Falling Out Of Bed. Mary Schramski

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СКАЧАТЬ with happiness. “I’ll go fix our plates.”

      In the kitchen, I take the chicken out of the oven. Dad has the minimum cooking utensils, so putting dinner together was interesting. I baked the chicken in a frying pan, and the mashed potatoes are a little lumpy because I had to mash them with a fork. Before, Dad ate at Luby’s Cafeteria almost every night. While I was cooking tonight, I realized how one can make do, substitute one thing for another.

      My father walks into the living room and sits on the couch, smoothes his wrinkled pajamas legs.

      “Dad,” I say through the kitchen pass-through.

      He glances back to where I am.

      “You want chicken, mashed potatoes and spinach?”

      “I don’t know.” He sighs, turns back around and my spirits fall.

      I stare at the back of his head, his hair so messy, and wonder what I should do. A memory surfaces, when I was eleven. My mother said the back of my father’s head looked like Cary Grant’s.

      “Your father has a wonderfully shaped head,” she said from across the dining table. It was the year before they divorced. “Just like Cary Grant’s.”

      “Who’s he?” I asked.

      My mother looked at me in wonder, as if she couldn’t believe her eleven-year-old daughter didn’t know who Cary Grant was.

      “Melinda, Cary Grant is the most handsome movie star in the world. And he has a perfectly shaped head.” Her beautiful white hands, nails painted ginger-pink, pressed against the warm wood.

      “Stanley, did you hear me? You have the most beautifully shaped head.”

      My father was in the living room putting on a Mantovani record, and it felt nice they weren’t arguing, seemed so happy.

      “What?” he yelled.

      “The back of your head is shaped just like Cary Grant’s.”

      He walked back into the dining room laughing. “I know, Hanna. You always say that when you’ve had a glass of wine. My head does not look like Cary Grant’s.”

      “Oh, you’re so hardheaded.”

      They laughed at the same time. And Lena and I looked at each other, began laughing, too. My father kept smiling, went around the table, stood in front of my mother and took her hand, stroked her arm.

      “You know, Hanna, I’m easy to get along with. You said so the other night.”

      “I never said that.”

      He drew an invisible circle on the back of her hand and she giggled like a girl.

      “Oh, yes, you did.”

      She smiled deeply, stood up and began singing “Some Enchanted Evening” along with the music playing in the living room.

      I sat very still, held my breath.

      “Dad, dance with her,” Lena yelled, stood and then immediately sat in her chair.

      I couldn’t utter a word because I was too busy staring at how beautiful they looked together—my mother in her yellow Easter dress, my father in a crisp white shirt and dark green slacks.

      “Okay, I’ll dance with your mother.” He pulled her to him and they glided around the dining table three times.

      Dad coughs, brings me back to the condo kitchen.

      “Dad, you need to eat something.” I stare at the back of his head, the memory of our family that happy Easter still washing through me.

      “Okay, I will.”

      “Really?”

      “Yes. But not a lot.”

      I pick up the empty plate that has been waiting patiently for my father and place a slice of chicken, two tablespoons of spinach and a small, irregular circle of mashed potatoes on the plate. I feel a little like I’m encouraging a bird. Steam curls up around my fingers from the small hill of food.

      A moment later I’m standing in front of him with my offering. He takes it. The house has a church-like silence without Jan, and I breath in its blessings—my father eating, the quiet.

      “Would you rather eat at the table?” I ask.

      “I’m fine here. Get something for yourself, honey. There’s some wine in the cabinet.”

      I want to say, Oh, I’ve found the wine, but I nod instead, hope if I eat he’ll eat more. I go back to the kitchen, plop mashed potatoes on my plate, spear some chicken. I think about the bottle of wine, but I’m afraid to have another glass because my emotions are as fragile as glass.

      I go back to the living room and sit next to Dad on the couch.

      “This looks really good if I say so myself.” I fork potatoes into my mouth. My father takes a bite of spinach and my heart fills with hope. Spinach is filled with vitamins, antioxidants. It has to be good for fighting cancer.

      We are quiet as we eat. I wolf down my plate of food, nod as I’m eating, hope to show him how good it is.

      My father eats slowly, chewing with determination.

      “I guess I was hungrier than I thought.” I put my empty plate on the coffee table, look at him, smile.

      “You’ve worked hard. You should be hungry.” He forks a dab of potatoes into his mouth, swallows and sighs.

      “Oh, not that hard.” I lie. “I had fun making dinner. Working in your kitchen is a real challenge.”

      “You know, I’ve never been sick a day in my life…till now.”

      I rack my brain trying to think of something I can say to encourage him, make him less depressed, yet I feel like I’m talking to someone I barely know.

      “Remember when Lena and I were kids, you were the healthiest parent on the block? Every father wanted to be like you. Didn’t you have weights in the garage you used to lift?”

      Dad nods, his lips thin. “Yeah, after dinner. I’d go out there. That seems like a long time ago.”

      “I was just thinking about an Easter you and Mom danced around the dining room. She always said the back of your head looked like Cary Grant’s.”

      “Your mother was quite the exaggerator.” He chuckles and my body relaxes more. Funny how, in just a few weeks, the road to happiness can change direction, be resurfaced with consumed food, a father’s joke.

      “Yeah, I was always so healthy. If I ever get out of this mess…I’ll…”

      “You’ll what, Dad? Do you want to travel more?”

      He shakes his head.

      “What do you want to do?”

      “You СКАЧАТЬ