3…New Structures
"Going Walkabout," as Grandmother called it, is something I've done with my grandparents in dozens of cities in dozens of countries, especially when we first arrived somewhere, and it's something I've continued to do on my own. It's a great way to get your bearings and figure out the structure of a new place, the layout of the land. I'm in Manhattan and don't need to get my geographic bearings, but I do need to figure out the structure of this new world I've entered—one where Henry is…changed, one where everything is changed.
For the first time since I got the call in China, my head is starting to clear—the fog, the fear, the trauma dissipating with every long stride of my chunky oxfords, an expensive birthday gift from Emory, to, as she called it, "elevate my style." It was her mission sophomore year to get me out of Chucks and Vans, and like with everything else, she succeeded. I smile at the memory and make a mental note to call or text her when I get closer to Henry's. I didn't do it before leaving because for one, she's probably still asleep. And most importantly, she would've had a fit that I was walking up to the rehab center at this hour. But this Walkabout is exactly what I need. It's only a couple miles at most.
My thoughts are getting looser already. I can almost see them lifting up from the crumbled structure of my old life, rearranging, shifting, and all this in under two city blocks so far, although the hour-long shower I took helped, too. It's five-thirty in the morning, still dark, cool, but not too cold. Yesterday's rain has cleansed the air. The city is mostly still asleep except for the flurry of delivery trucks keeping me company—they are in full swing. I know many of the owners of the shops surrounding our building, but am glad that I've not run into any of them beginning their days. I do not want to stop and talk. I want to walk. And think.
I pick through the rubble of the old structure, turning over every revelation of the last two days, looking for anything I can salvage as I decide how to build again.
For one, I'm not a student any longer—I've even got the dreaded diploma to prove it. That thought is already less radioactive than it was even fifteen minutes ago as I dumped out the contents of the bag the professors had given me onto the coffee table. The scrolled diploma had come out and been unceremoniously flattened by the heavy Chinese textbook Professor Zhang-Lei had put in there. I didn't touch the diploma, just grabbed the Japanese candy, book of haiku, and the get well card from Professor Gardner, putting them in my messenger bag to take up to Henry.
I kick the thought around as I cross Delancey—I am not a student anymore, I am not a student anymore—until it almost, almost loses its sharp edges by the time I turn onto the street that will become 1st Avenue. I will stay on this road—heading north and a little east—all the way up to the rehab center.
I say it out loud. "I am not a student anymore," making the cadence of it match each step. "I am not a student anymore."
Which, of course, begs the question…What am I?
The answer floats out of the mental dust and debris, forming into something close to solid. My occupation has, and always will be, someone who takes care of her grandparents. Lifts their burdens in any way I can, makes them happy, does my duty, in whatever form or structure that entails. That hasn't changed, although now, of course, it's just Henry. My being in school was the form that occupation took before. It made both of them so happy and secure for me to be there and I dug right in, excelling at school, even making friends. I can't deny that it made me feel happy and secure, too, but that is so far secondary as to render it inconsequential. Either way, I can't do it—take care of my grandparents—that way any longer.
So…so…The old structure is gone, but not the occupation. I walk into this thought for a few blocks before I move onto the new. And there it is…I am someone who will make Grandfather well. By any means necessary.
This new thought, this new knowledge, this new job, this new structure fills me with purpose and determination; my stride lengthens as I walk into it. I will make Henry well. I will get him talking again.
Of course…I have no idea how, but I will figure it out: I will use the same work ethic that has me now a college graduate—ugh!—at not yet twenty-years-old. Nose to the grindstone, methodically working through whatever I need to. I'll know more after talking to the doctors and nurses today. I pick up the pace, my mind quiet for a moment, loosening further until a new realization floats up from the depths until I now know why I didn't want Emory and Bea to come with me today.
Those two for sure, but probably everyone else in my life as well, have stronger personalities than I do. I am not shy, but I am generally quiet, except within the very close circle of those I consider family.
I've got to tell Emory not to come today and make it stick, not let her override me, as usual. Because if she does come, I will fade into the woodwork and everyone I talk to today, all those doctors and nurses, will naturally defer to Em. Heck, I will naturally defer to Em. It is not her fault, but that's just the way it always is. I followed her lead at school, at least through the social aspects of it, because who better to learn from than someone who was so successful at it. A Master, really. But she doesn't know this new job any better than I do. I may have to work on Em with this, no…not may; I will definitely have to work on Em. Because this time, it's got to be me who takes the lead, who makes this happen, who takes care of Henry, takes care of everything—our home, his health, everything. Me. I will really have to step up to make it so he doesn't have to think or worry about anything, but just use his energy getting well and talking again.
Wait!
Henry! Henry can't talk!
And if Henry can't talk, how did Bea know to keep this from me?
How did I not think of this until now! He couldn't possibly have said it after his stroke. I am half-tempted to get mad at Bea all over again, but I squelch it instead because that will not help right now. I'll talk to her about it tonight. I am coming up to 34th Street, just one more long block to Henry's and one more thing to do before going in.
I stop on the corner to mentally strategize before texting Emory.
Rather than coming to the rehab center, why don't you go on to work today and meet me afterwards. We'll have dinner there with Henry, okay?
I steel myself as I turn onto the block, hoping she's still asleep and won't reply. Damn! I hear my phone sing out "Georgia On My Mind," Em's ring tone. I take a deep breath before answering.
"What!" Em exclaims. "No, I'm coming in the car to pick you up. I'm just getting dressed now." Em is living in a Sutton Place sublet, not far from here.
I immediately set to work employing my strategy. "You took off of work yesterday, right?"
"Only the afternoon to fetch you from the airport. Well, and I came in late after I checked on Henry in the morning." For all her outward seeming softness and frivolity, she is so serious and duty-bound about anything she takes on. And, right now I'm going to leverage that. This subtle manipulation is something I've learned from her, but I've never used it before. At least not with any success.
"I'm quite sure you have those fashion people wrapped around your little Georgia finger, but you can't take off numerous days. You meet me at the rehab center when you're done with work. I'll be there."
"But I want to help you navigate all these doctors and everything!"
I bristle at this just a little. Sheesh, as if I am a child! Emory is only two years older than I am. "Let us not forget that I am perfectly capable of navigating through China on my own, for heaven sakes! I can take care of my own grandfather." This came out a little more barbed than I meant it to. I need to get back to my game plan. "Besides, you can't just shirk off your duties. Not if you want to complete your thesis and be a Stanford business graduate."
She has told me in her effusive emails and on our phone calls that this is her dream job and that she is learning so much that will help her launch her own fashion empire in a few years. I hear her start to argue, "But…"
I quickly add, cutting her off, "Not if you want to continue working there after your graduate."
I feel her mulling this over and I realize something: I don't have to get what I want, what I need, by doing this Em's way—all Southern cajoling and finagling—I can assert my will in my own plain-spoken way. Right?
"Em, I need this," I beseech. "I need to be both The Controller and The Coordinator today," I say, invoking two of the most commonly-used nicknames I've given her.
"You do? You're sure?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
"Okaaay. I don't get it, why you wouldn't want my help and all, but…" she trails off because this is new for her; I would've capitulated long before now. Plus, I get the feeling that I might have hurt her feelings a little. Emory needs to be needed. I can't let that stop me, though. She pipes up, "Let me at least send the car to pick you up and take you to Henry's."
"Once The Coordinator, always The Coordinator," I snort, knowing that she means well. "But I'm already here, Em."
She knows immediately. "You walked!" she exclaims, scandalized. "You walked through New York City in the dark!" I don't answer her, but smile to myself. "You don't have the brains you were born with, Elle! You don't know enough to come in out of the rain! You're one step short of…"
She has a hundred of these so I talk right over her to shut her down. "It's not dark anymore." Well, not really. "Bye, Em! Call or come over when you're done with work!" I hang up, smiling at her Southern insults, which all translate to extra stupid, the words I used on Bea last night. A lifetime ago, it seems.
I put my phone away, pleased with myself for this new assertion of my own will. I find I am standing in front of the entrance to the building with a vague memory of standing in this same place yesterday in a fog, not knowing what to do. But not now, not today. I square my shoulders and step through the sliding doors.
I am ready.
When I step off the elevator and walk toward the fifth floor desk, I am surprised to see a brown-haired woman with a kind face, maybe just a little older than me, look up and smile at me in recognition. Like she knows me. "Well hello again, Miss Ellis!"
I stare at her blankly. It is only when I get closer that I notice her pink scrub top has dancing band aids and stethoscopes and things on it and it triggers a blurry vision of tripping onto an elevator. Gosh, was that only hours ago?
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name last night."
"You had other things on your mind. I'm Angela. I watch over Mr. Ellis at night." She says this with such compassion in her brown eyes that I want to reach across the desk and hug her. Instead, I find a smile and hold out my hand.
"Thank you so much. I'm Ellawyn, but everyone calls me Elle. Or Ellie. Or Ella or whatever." I shrug at my rambling introduction as she shakes my hand.
"Well, Ellawyn, I'm sure we'll see you around here a lot. We like to have loved ones around to help our patients with their rehabilitation. Why don't you go on back." She motions with her head toward Henry's room.
"Thank you again. For yesterday," I say before slowly heading down the hallway. I feel a bit sheepish that I didn't recognize her, but then I think back and I can't picture the faces of any customs agent, flight attendant, row mate, or anyone I saw since I left China: if they were in a lineup, I couldn't point to a one of them.
I think back to what Em said at the airport, about my not speaking English. And I realize that since I talked to Em on the phone in Wuhan, when she called to tell me about Henry, I didn't speak English once the whole trip, until I was in Henry's room with Em. I spoke Japanese to Professor Gardner and Mandarin to Mr. and Mrs. Song, Professor Zhang-Lei and the ticket and gate agents in China. I might've nodded to the ones at SFO airport, I'm not even sure. And a tiny bit of Arabic to that nice man on the plane. But no English. Weird.
I start to feel foggy again and I can't remember what room Henry's in. Shaking it off—that won't do!—I look at each number I pass, hoping I'll know it when I see it. Ahh…511. Here it is. I open the door and walk in to find my sleeping grandfather, just where I left him last night.
I am shocked all over again at how…small he seems. I don't go to Henry, yet, but just stand, watching, checking to see he's breathing. My nascent determination and will, gathered during the walk here, crashes hard against the vision in front of me. Now I almost wish I'd allowed Emory to come with me. No, who I'm really pining for, yearning for, is my grandmother; practical, capable, lovely and loving, Rosamunde. She'd know what to do.
I touch the battered leather of her old messenger bag, handed down to me when she died. It's still around my neck. I can picture her with it walking in London, Istanbul, Bilbao, Ottawa, Addis Ababa, Philly, so stylish and graceful, not unlike Emory. I lift it off my shoulders, putting it on one of the chairs and then open the flap to retrieve the candy and card from Professor Gardner. I look around the room to find a place to put them and see that there is one very beautiful flower arrangement sitting on a table by the windows. I hadn't noticed it last night through my fog. I place the stuff from the Gardners next to the vase and pull off the card I see sticking out of the top of the flowers. Of course it's from Emory and her whole family, The Buchanans, all of whom know Henry. But there are no other flowers or cards or anything. And Henry has a lot of friends. Maybe no one has told them about his stroke, just like no one told me initially. Something else to ask Bea about.
I walk to Henry's bedside, automatically reaching for his hand, but I don't want to wake him, so I let my arm drop. I want to see for myself if his internal clock is still ticking, if he'll wake up at seven on his own, just like he always has. I check my watch before moving to the end of his bed and I keep a vigil, watching him breathe.
Henry's eyes blink open and I paste on a smile as his eyes slowly find mine. Yep, it's seven. My smile slips though, when I see him look at me in something like shock. This is a repeat of last night as his mouth gapes open and unintelligible sounds spill out. I cannot understand anything and the frustration of it is maddening—for both of us; I can see it in his eyes, too. I walk to the side of his bed and take his hand.
"G, I'm going to be here all day. All the days." Rather than easing his vexation, it increases. The sounds he's making are louder, more agitated. "We'll deal with all this and you'll get better." I keep talking.
My inane chatter abruptly stops as a nurse walks in after a brisk knock on the door. I quickly introduce myself, grateful for the distraction from both Henry's and my frustration. "Nice to meet you, I'm Lauren." She nods across the room. "Are you ready for your bath?" she asks Henry. Not waiting for an answer, she walks to his bed, all brisk efficiency.
I try for humor and look to Henry with mock horror on my face. "Whoa! I am so not sticking around for that!" His frustration is replaced with a kind of smile, albeit a half-hearted misshapen one. I release his hand and step away from the bed as the nurse takes my place, lifting the covers off him, exposing an awful hospital gown. "I'll be right outside," I say, as I move toward the door.
But I don't leave all the way, I stand in the doorway watching as she helps him stand and move toward the bathroom. He is leaning on her, heavily. Clearly, this is a lot of work for him, for both of them. When I can't stand to watch this painstaking shuffle any longer, I go out to the hallway and pace.
When this woman—Lauren, I've got to remember her name—comes out from Henry's room, with a chirpy, "All done!" I go back in to see his bed is adjusted so he's sitting up.
Another woman comes in holding a metal tray. "Good morning, Mr. Ellis. Breakfast!" We both watch her put the tray on a small nearby table, wheeling it over and swiveling it so it's over his lap on the bed. She opens a small carton of milk, pouring it over a bowl of cereal, before breezing out again.
I watch Henry stare at the tray in front of him with the cereal, plus a boiled egg and toast and tea on it. He looks at it, then up at me, with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Do you need help?" I ask, unsure.
He shakes his head.
"Aren't you hungry?"
He nods, looking a bit…sheepish, maybe? I'm at a total loss.
He makes no move to start eating, just looking at me, before dropping his eyes. And it hits me…he doesn't want to eat in front of me. This is new. Henry eats with gusto anywhere, anytime.
"Um…I'm going to go find some coffee, okay? While you eat." I walk out, so, so despondent. I lean against the wall just outside his door, where Henry can't see, watching the hustle and bustle of the all these caretakers starting their morning routines, coming in and out of the various other rooms.
Grandfather, sheepish, listless, is brand new and breaks my heart. He hasn't even tried to talk since his stream of unintelligible words right when he first woke up, just shaking and nodding his head. Why in the world did I think I could handle all this? Why did I not want Emory and Bea with me today, the two people alive I'm closest to, not counting Grandfather, of course?
I close my eyes, pining for my grandmother, feeling sorry for both Henry and myself that she isn't here. I put my hand over my wristwatch—an ancient thing she wore all the time, handed down to me, like the messenger bag was when she died—and talk to her in my mind. What do I do to help Henry? What do I do, G.M.? I swear I can smell her perfume in the hallway as I invoke one of the nicknames I gave her, a derivative of Grandmother that Henry took and ran with, morphing it into General Manager, because she was the G.M. of all our lives.
I don't know how long I stand like this, slumped against the wall, whining to myself, but my eyes fly open when I hear, "Are you Miss Ellis?"
Standing in front of me in the hall is a vaguely handsome man in a white coat, holding a manila file. He has a fake orange tan and silver streaked through his brown hair. His whole look screams doctor.
"Yes." This comes out as a croak before I find my voice. "Yes, I'm
Ellawayn, Henry's granddaughter."
"I received a note that you wanted to talk to me." He pointedly looks at his own watch as if he's got more important places to be. "I'm Dr. Grange," he says with barely contained indifference.
I let go of my grandmother's watch—I was still holding on to it, trying to channel Rosamunde—to shake his limp hand. "Yes, I wanted to find out everything I can about my granddad's stroke. And therapy."
He opens the file in his hand, but doesn't say anything back for a moment, flipping through the pages.
Okaaay, I think.
"I see here that a Ms. Schmidt is his primary contact person. I'll have to get Mr. Ellis's permission first before I can talk to you about his care." This is accompanied by a supercilious smile.
My ire is up immediately. "Well, let's go ask him then." I turn and go into Henry's door, bristling. In less than a minute, I already dislike him.
I see that Henry has finished his breakfast, the boiled egg and toast are gone, and as I wheel the table off to the side, taking its place by Henry, I pretend not to see that most of the cereal has ended up on his chest and lap.
Dr. Grinch—this nickname's just too easy—starts to say something, but I hold up my hand in the universal hang-on-a-minute sign, or better yet, the talk-to-the-hand sign, shushing him in what I'm sure is sort of a rude gesture and say, directly to Henry, "Grandfather, Aunt Bea is the only one on your contact list and this man seems to need your permission to talk to me about your rehab and care. Is that okay?"
Henry looks between me and the doctor, bemused, maybe almost wondrous, although I don't have any kind of read on his post-stroke expressions. But it does seem as if he's actually engaged and present for the first time since I've been here. He nods.
Dr. Grinch, trying to take control of this process, jumps in. "Mr. Ellis, we take patient confidentiality seriously here, so I'll need to get your okay for now, but then I might suggest you add Miss Ellis here," he looks at me all pompously, "officially, as one of your contacts."
Henry nods.
Yet another person, a young man, bustles into the room, pushing a wheelchair, calling out, "Ready to rumble, Mr. Ellis?" He stops short when he sees Dr. Grinch, but then continues into the room, smiling widely at Henry. He has a vague Caribbean New York accent, latte skin and short curly hair. I peg him as Dominican American. Maybe half, at least.
Grinch says, "This is one of our esteemed motor skills specialists, Mr. Shad Craig," he says this, subtly emphasizing the "Mr." as in, "not a doctor like me," in such a way that he means anything but "esteemed."
I shake this new guy's hand, liking his positive effervescence immediately. It is seeing the difference between Shad and the doctor that makes me know I don't want the Grinch anywhere near my grandfather right now. More so when the doctor says to Shad, "You don't have to come get the patients yourself. We have orderlies for that."
"Yeah, but Mr. Ellis is special!" he says as he winks at Henry. Even though my grandfather is indeed special, I actually hope he says that to every patient.
I lean down to kiss Granddad's forehead, whispering, "I'll leave you to it while I go talk to Dr. Grinch, okay?"
A momentary sparkle in Henry's eyes tells me he caught the nickname.
"Let's go out in the hall, shall we?" I say with a tight smile as I pass the Grinch on the way out, not waiting for an answer.
As I'm walking out the door, behind me I hear the doctor say, disdainfully, "Shad, make sure to get Mr. Ellis cleaned up first, he's got cereal all over him."
Oh no he didn't! I squeeze my eyes tightly together. I feel awful for Granddad. After Henry was already too abashed to eat in front of me, this man, this doctor, who surely deals with stroke patients all the time, just shamed him anew. A wave of protectiveness overtakes me and I do something I've only done once in my life, the first time being last night with Aunt Bea; I yell at someone. Only this time, I do it with rather less volume.
"Could you be any more patronizing?" I blurt out, but in a low voice so Henry doesn't hear, the second he has joined me outside Henry's room.
For a moment, the doctor looks shocked, dumbstruck, but tries to regain the upper hand again. "Don't you have parents with whom I can talk?"
His question back is both a sucker punch to the gut and an affirmative answer to my rhetorical question.
When I get my breath back, I say, slowly, almost nonchalantly, "They would be here, I'm sure…but they're dead." Dios mio! I've never wielded my parents' death like a weapon and it pains me to do so. But I can't let that stop me. Looking him right in the eye, I'm glad to see I seemed to have derailed his bluster. For the moment. I quietly yell, "So you will be dealing with me, and let me tell you right now thatyour bedside manner is deplorable! Do you always bully at-risk patients, people at the worst time in their lives, or did I just happen to catch you on a bad day?" I keep going, thinking of Henry's humiliation and the fact that this doctor brought up my parents. His being a jackass has wiped out any lingering sense of unease in how to handle this. "Do I need to request you to be replaced, or are you going to treat my grandfather with some semblance of respect in this dire time?"
My eyes still blazing at him, I watch cracks appear in his disdainful shell; I can see it happening before me. I really just want to dismiss his sorry ass, but I need information. He seems mute with shock.
Good! Well…except for the fact that I need information from him.
I take a deep breath. "Now…I want to know everything about my grandfather's stroke. What meds he's on, what progress you've seen. What we can expect in his rehabilitation. Everything." I wait. The seconds tick by.
He looks down, chastened, and opens the file he's holding. "I am in charge of the medical portion of his care while he's an inpatient. Shad…er, Mr. Craig…can talk to you in detail about his rehabilitation program. Right now, he's still on a blood thinner medication called…" and he goes on, stopping only when I ask him questions, which he answers quickly, and completely, I think. I understand this awful process a bit better now.
When it seems as if I've gotten everything I can from him, I say, "Thank you for the information. I won't keep you any longer, Dr. Grinch."
Oh, merde! I said his nickname out loud. My eyes go wide as his eyebrows knit together. His face changes. He looks pissed and I don't need an enemy of Henry's medical doctor. But then he does something that shocks the hell right out of me: he throws back his head and he barks out a laugh. He laughs!
I press my lips together, tightly, but I can't help it. I can't! I start giggling. Dr. Grinch, his face now red, folds at the waist, putting his hands on his knees, laughing. He tilts his head up to look at me and my giggles turn to full on laughter. I clutch my arms around my middle, squench my eyes shut against the tears of mirth. I open them to see some of the caretakers in the hallway, including the one I just met, Lauren, staring in horror. This does not help. We both keep laughing.
When it starts to peter out, Dr. Grinch does something else that shocks the hell out of me—he reaches right out and pulls me into a hug. I'm too flummoxed to hug him back. When he releases me, he reaches into the pocket of his white coat and hands me a business card.
"Call me any time you have questions." And with that, he wipes the wetness from his eyes, and turns on his heel down the hall, chuckling.
I watch him go and it takes me several minutes of shaking before I can move. The bustle in the hall has returned to normal. I clutch Rosamunde's watch, swearing that I can smell her perfume again.
Okaaaay…What the hell was that! After a few more deep breaths, I reenter Henry's room.
For the rest of the morning, I follow Henry to the various rehab departments, watching Shad's patient, careful and encouraging ministrations, taking mental note of everything they do. Some of these machines they work on look like high-tech torture devices. There are a succession of other rehab specialists who work with Henry, so when Shad takes a break before working with another patient, I ply him with questions. I find out that they do all kinds of rehab therapy here, not just for strokes, both on an inpatient and outpatient basis. Henry is an inpatient right now, but when he's well enough to go home, he can still do his therapy here as an outpatient. Shad can't really give me a time-frame for when he'll be ready. In addition to the motor skills part of therapy, there is also how he responds to the drugs he's on. That's Dr. Grinch's area. As for Shad's field, he says it depends on a lot of criteria and that, "We'll know it when we see it."
I'm going to do what I can to hurry that knowing along.
When I ask Shad about speech therapy, because surely they have that here for stroke rehabilitation, he confirms that they do indeed have it, only Henry has refused to partake in that component of rehab.
Huh?
I am absolutely mystified by this; language is Henry's thing. Surely he'd want to do everything he can to get that back. I file that bit of info away to deal with later. I tell Shad about Henry's multitude of languages and he is astounded by this. I was hoping that Shad might speak Spanish—one of Henry's languages—but although his mother is indeed Dominican, he never learned more than a few words.
Somewhere along the way, I notice that Henry is wearing what I think are hospital-issue thin top and pants and some broken down slippers that I know are his. I smile to myself, knowing that Emory would've noticed this sartorial lapse immediately had she been watching his rehab exercises, and she's just the one to give me advice on how to remedy it.
I text my personal fashion queen. Where should I go to get Henry some rockin' warm-up suits for his rehab exercise regimen? And while we're at it, some great pajamas and maybe a robe and slippers? And sneakers—size ten.
Her text back is almost immediate. Pulease. This is so mine to do. I'll take care of it.
Bless you, my great and wonderful Coordinator! But I'm going to pay for everything. (Just, you know, make it Ella-priced, not Emory-priced, okay?) Emory is from a very wealthy and very indulgent, old Southern family; she did not grow up on a civil servant's salary like I did.
She does not answer.
After an exhausting day of newness, Henry and I have the TV on and are resting in the early evening, waiting for his dinner, when I hear yet another voice of someone bustling into the room. This time with a chirpy, "Dinner is served!"
But this is a voice I know and it fills me with gladness. Bea breezes in, laden with bags, one of which is padded like the delivery people use to keep food warm. She places that on one of the tables, pulling out a covered casserole dish that fills the room with a wonderful smell.
"Tonight's menu is chicken, broccoli and rice." She pulls out dinnerware, bottled water, bread and butter from another bag before taking off her long coat to hang in the closet by the door. She has a wild maroon and green printed caftan on underneath it that looks good with her coloring. I have no idea where she gets these things—online, maybe.
"Nice housedress," I say, sarcastically.
She looks over her shoulder while putting the dinner together and says directly to Grandfather, "I don't think one should be snarky if one wants to partake of this deliciousness. What do you think, Henry?"
"Gosh, I was just giving her a compliment, Granddad." I smile, rolling my eyes dramatically.
I am heartened to see that he is grinning a little, pleased, I think, by Bea's and my usual repartee. I want to kiss her face for bringing about this expression on Henry's and even more so when she wheels that over-the-bed serving table to him and I see that it is perfectly laid out with a cloth napkin, fork, a piece of bread already buttered, a bit of some kind of green salad to the side, and even the bottled water has been poured into a crystal highball.
"You, Miss Snarkypants, who wouldn't know a brilliant piece of wearable artwork if it bit her, can go get your own!" she says to me airily.
To say Bea is a good cook is a bit of a misnomer. She pretty much only ever bakes; even her blintzes, whose crepe covering should traditionally be cooked over a stove first before being filled, are made entirely in the oven. As she has said plenty of times, "Baking is just a more elegant way of cooking." Her stovetop is rarely used, but I've never tasted anything but straight up food divinity from her, regardless of how she makes it.
I practically leap over to where she put everything, piling my plate with her casserole, salad and bread. I thought we were waiting for a hospital meal for Henry and I was planning to go down to the cafeteria when they brought it, but this is so much better.
I wince. Oh, Dios mio!…How are we going to handle Granddad not wanting to eat in front of anyone?
"We're not watching news while we eat, too uncivilized." I turn around to see Bea has scooted two chairs near the foot of Henry's bed, facing away from him. She is in one of them, jabbing the remote control toward the TV. "Come help me find some old movie, Snarkypoo, but none of that foreign language stuff you like!"
Relief floods through me as I go sit in the chair next to her, playing along. "Ha! I happen to know that your second all-time favorite movie is French!"
Before I pick up my fork, I reach over and squeeze her hand.
