Falling Out Of Bed. Mary Schramski

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      “He’s always been so strong, a runner…anything he put his mind to he did.” I gesture toward where I think Las Cruces might be from Elizabeth’s kitchen.

      Deanne nods. “I’m sure he will.”

      “Everyone is different,” Elizabeth says.

      “My goal is to cheer him up. I call him every day.” I leave out the fact that Jan has told me he won’t talk to anyone.

      Over at the bar, David is looking at me. Did he hear what I just said? He lifts his gin and tonic. I raise my glass again then take a long sip. An ice cube touches my tongue, feels so cold.

      I place the chilly glass back on the napkin, right in the middle and press the lifted corner with my fingertip.

      “I don’t understand men. They just don’t want to be sick or inconvenienced,” Deanne says. “When I told Jim about your father, he asked me if we could talk about something else. They certainly don’t want to think about illness. When I was in labor with Ellie, he couldn’t stand it.”

      I imagine my father lying in his bed. I push the image out of my mind. Elizabeth’s kitchen clock says six-thirty. I wonder what Jan and Dad are doing right now? Maybe they’re watching TV, sitting on the couch, laughing.

      “…and then, when I came home from the hospital, Jim didn’t even want to hear about my sore nipples.”

      Elizabeth laughs. I laugh, too, pretend I was listening.

      “Well, I wouldn’t want to hear about them, either.” Elizabeth gets off the bar stool, goes to the oven and opens the door.

      I sniff. The gin has kicked in and I feel more relaxed, the alcohol buffing some of my edginess. The manicotti smells delicious, rich, comforting, and for the first time in days I’m actually hungry.

      I am standing in the breakfast nook of our brick home, looking out at the front yard. The morning is flooded with pink sunrise and the bare tree branches make an interesting pattern against the opal-like sky. The purple pansies David planted weeks ago ring the ground around the tree trunk. The bright flowers are doing fine, even though it’s been cold. Beneath the pansies, deep in the earth, are the rough daffodil bulbs I planted months ago.

      This morning, right before David left, he announced he’d be home late. I stood in the garage, next to the door to the house and smiled, told him not to worry, I have plenty to do. Then I explained that I was going to clean house, straighten some drawers, rearrange the hall closet and then maybe go to the library and help out. He waved like he always does and climbed into his Avalon.

      I sit at the breakfast table, take a sip of my coffee. I love our home in the mornings. Watching the sunrise from our breakfast nook always gives me an awesome feeling. At times, when I’m really busy, I forget about nature’s beauty until I sit here and watch the world turn pink and gold.

      My favorite coffee mug is warming my hands. Jenny gave it to me for Easter eleven years ago, when she was nine. She was such a cute and serious little girl. That year, she made David drive her to the drugstore, and she came back with this oversize white mug filled with blue jellybeans. On the outside of the mug is a picture of a cartoon rabbit catching jellybeans in an upside-down umbrella. The rabbit is drawn in thin circles and there’s a tiny raised blue jellybean for his nose. That beautiful afternoon, she and I sat at this table in our old house and ate all the candy.

      After, we laughed, and I could see that her mouth had turned blue. I told her about it, and we both got up and looked in the mirror. Mine was blue, too. Now she’s a serious college student at the University of Texas, majoring in pharmacy. I miss the bubbling of a child in the house, going to PTA meetings, listening to gossip about her friends.

      I turn a little and the neat stack of papers I brought home from the hospital—information about cancer and treatments—catches my eye. I should read all of it, learn about my father’s disease, but there is something deep inside me that doesn’t want to know any more than I already do.

      More sunshine breaks through—yellow-white—eating up the opal-like sky. I get up, take my mug into the kitchen, stand at the sink and pour out my coffee. I need to keep busy, vacuum, dust, scrub bathrooms. The last year I taught junior high I began feeling restless. I told David and he suggested I quit because financially we were doing fine. But I didn’t want to break my teaching contract, so I trudged through each day, telling myself the school year would end soon.

      I quit June first, the same day the kids climbed on the buses for the last time. The moment I walked out of the principal’s office, I felt better. I’m not sure I want to go back to teaching, but I don’t know what else I could do. And for the past seven months I’ve enjoyed staying home, cleaning out closets, keeping the house in perfect order.

      David says it’s fine, that I’ve worked for years and I should take a break or retire early, but in a lot of ways I miss working—the friendships, the creativity of teaching.

      The phone rings and the sound startles me a little. It’s probably David, letting me know what time he’ll be home for dinner. I pick it up and hear Jan’s whisper.

      “I can’t understand you,” I say. “What’s the matter?” I’m in the breakfast nook again, looking out the window, my heart pounding.

      She says more breathy words I can’t decipher.

      “Is Dad okay? Jan, you have to speak up.”

      “The garage door is broken and the water heater went out last night,” she says in her normal voice—the cartoon cat one.

      I take a breath, relax a little. Dad’s household problems can be fixed. “Did you call a repairman?”

      “Stanley is so depressed. He won’t eat, won’t get out of bed. I don’t know what to do.”

      “Why won’t he eat?” I’ve never known my father not to eat, not take care of himself.

      “I don’t know. And he said he’s not going to do any more radiation treatments.”

      My heart races more. He’s had half the treatments, Jan driving him to the radiation clinic a few miles from his condo.

      “Let me talk to him.” But I know he won’t come to the phone. I’ve called twice a day since we came home and have only spoken with Jan.

      “He’s so depressed, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

      “What can I do?” I begin to feel a little sick to my stomach.

      “Come here. He seemed okay when you were here.”

      I was hoping my father and Jan would get into a routine, Dad going to his radiation treatments, Jan taking care of him. At night when the house is quiet, I imagine Dad getting better, and later, talking about how awful this time was. Yet, deep down, I knew when I left Las Cruces, it wasn’t going to play out that way.

      “He wants me there?”

      “Yes, he wasn’t so depressed when you were here.”

      “Okay, I’ll talk to David and call you back,” I say then hang up. Although my father is ill, I’m happy he wants my company, that I can СКАЧАТЬ