Pretending Normal (22 page)

Ms. O’Grady nods, a brisk flick of her head, and lifts a shopping bag in front of her lanky frame.
“And I have something for you.”

We walk into the living room and sit on the couch facing each other.
“It’s not much,” I say. “You have to wait for Christmas for your big gift.”

She runs a hand through her cropped hair, embarrassed.
“This is all so unnecessary, Sara. Christmas is for the young.”

I shove the present into her hands.
“Merry Christmas, Ms. O’Grady.”

She is careful not to crush the green ribbon as she detaches it from the p
resent. She slides a nail under the folded wrapping paper, pushes it back and lifts the lid on the box. Nestled on a bed of pressed cotton is a burgundy and gold tube of lipstick, Revlon’s Ruby Red. She clutches the tube in her hand, leans forward and hugs me. “Thank you.”

We stay like that
for a brief moment, conveying what words cannot. “Now,” she says, sniffing and pulling away, back into the self-controlled Ms. O’Grady I know, “this is for you.” She hands me a square box wrapped in a simple pattern of angels etched in gold on a white background with a large, white bow on top.

I undo the paper, careful, as she has been, not to destroy her craftsmanship.
When I lift the lid, I am confused. Inside is a photo album, its vinyl cover a bouquet of roses in red, yellow, pink, which reminds me of my mother. “Thank you,” I say, not wanting to spoil the moment by telling her I don’t own a camera and I doubt Uncle Stan will part with his fancy Cannon SLR 35mm long enough for me to snap a roll of film.

“And this
.” She lifts a larger box out of the shopping bag.

This time, when I lift the lid, there is a Kodak Instamatic camera nestled in the folds of tissue paper.

“For making new memories,” she says, before I can thank her.
“Time to come to terms with the old ones, Sara.”

And now, a day later, I’m still thinking about what she said.
I know what she means, we’ve been through this all before, several times. She wants me to go to the garage, see the car, touch it, maybe get inside.
You’ll never be able to put it aside and start over unless you do,
those were her words, and then,
your father wouldn’t want that…

Perhaps she is right, perhaps this one time I can force myself to go there.
I look at the clock. Aunt Irene and Kay are doing last minute grocery shopping, Uncle Stan is working. I roll off the bed, run down to the kitchen, slipping into my boots as I grab a jacket off the hook in the hallway. The keys are hanging on a rack near the phone. I stuff them in my pocket and am out the door.

The mailman is trudging up the drive, arms laden with a handful of envelopes and two small brown boxes.
“Looks like this is a popular house,” he says, handing them to me.

“Thank you,” I manage, and then, “Merry Christmas.” The envelopes are bright colored, all Christmas cards, no doubt, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Hemski.

One of the boxes is for Aunt Irene and Uncle Stan, the other has my name and address scrawled across the top stamped with a
forward to
in red ink. The return address is Boise, Idaho.

I rip open the package, right there in the middle of the driveway, numb to the wind whipping against my open jacket, numb to everything except the small jewelry case tucked around wads of newspaper.
I lift the jewelry case and flip it open. Peter’s class ring stares back at me. Nestled under the ring is a single scrap of paper.

If everything else was a lie, you weren’t.
Be happy. Peter.

I fold the paper carefully and put it in my pocket.
Then I snap the jewelry case shut. Life will not move forward until I do. I take one step and then another, not realizing I’m holding my breath until I’m standing next to the ’57 Chevy. The window has been repaired. I lean forward, peer inside. No blood, no gouges. Almost as if it hasn’t happened.

I think back to that day, to the shards of glass poking out of the window frame, my father’s body slumped forward, the smell
… the smoke… I move around the car to the passenger’s side, open the door and sit down sideways, feet hanging out. There is a smell in here, tobacco mixed with Pine-Sol.

I close my eyes, breathe, and remember.

You’ll have to be the strong one…
I see my mother in her hospital gown, a white and blue print, face pale against the starched pillow, dark eyes burning into me.

And then my father, handing me a ten dollar bill… You’re gonna be all right, Sara… You’re gonna be all right… allrightallrightALLRIIGHT.

I blink my eyes open, jerk my hands over my face. It is then I notice the scrap of blue wedged in the crack of the glove compartment. I press the button and the compartment springs open. The Crown Royal pouch
glares back at me, its gold tassels looped around the velvet material, like a noose. I finger a tassel, ease the pouch from the glove compartment and bunch it against my chest. Is this the last thing he touched?

The glove compartment is jammed with other incidental items; a Zippo lighter, two books of matches, a handful of tissues, a screwdriver, an eyeglass case, a manila envelope.
The envelope catches my interest and I pull it out, unclasp the small metal prongs, and peek inside.

It is a picture of all of us.
My father and mother are standing beside the Chevy, turned slightly toward one another, shoulders and arms touching. Their faces are younger, their eyes shining, their smiles proud, hopeful. Mom is holding Kay who is just a baby and Dad’s got me crooked in his right arm, hoisted up as if I were lighter than air. I stare at this picture, burn it into my brain—Dad in his tweed jacket, Mom with her pearl necklace, Kay clutching Gabba, her teddy bear, and me, with my arm around Dad’s neck, my red tights peeking out from under my blue dress.

And I see what I couldn’t see before
.
I see Family. My Family…
and I understand.

The building is a four-story red brick covered with a veil of English Ivy on the front and side. There are signs at the entrance leading to two different parking lots, one marked Staff, the other Visitors. It is the second that Ms. O’Grady follows.

“Are you sure about this, Sara?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No.”

Ms. O’Grady pulls into a parking space
and shuts off the engine. “Well, let’s go.” She pulls her new coat close to her thin body. Royal blue is the perfect color for her. So is the Revlon Ruby Red lipstick, which she’s worn every day since Christmas.

Ten inches of snow fell yesterday, and I almost thought Ms. O’Grady would cancel the trip seeing as it’s an hour’s drive and the plows didn’t start clearing until midnight.
But Ms. O’Grady said, no, come hell or ten more inches of snow, we were going.

And here we are.

The sign striped across the front of the entrance reads North Western Pennsylvania Veteran’s Hospital. The lobby is a large tan square lined in a formation of chairs and coffee tables. Each wall is plastered with pictures of war veterans from different divisions; Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. There is a single strip of black on the tan linoleum which leads to an information desk manned by three women of varying ages; old, older, ancient.

“I’m here to see my father, Frank Polokovich,” I say to the youngest of the old ladies.

“Frank Polokovich,” she repeats. “Let’s see.”

I stare at the transparent flesh on her bony hand as she flips pages of patient information.
Will my skin look like this someday?

“Here we go,” she says, smiling, as though locating a simple name on a piece of paper is an incredible feat.
“Room four twenty-two. Take the elevators to your right and get off at the fourth floor. Stop at the Nurse’s station first.”

“Thank you.”

“And take this pass.” She hands me a plastic card the size of a license plate. “Bring it back here when you’re through. Visiting hours are over at eight.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

“Sara”—Ms. O’Grady touches my arm—“Are you sure about this?”

“I’m sure.”
I give her a quick hug, turn away. She will do anything to protect me from getting hurt. Just like a mother.

The elevator stops at the
fourth floor and I step out. There’s chatter and people and a Nurse’s station fifteen feet away. But no Dad. It’s not like he’s going to jump out at me, so why am I so squeamish?
Because I don’t know if my own father will know who I am.

“May I help you?”
The nurse glances up from her chart and smiles. She is about my mother’s age with brown eyes, like my mother’s.

“Yes, I’m here to see my father, Frank Polokovich.”

Her smile spreads.
“You must be Sara.”

“Did he tell you about me?” I ask, my stomach
flip-flopping.

“No, I read the chart.
You’re the daughter who saved his life.”

Except for that twenty seconds…

She grabs a chart and stands, revealing a tall, lean shape, like Ms. O’Grady. “Come with me. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes before you see your father.”

I follow Mrs. Abigail Walker
—that’s what her name tag says—into a small room behind the nurse’s station and perch on the edge of a green vinyl chair.

“No one’s been to see your father since the accident, correct?”

“No. When the accident happened, I ended up in the hospital, too, and then my aunt didn’t think I should come right away.”

“You live with your aunt and uncle.”

I nod. “My mother died last April.”

“Yes, I read that in your father’s chart.
I’m sorry.”

“My father
—it
was
an accident, wasn’t it?”

Her voice is gentle as she speaks, like my mother’s used to be when Kay and I got hurt.
“I’m afraid I don’t know. The only report we got was from the emergency room which said he had a very high blood alcohol level and carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“So nobody knows?”

She shakes her head. “He’s probably the only one you could ask, but not now…” She clears her throat. “Certain areas of his brain were affected and one of those was memory. We had to re-teach him to perform simple tasks, such as tying his shoes and setting his watch. But since the second he stepped off the elevator, he’s beaten every pool player on this floor.” She laughs. “He’s getting quite a reputation. Everybody wants to challenge him, even the men on the other floors. We’re thinking of making a night of it soon with him as the one to beat.”

“I didn’t even know he could shoot pool.”

“He can recite Robert Frost’s,
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,
word for word, but he can’t remember
Hey Diddle, Diddle.
”

“So basically, he has to re-learn his life?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“How long will he have to stay here?”

“I don’t know.
He may never be able to function independently. In a month or so, he’ll transfer to a long term care facility for the mentally disabled.” She meets my gaze and I am struck once again, by her eyes, so like my mother’s. “You’ll be very important to him, Sara. You’ll be the one who can help him recreate a past.”

Or create a past
…

“He needs you, Sara.”

And then, the question I’ve been dreading for weeks, sneaks out. “Will he remember me?”

***

My father sits at the end of a row of chairs, his forehead illuminated by a patch of light from a table lamp. His skin is an almond-gray, but I’m not sure if this is from poor lighting or poor nutrition. I will ask Mrs. Walker what he’s been eating. I’d say not enough food judging by the way his shirt sags around his neck and shoulders, but maybe this is what happens when you’re detoxed and alcohol-free.

He is watching
Mayberry RFD
, a show he always detested, saying Hollywood was crazy to let an illiterate like Andy Griffith bumble around on television. But here my father is, staring at the screen, eyes wide, lips curved into a faint twist. I move toward him, sucking in air and stale cigarettes. “Dad?” His gaze stays fixed on Barney Fife. “Dad?” He turns his head slowly. “It’s me, Sara.”
Do you recognize me?

“Sara,” he says, as though he were saying ‘dog’ or ‘cat’.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, I really wanted to be here for Christmas but with the snow and Ms. O’Grady’s car needing a new fuel pump, I couldn’t get here.”
Silly, stupid words spilling out of my mouth but I can’t stop them.
“Ms. O’Grady brought me today. She’s waiting downstairs in the lobby and she wanted me to tell you hello and she’d like to see you next time if you’re up to it. I’m hoping you will. She’s been great.”
Shut up. Shut up.
“I miss you, Dad.”