me. “It was either this or the Hanukkah paper.”
“Thanks, Artie,” I say, peeling back the foil like a microwave dinner. Underneath is a shiny black plastic I’ve seen before. “A Magic Eight Ball all my own!” I’m actually touched, which shows how soft I’m getting in my dotage. I give him a hug.
“It’s mine, you know,” he says, smiling.
“Really? Yours?”
“Putting away childish things, Artie?” Sarah asks.
“You know me better than that, Sar. I got Etch-a-Sketch now.”
Sarah laughs, and so do I.
“What? It’s more fun than Legos, and it doesn’t hurt when you step on it.”
Sarah and I exchange looks. Her expression is unreadable as usual, but mine is full of deep and powerful significance. My eyes telegraph: You are crazy to let this wonderful man leave your life, because there are not that many wonderful men around. I’ll tell her later if she doesn’t read eyes.
“Of course, the Etch-a-Sketch is okay,” Artie says, “but it’s still not my favorite toy.” He grins at Eletha. “Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief.”
“Don’t you tell on me now,” she says, laughing evilly.
Sarah looks from one to the other. “What are you two talking about?”
It takes me a full minute to figure it out, but that’s because I’m such a stinky detective.
“Look, Grace!” Miss Waxman calls from the backyard.
We all look out the window. Bernice is heeling perfectly as Miss Waxman walks her back and forth. This is not what it looks like when Bernice walks me.
I wave to Miss Waxman. “Unbelievable. The dog is Rin Tin Tin.”
“Who’s that?” Sarah says.
“Forget it.”
“Tell her about the Edsel, Grace,” Eletha says.
“One more wisecrack and the dog is yours, El. And I know what you did,” I say, pointing my newly bejeweled fingernail at her. Eletha painted my nails while I was in the hospital, and each one is a masterpiece of turquoise polish with a sapphire in the center.
“Hey, girl, you owe me, from that fix-up with Ray.”
“You went out with him?”
“Lunch. Then he pounced.” She shudders.
“Oh, no.”
“Told you,” Artie says. “Man’s an animal.”
“I’m sorry, El. I thought he was nice.”
“He slobbered worse than Bernice.” She snaps her fingers. “Wait a minute. I just got an idea.”
“What?”
