Jake (7 page)

It looked like there was a good chance we’d get to know each other now. Probably we could take it slow. I mean, I had a place in me that was willing to be friends. To be family. It hadn’t happened yet.

So it helped that Mrs. Buttermark stayed to eat spaghetti and the weird salad and make conversation easier. She filled Granddad in on Aunt Ginny, how Mom helped her through college after their parents died.

She talked about Suzie being part of our family and even bragged about my grades. I realized Mrs. Buttermark had become part of our family. She kept me from getting that uncomfortable feeling I didn’t know Granddad well enough to feel like family.

The salad seemed exactly right to go with the spaghetti, which was very good. Not the way Mom makes spaghetti. But good. “We have to make this for Mom when she comes home,” I said.

“Thank you,” Granddad said. “That’s quite a compliment.”

“Would you look at that dog?” Mrs. Buttermark said.

We all did.

Granddad had put down a dish of smelly canned food for him when we sat down. I’d ignored the scraping noise he made pushing the dish around while we ate.

He was sitting at attention next to the empty dish. More than empty, it looked like he’d polished it. A job well done, he seemed to be trying to say.

“Such a little man,” Mrs. Buttermark said as if she couldn’t be more proud of him.

He
was
sort of well-behaved-looking. Like he’d never thrown himself against a car door. Like it wasn’t his saliva that was dripping onto the window when he did.

I tried not to think too much about how tricky a dog he might really be.

By the time we’d cleaned up the kitchen and were ready to go, the dog had been all over the apartment, sniffing everything. Everything.

For an old dog, he was pretty athletic. He could
hop up practically everywhere my cat could get before she died, like the tabletops, although he hopped up on a chair first. He’d even taken a drink of water from the fish tank, the way my cat used to do.

The fish didn’t seem to mind too much, so I decided not to care. Even though he had a perfectly good bowl of water in the pantry. We left the door open for him so he could get to it.

This was a new place for him to get used to and all, so I could sort of understand it when he tried to leave with us. Granddad let me get out in the hallway with Mrs. Buttermark, then called the dog back.

He went, head down, a dog in trouble. It was halfway cute, if you like that sort of thing. If you didn’t know he could turn into a nightmare dog. Granddad came out into the hallway. As he tried to shut the door, the dog tried to get out.

Granddad opened the door, walked inside, the dog followed. “Stay.”

This time Granddad stepped out more quickly, shutting the door.

The dog threw himself against the door, barking. Nightmare dog. It was different this time, though. It was a whiny bark. Probably no saliva dripping down the door.

“No,” Granddad said in that gruff voice, without opening the door.

The dog stopped throwing himself. He stopped barking. I could hear him whine, though. He sounded really pitiful. I’d never thought of a dog having feelings quite like mine. This one was sad.

Mrs. Buttermark looked like she was about to offer to stay behind. She looked at me first, and I let her see I needed her to come with us. I didn’t even mean to. I felt bad for the dog.

Granddad could stay behind, that’s how I felt. He wouldn’t, though. He was coming to the hospital with me and Mrs. Buttermark. The dog had to be able to take it, that’s all there was to it.

“I won’t be gone long,” Granddad said, looking at the door. Something in his voice had changed. I could see he felt awful about leaving the dog there alone.

He also looked embarrassed to be talking to his dog like that. I couldn’t love the dog the way Granddad did. Even if it was sad and halfway cute. I used to talk to our cat. Apparently, I used to pull this dog’s tail.

“You won’t be cold here,” I said to the door. “You have the fish to keep you company. If you get yourself a drink, try not to lap any of them up. Especially the
little brown one that can puff itself up. I think it’s poisonous.”

Nothing from behind the door.

The dog stayed quiet as we practically tiptoed toward the elevator. Mrs. Buttermark ruffled my hair.

I felt like a complete idiot.

Half the afternoon
had passed while we were eating spaghetti. Hours didn’t seem to stretch as far as they usually did.

Mrs. Buttermark said we had to stop for flowers. Also, this little Christmas tree she called Rosemary. Granddad kept nodding, like he was glad Mrs. Buttermark took charge.

I started to worry about seeing Mom. I hoped she’d be the same as usual, with her leg in a cast. I knew she would be in bed and operated on. If she was awake, I figured I could take it. If she wasn’t moaning. I wanted to see her, of course, but also I wanted her to be feeling fine.

Partly because I hadn’t seen her feeling fine since we started across the parking lot the day before. And partly because I knew surgery had this way of
changing things. Aunt Ginny had gone into surgery last year and came home missing a part. I didn’t miss it. I hardly noticed. But she seemed to miss it.

When we got in the car, there wasn’t much space for me on the backseat. Mrs. Buttermark had taken her knitting, which weighed a ton. I know, because I offered to carry it for her. Mrs. Buttermark had even packed a few of Mom’s things in a little suitcase.

Mom was in surgery when we got there, the way Granddad said she would be. He carried a book. I was the only one who wasn’t prepared to sit around the hospital awhile.

I found out why Mrs. Buttermark bought so many flowers. She took the hospital’s awful little tree to the restroom, where maybe she threw it away. Or maybe it looked better in the restroom.

In the waiting room, she arranged three pots of Christmas flowers with this watering thingy. I read on the package that it would keep them watered for three weeks. That left Rosemary and a bushy plant with tiny red flowers for Mom.

Then I saw why her knitting weighed so much. She’d brought magazines for the waiting room. Good ones, if you were Mom or Aunt Ginny or even Suzie.
There were two
Smithsonian
s in there. I looked at those for a while.

Granddad closed his book with a loud pop.

“Not enjoying it?” Mrs. Buttermark asked him.

“Too many references to computers and I don’t know enough about them,” Granddad said. “Pass me that
Smithsonian
, if you’ve finished with it, Jake.”

The doctor found us looking sort of like we had moved in, reading and knitting and all. “Everything went better than I expected,” he said. “She’s in recovery. You can see her soon.”

I liked the sound of that.

He said, “She’ll be woozy. She’s not in pain. We’ll keep her comfortable.”

Granddad said, “How long before she comes home, Dave?”

It took me a second to realize he was talking to the doctor. I know doctors have first names, of course, just I never called one Dave or anything that didn’t start with “Doctor.”

He answered the same way. “Ned, she’ll be home inside a week. Best I can do.”

I glanced at Mrs. Buttermark and caught her glancing at me. I figured she heard that
best I can do
the same way I did. It was the best he could do to get
Granddad off the hook of babysitting for me as fast as possible.

He was going on to say other stuff, though. “She’ll use crutches for several weeks. You might arrange for a wheelchair for the first month.”

A wheelchair. Okay. Then crutches. Double okay.

In my mind, Mom was getting better.

The doctor said by next winter Mom would never know this happened. I did the math on that. We were about two months into winter this year, which left ten months till next winter. It seemed a long time to wait.

A tiny thought fell out of the back of my mind. Joey and I would make a contest of who could get down the hallway fastest on the crutches. I’d have plenty of time to learn how to do wheelies in the wheelchair. I could picture Mom cheering me on.

The doctor promised to call Granddad the next morning, give him a report. An update, he called it. And the whole picture fell apart. I knew Mom would get better, but we had a ways to go first.

A nurse came to stand nearby and the doctor went off with her. That left us sitting in the waiting room again. Granddad went out for a smoke.

I said to Mrs. Buttermark, “Granddad’s in a hurry to go home.”

I expected her to agree, but she said, “Why do you say that?”

“He told the doctor he wants Mom to go home as soon as she can.”

“We all want that.”

“I know. I think Granddad doesn’t want to take care of me.”

“I think he wants what’s best for you, Jake.”

“I know, I know. He also wants to go home.”

Mrs. Buttermark looked at her magazine, and after a moment said, “I really didn’t get that feeling at all.”

Granddad got back a few minutes later. He brought a handful of comic books for me and a newspaper for himself. I was set for an hour or so, and Granddad turned to the crossword puzzle.

Mrs. Buttermark came right out and asked him, “What do you usually do with yourself at this time of year, Ned?”

“I have a few buddies,” Granddad said, and then upped the volume to that hearty voice he used about swimming. “We order in ham sandwiches and cranberry sauce from a local restaurant. Sing a few carols if the mood hits us. Biggest poker game of the year.”

“Does it bother you to miss it?”

“Not a bit.” This was also a hearty voice, but not at all the same. This time, he really meant it. “I can play poker anytime.”

Mrs. Buttermark grinned at me.

“The Christmas flowers look really good,” I told her.

“Yes, you’ve made a real improvement,” Granddad said. “That tree was depressing.”

We didn’t get to see Mom for over an hour. Her leg was propped up in this little hammock that hung from the ceiling, and her hair was a flattened mess. But she looked pink and not too tired out.

I grinned the second I saw her. This was even better than wheelies.

Mom hugged me and called me “beautiful boy,” like I was still little. It was a little embarrassing in front of Granddad. I figured she’d been taking medication and all.

“Ooh, little Christmas tree,” she told Mrs. Buttermark, and sniffed at it. “Mmmm. Rosemary.” I figured the tree had its name on the tag or something.

We made up a list of everything else she wanted us to bring. Mrs. Buttermark had been calling Granddad Ned, and he called her Donna. Mom noticed this
and wiggled her eyebrows at me. I felt good, seeing that. Mom had to be feeling pretty well.

A nurse came by and told us we had to go. Mom was supposed to go to sleep. We said okay, and then we talked for a few more minutes. Mom asked if the TV on the wall worked.

So I thought maybe that meant she didn’t expect to pass out the second we left. I mean, she never just goes to sleep. I thought maybe it would be like the doctor said, she’d be woozy. She wasn’t.

The TV didn’t work.

“Mrs. Buttermark brought some magazines,” I said. “Would you like to have a couple of those?”

“Magazines would be great.”

“I’ll go get them,” Granddad said.

“I just remembered,” Mrs. Buttermark said. “About your work. Should we call anyone?”

“Not yet,” Mom said. “If I have to be here more than another couple of days, I’ll figure something out. Borrow Ginny’s laptop, maybe, so I can work in this bed.”

The nurse came by again and shooed us out. I think Granddad was a little bit glad. Probably he was worried about his dog. His nightmare dog.

“Ned,” Mom called as we were leaving. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

Granddad said, “Dr. Dave expects you to run a marathon next week, that’s how fast you’re going to be up and around.”

It had started
to snow a little. No one said,
Oh, no, snow on top of the ice
.

There would probably be more people who slipped and fell tomorrow morning. Halfway home, a fire engine passed us, and I didn’t wonder where it was going. I wondered if I had been falling asleep.

We passed Christmas lights, but we didn’t say,
Look how pretty
.

We hardly said a word in the car. Except for the kinds of things people say in winter, like, “It’ll warm up in a minute.”

Also the kinds of things people say after they see a person who had surgery. “She looks good.” Of course they could say the opposite if that were true, they just wouldn’t say it in front of me.

Mom did look good. She looked like she had a
broken leg. She looked regular, like I’d hoped. I didn’t have to be scared about her anymore.

I felt like Granddad had his dog on his mind, now that we were on our way home. I figured that was a good thing. Like knowing Mom would be thinking about me.

Parking his car, I noticed our car was there. It was too cold to look to see if our groceries were in there. “Nothing that can’t wait till morning,” Granddad said.

Mrs. Buttermark said, “We’re all tired,” and we were.

We had to walk around the side of the building where it stayed shady most of the day. Granddad took Mrs. Buttermark by the arm as we picked our way over the snow-covered icy spots.

“Remind me to buy a sack of salt,” Granddad said.

Mrs. Buttermark knew as well as I did that the super had dropped a truckload of salt on this side of the building. We were too pooped to say so.

In the summer, Mr. G would complain about how the salt messed up the blacktop. He’d paint over it with something that smelled like tar. That’s what Mrs. Buttermark said it smelled like, anyway. Some days this could’ve been a conversation. But no one said a word until we were saying good night in the hallway.

Mrs. Buttermark opened her door and found Mom’s car keys hanging on the inside doorknob. “Mr. G came by,” she said, and gave them to me as she said good night.

Granddad opened our door. The dog had waited there for us. I thought he might have heard us coming. Granddad put his hand on the carpet. “Feel here,” he said, with a voice like a bear.