Club Sandwich (14 page)

The tray still rests on the cart.

“Some breakfast.”

“I know. I’m not on solids yet. Beef broth for breakfast. Whoever heard the like? And did it need salt. But they put me on the high-blood-pressure diet. I have high blood pressure. I never knew.”

“Well, it’s a good thing they’ve caught it.”

“I suppose. But truthfully, ignorance would have suited me just fine.”

“Maybe it’s just due to the surgery. They would have caught it well before now.” I scrape up a chair. “Well, you ate good.”

“Rusty convinced me of the need.”

“You’ll need all the strength you can get for rehab.”

“Ugh. They tell me I’ll be out of here in four days, five tops.”

“Good.”

“Although I don’t know how I’ll make it up the steps to my apartment.”

“You won’t have to. Rusty’s setting up the dining room for you. We’re going to bring in a bed, and you’ll be all set.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” I wave my hand, hoping the words
nonchalant
and
Ivy
intersect flawlessly. “Piece of cake.”

Piece of cake, my foot. Trixie will be all over her.

She sighs. “Well, that’s one load off my mind.”

“Good.” I really mean that.

My father is a jerk. Mom put up with so much of Harry’s abuse, she doesn’t deserve to suffer through this without the support of at least one of us.

She pushes the tray farther from her. “I can help Lyra with her
sewing. I’ve been wanting to sit down with her and do that for a long time now. There’s just never been a good time.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of that. And since Lyra’s out of school for the summer, I’m sure she’ll be glad for it. Rusty’ll be there the first week you’re home too. He’ll look after things while I’m at the restaurant.”

“Oh, Brian came by early this morning. I was so glad to see him.”

Figures he arrived first.

“Good. He says he doesn’t need me around today, so I’ll be here all day.”

My family abides by a set of screwy regulations. When somebody is in the hospital, it’s of paramount importance that someone blood-related attend the bedside almost twenty-four hours a day. When my grandmother went in for heart surgery, Mom and Grandpop took turns at the vigil. I’d run in from my classes at Towson State around suppertime and sit with her while they had a bite down at the cafeteria. Heaven forbid they’d take an extra thirty minutes and head out for some decent food at a real restaurant, and not our restaurant either. I hope someday I don’t end up in the hospital for long. The nonstop visitation would drive me crazy.

She sips the weak tea. “Ugh. This is horrible. I’d love a good cup of coffee.”

“I’ll call Brian and tell him to bring you one when he comes in after the lunch rush.”

“Don’t bother. He said he’s got appointments this afternoon and tonight, which is why he came in so early.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking.

“I’ll call Rusty. He can bring a decent cup by later on his way back from the bowling alley.” Good old Rusty.

“Thanks, dear.”

Rusty says fine. He’ll drop off some Starbucks on his way to Persy’s game.

“Oh man. I forgot about the game. I am so sorry.”

“No prob, hon.”

I hang up the phone.

“I’m going to meet Rusty down in the lobby a little later.”

“Thank you, dear. I’m sure Brian would have come if he’d been able to.”

“Mom—”

Oh, never mind. Let her think he hung the moon for now. She’ll see his stripes in two weeks, three tops.

The phone rings at 5:00 a.m.

“Hey sis.”

“Bri?”

“I can’t get to the market this morning.”

“Why? Are you okay?”

“I’m on my way home right now. I’ll tell you about it later. I really need some sleep.”

“Are you coming in for lunch?”

“I already called Matty. He’ll run the kitchen.”

“Are you hung over?”

“…”

“Okay, I’ll take care of things.”

“You’re a peach.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

A verifiable peach.

No sense trying to get back to sleep with my blood churning and curdling this way. Rusty’s whistle-snore warbles away, so I claim the wee hours for myself. Oh, God, give me strength. Make me a morning person. Please, please.

I’ve prayed this at least once a week for the past fourteen years. So far God has only given me the same answer He gave Paul regarding his thorn in the flesh.

I fix my cup of tea and settle in at the computer. I should work on a new column; Tony hated the antifeminist one, and I failed to convince him of its merits. But boy, did that feel good to write! I think I’ll write about the insignificance of an organized pantry in the grand scheme of living. I’m going to write about the messy things of life, like love and family and watching your children become their own persons who will make many mistakes. One error they shouldn’t make, however, is thinking they’re better people if their pantries are organized or they can actually make it through a year of Bible Study Fellowship or a Beth Moore book.

I’ve never made it through either one of those, and the Lord knows I’ve tried. I want desperately to be one of those people God ushers gently aside for a time of rejuvenation and growth. But so far I’m still careening to the right on the Snow Emergency Route of faith. I don’t just lean on the everlasting arms, I weigh them down. I wonder why God isn’t sick of me yet, and for every situation I handle with grace, two bovine scenarios precede it. For every word seasoned with salt, four are covered in crushed aspirin.

So maybe this column will sit well with Tony. I hope so. He’s such a gentleman, but I know that two blathering columns in a row might raise even his temperature a bit. And I’ll ruin what little Christian testimony I have with him. God, I hope he doesn’t think all Christians are like me.

Harry wasn’t all bad. He didn’t mind taking us to the movies. He loved movies. I think he secretly longed to play meaty parts on stage and screen. I can easily picture him as a great actor, especially in roles containing a large measure of feigned contrition. He proclaimed Sunday afternoons “our time.” He’d pop popcorn on top of the stove, drizzle on the melted butter, shake on the salt, and sit with us watching channel 67’s movie lineup. Movies like
Play Misty for Me
or
The Chalk Garden
. And you have to love those old actress names like Piper and Greer.

Bellatrix? Perseus? Lyra? What were we thinking?

He’d call up the steps, “Come on, gang! The movie’s starting!” A trilling undercurrent in his voice twanged like a Jew’s harp and betrayed his thought: if he didn’t put in his time with us then, when he enjoyed it too, he might end up doing something horrible, like taking us to our swim meets or, heaven forbid, church.

Every Sunday morning Mom readied us all, and we slipped out early for Sunday school before my father woke up. At eight years old I got miffed at him for not attending with us. Would that have been so hard? It would have meant so much to Mom. But Mom, in her typical Mom fashion, said, “Pray for him, Ivy. He needs the Lord.”

He still needs the Lord. All these years later, all these prayers later, Harry still repeats the same mistakes, and he still needs the Lord.

This fact alone keeps me from pulling the plug on him. I feel terrible about that, as if my relationship with him is transactional, a mere sales pitch for a close walk with almighty God and a one-way ticket to heaven. But it is what it is. And if tolerating my dad is only obedience to my heavenly Father, so be it. I see no other choice I am capable of carrying out.

Do I love him?

In the sense of “love your neighbor as yourself,” yes, I love him. But do I love him as a daughter? Well, I take a pulse on that every so often, and today I’d have to say no. See, I called him and told him about Mom’s accident, and he only said, “Tell her to cheer up and get well soon!”

Like some pathetic greeting card. I went so far as to ask him if he planned to visit her, and he only said, “You know me and hospitals don’t get along, babe.”

He only said. He only said.

And I hung up.

The replacement column’s finished and off to Tony. Martha Stewart would hate it. An e-mail came through just as I sent my piece, so I take a few minutes to check my messages. Oh great. Angel again. An avid reader of my column, although I can’t understand why she keeps skimming the lines. She never writes anything positive. You’d think maybe she’d try to live up to her name. Unless, of course, she’s going for some apocalyptic being sowing destruction on the end-times survivors.

It’s not that I don’t care what my readers think, I really do. But I have a feeling Angel enjoys playing the part of devil’s advocate. I don’t know where she finds the time.

Next.

Lou sent pictures of various borders and wallpaper patterns for the kitchen. I like them all. How am I supposed to choose? Everything looks good, yet everything constitutes a change. I hit Reply and type, “Like them all. You choose.”

She’ll love that.

Next. Oh goody. I can have my male member enlarged. That keeps me up nights. And Viagra at sixty percent off. I can refinance from three different mortgage brokers or order refurbished ink cartridges at a much-reduced rate.

Who orders those things?

I scan the clock in the corner of the screen. It’s late enough to call Brett to see if she’ll sit with Mom while I man the restaurant.

“Ivy! How in the world can I? I mean, you’re calling at the last minute, and at an ungodly hour, mind you. I do have plans, you know. I do have a life.”

Oh, that’s right. I don’t have one. I forgot for just a sec.

“But Mom’s going to be by herself all morning and most of the afternoon, then.”

“Oh please. She’ll be fine. She can’t expect us to be down there with her every waking moment.”

“You know she does.”

“Well, it’s too much to expect.”

“What are you doing this morning anyway?”

“The girls have hair appointments, and we’re meeting Marcus for lunch.”

“Really?” Sound positive. Don’t act needy.

“He’s broken it off with that other woman.”

“And you’re taking him back?” Cloak the shock.

“It’s the first time he’s done this. I feel I ought to forgive him this once.”

“Just keep your eyes peeled from now on.”

“Don’t worry! I forgive him. Doesn’t mean I’ll ever trust him a wink.”

“Okay. If those are terms you can live with. I’ll figure something out from this end about Mom.” An idea interrupts. “Or, hey, can Rusty take the girls to their appointment maybe? And you can go sit with Mom? Or maybe the girls can drive themselves?”

I hold my breath. Please oh please oh please.

“Let me think for a sec. I mean, Rusty knows nothing about hair. And the girls will try and get away with some serious changes if someone’s not there. I don’t know, Ivy.”