Eating Heaven (24 page)

“God, how depressing,” Anne says. “Wouldn’t you think with a name like Riverview, there might actually be something nice to look at?”

“Maybe it’s better inside.” I park by a tall hedge with a gate and get out of the car. “What do you suppose is back here?” I ask, walking toward the gate.

“Ellie, come on.”

I bite my lip and swallow. She said Ellie. She’s not mad at me.

“Just a quick look.” I peek over the top of the old wooden gate. “Oh, my God! You have to see this, Anne. It’ll only take a second.”

She rolls her eyes and scuffs her loafers through the pea gravel toward me.

“Look,” I say. She has to stand close to me to see through the narrow space.

“Wow,” she says, and I can tell that she is seeing what I see: the ebullient greens and depth of color that only an old, well-tended garden has. Rosebushes flank a stately hydrangea; wisteria drips from the fence. Raised beds flaunt the pinks and yellows and purples of a profusion of cutting flowers, and a small patch of perfect lawn abuts a stone patio with wrought iron tables and chairs.

“It looks like Yolanda’s garden,” Anne says.

“
Here’s
your Wonderland,” I tell her.

She nods, and we go inside.

“I kind of thought it would be more medical,” I whisper after we’ve checked in with the receptionist. We’re standing in a normal living room, albeit a large one with unmatched couches and chairs arranged in a semicircle around a TV cabinet. An open doorway leads to a room with rows of long folding tables and chairs, and three hallways radiate from the opposite side of the room.

“I kind of thought it would be more sanitary,” Anne says in a normal voice, indicating a stain on the carpet. “What do you suppose that was?”

“Well, hello,” a male voice says behind us, and we suck in our breath like guilty children. I try not to snicker as Anne turns and tries to make nice.

“What a lovely place you have here.” She offers her hand to a balding black man with a clipboard. “I’m Anne Samuels-Richardson, here to see Benny Sloan, and this is my sister Eleanor Samuels.”

I nod and place my hand in his. He squeezes it without shaking and smiles at me with kind eyes.

“Nice to meet you both,” he says. “Benny was telling me all about you this morning. I’m Archie, Archie Patterson. No Jughead jokes, now. I’ve heard them all.”

“Dr. Patterson?” Anne asks, and he chuckles.

“Nope. I’m the hospice director, handyman, and gardener. Now,” he says, checking his clipboard, “you have another sister, right? Or am I thinking of Mrs. Bloomquist’s grandchildren?”

“Christine,” Anne says, still scanning the place for imperfections.

“She’s on her way from California,” I say. “She should be here tomorrow.”

He marks a sheet on his clipboard and continues. “And you’ve been the primary caretaker, right, Eleanor?”

I look away. “Not a very good one.”

He
tsk
s and says, “Well, you must have done something right, because that’s one grateful old guy in there.”

I nod, but I can’t look at him. For some reason all I can think about is the day Buddy ran away, the barbecue we never had.

I dig for a tissue in my purse. Anne’s leg starts to twitch.

He studies us for a moment—me sniveling, Anne now tapping her foot on the floor—then says, “Let me show you to Benny’s room. We can talk more later.”

Anne doesn’t move at first, and I realize she’s scared to see him. For some reason, even though I’ve seen Benny every day for the past four months, so am I.

I
t’s no mystery why so many Portlanders worship summer. For three-quarters of every year, we are cold and sodden, starved for sunshine, bound with rickets or scurvy or whatever it is you get from lack of natural light. We are slowed by the fog of seasonal affective disorder, SAD in a major way.

And now that it’s the golden time, the time of long days, peeling off clothes and wallowing in soft, warm light, now that the trees are filled with leaves and birdsong, and people sit on their porches and have barbecues and go hiking without a rain shell, now that one could possibly take in an outdoor concert at the zoo or the public rose garden, sit on a blanket with a bottle of wine and a companionable—no, downright sexy—man, well. Now.

Anne and I enter Benny’s room cautiously, quietly, my elder sister lagging behind to let me lead the way. “Chicken,” I would call her if the situation weren’t so solemn.

“There you are,” Benny says from a hospital bed in what otherwise could be an ordinary bedroom, although with plenty of seating for visitors. “And Miss Annabelle! Ruthann told me you’d come to town.” He struggles to sit upright; he’s been napping. An IV stand is the only other piece of medical equipment, and when Benny sees me looking at it, he says, “It’s just some fluids to get me back on my feet. I’ve been pretty crook.”

“Well, you look great,” I say, going over to give him a peck on his grizzled cheek, and he almost does. “Don’t you think?” I turn to Anne. Her face has soured like milk.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I have to sit down for a moment.” She finds her way to a chair.

“I know, honey,” Benny says. “I look like death warmed over, don’t I?”

“Benny!” I say, then look at Anne. “He looks great.”

She nods and fake smiles. “I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed and exhausted. Life has been so—” She stops, embarrassed, fiddling with a button on her blouse. “Well, it’s nothing compared to . . . oh, Jesus.”

“Don’t worry, honey,” Benny says, patting the bed beside him. “We’re not having a contest. Come sit here. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my little Belle.”

And what am I, chopped liver?
I’m thinking, until I see Anne’s face soften and fall in upon itself.

This is what she came home for.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’m going to find the restroom.”

“Come here,” Benny says again to Anne, and she walks to his bed and sits next to him, letting him fold her in his skinny pajama-ed arms as she hunches awkwardly against him and cries.

I wander back down the short hallway into the living room, where several wheelchairs are now parked in front of the TV, elderly occupants engrossed in the opening credits of
Days of our Lives.
Were it not Sunday, this might not seem so strange, but then I notice the whir of the VCR.

In the dining room, Archie sits with a cup of coffee, and a few feet away, a wheelchair-bound woman obese beyond morbidity fusses over a pale and listless teenage boy with shoe polish–black hair.

“Care to join me?” Archie says, smiling. “Coffee, tea, soda? It’s all self-serve, over by the window.” I nod and walk toward the drinks, passing the woman and the boy, trying to determine which of them is the patient.

“Hi there,” the woman says as I squeeze past. I try not to gasp. She has no legs. “I’m Doris Knox, and this here’s my son, Billy.”

“Bill,” he says in a lackluster baritone, and I smile at him.

“Eleanor,” I say, “but my mother calls me Ellie.”

He nods, feigning a smile.

“My uncle came in last night,” I say to his mother. Her makeup has been painstakingly applied: eyebrows drawn, lips lined, powder clinging to the fine hairs of her face.

“Well, then, maybe we’ll get to know each other. Lord knows I’m always here.”

I smile and move toward the coffeepot, but I don’t think we’ll be bonding with all these sick and dying people and their families. There’s no reason Benny can’t go back home now that the emergency is over. We can put a hospital bed in the living room. I can learn to handle bedpans and oxygen tanks, whatever I need to. I can be stronger than I’ve been, I know that. Benny should be home.

After dispensing a squirt of watery coffee, I decide on tea, then make my way back to Archie’s table.

“Sorry about my sister,” I say, taking a seat across from him. “She’s a little . . . I don’t know. Abrasive at times.”

He smiles and shakes his head, hands cupped around his coffee. He wears a wedding band on one hand, a class ring on the other.

“No need to apologize,” he says. “This all takes some getting used to, and you’re probably just more up to speed than she is, I’m guessing.”

“I suppose.” I dunk my tea bag up down, up down in the steaming water. “Benny seems to be doing pretty well.”

He nods. “He was in trouble when he got here, but he’s stabilizing now. We’ll continue to make him as comfortable and pain-free as possible. He’s on an antidiarrheal, but the fluids are temporary, just to replace what he’s lost. We’ve also started him on pain medication, which might make him groggy.”

“So he could go home soon?”

Archie takes a sip of his coffee, then sets it on the table and looks into it, like he’s trying to read his coffee grounds. The top of his head has the symmetrical shape of a violin or a guitar, a male-pattern-baldness piece of art that fades into his forehead.

“When Benny came to us last night,” he says, “we asked if this would
be a respite-care visit.” He looks up. “He said no, that he wanted to stay here with us.”

I take a deep breath. “He just thinks I can’t do it, or that I don’t want to. We’ve been avoiding things that felt too embarrassing, or too . . . I don’t know. Personal.”

He nods. “It’s difficult.”

“But I can do it. I know I can. I want to. I’ll do better now.” Like if I can convince him, it might be true.

“You know, I’m sure you can, but I don’t think that’s the issue here.” He looks at me for a long moment, then says, “If Benny stays here with us, he’ll have round-the-clock medical attention. He’ll have plenty of company—”

“But he has company!” I say, cheeks flushing. I was only gone one night.

“I mean people in the same stage of life, people who work with the dying every day and know their issues. I’m sure you’re a wonderful caretaker, Eleanor, but there are other things to consider.” He pauses. “Have you asked Benny what he wants?”

“Well, no,” I say, sitting back in my chair. The straight wood backrest digs into my spine. “I’m pretty sure he wants to be at home, though. I mean, why else . . .” I break off and shake my head, feeling like a peeved child. Why else would I have given up everything else?

“You need time with Benny and your family to talk it through. I’m sure you’ll come to the best decision.” He drains his coffee cup and stands. “Well, coffee break’s over. When you and your sister have a second, come find me and I’ll give you the ten-cent tour, okay?”

I don’t think so,
I’d say if I were more like Anne. He assumes Benny’s staying.

“That is, if you’ll be staying,” he says, smiling, and walks away. I take a sip of tea and scald half the taste buds off my tongue.

Billy wheels Doris past, and she reaches out to touch my shoulder. “Come visit sometime. Room 6A, on the other side of the building. Back by Archie’s garden. It’s a shame there weren’t any rooms left back there for your uncle.”

“He’s only here for respite care,” I say. “We’ll be going home soon.” I
know she’s trying to be nice, but I don’t want Benny to be part of this club.

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Doris murmurs, and she and Billy push away.

Anne meets me coming down the hall from Benny’s room.

“He’s having a problem,” she says, grimacing. “The nurse is in there with him. We’re supposed to wait out here.”

“What kind of problem?”

“He doubled over in pain, asked me to find his nurse, and that’s as much as I want to know, okay? Let the professionals deal with it.”

“But—”

“Eleanor! Give it a rest. Why didn’t you tell me he looked so . . .” She slumps into the couch, and her jaw quivers for a moment before she regains control. “You could have at least warned me. He could tell I was shocked. That has to make him feel great, me practically fainting at the way he looks.”

“But he actually looks pretty good,” I say. “Really.”

“No, actually, he doesn’t. You’re just used to it.”

I consider this for a moment, and we’re both quiet.

An anguished voice comes from the TV: “
Oh, Marlena, what have I done?”

“Can we get out of here for a while?” Anne asks. “Go get some coffee or something?”

I dig the keys from my purse, hand them to her. “Go ahead. I’m staying here.”

“Fine,” she says, rising. “Want anything?”

“Nope,” I say.

“Oh, come on. What’s wrong? He’s not going to mind if we go out for a while.”

I shake my head.

“Fine,” she says again, walking away.

“I didn’t even get to see him yet,” I say as she reaches the door.

She turns and says, “Oh,” tone softer now. “The nurse will come out to tell you when you can go back in. All right?”

I nod and close my eyes, try to breathe deeply. What I have to talk about with Benny should be between just the two of us, anyway.

“Ellie?” a female voice says, and I open my eyes.

The light in the room has shifted to late-afternoon intensity, and I’m damp with sweat wherever my body meets the couch. Earnest voices debate far too loudly on the TV now, some stupid talk show for voyeuristic losers. Nobody’s watching it.

“Hi, I’m your uncle’s nurse,” says the woman standing over me. She’s tall, taller than I am, even, sporting a boy’s haircut and purple scrubs.

“Oh, hi,” I say, struggling to my feet. “Guess I fell asleep.”

“I came out earlier to get you, but you looked so peaceful,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Grace.” She shakes my hand with the strongest grip I’ve ever felt from a woman. Stronger even than Ruthann’s. What is it with these supernurses? I resist rubbing my knuckles where she squeezed them together.

“Can I go in now?”

“Sure,” she says. “He’s sleeping, but you can sit with him if you’d like. We’ve got lots of books and magazines, crossword puzzles, stuff like that. To pass the time.”

“Oh.” There go my plans for the big talk.

“He’s having a tough time, no matter what he tries to tell you.” She smiles, and I know that Benny must like her. Her face is open and friendly, tanned from time outdoors and freckled across her cheeks and forehead.

“Do you have a few minutes?” I ask.

She checks the watch face on the inside of her wrist. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Can we go somewhere more . . . private?”

“Sure,” she says. “Have you seen Archie’s garden?”

We settle into chairs next to the wisteria, a few heavy clumps of which are still in fragrant bloom, even in this heat. I breathe in, sigh out, pick up my hair from my neck to cool off.

“I’m just wondering,” I say, “from a medical standpoint, if Benny needs to be here. I mean, what if he really wants to be at home? I don’t want him to have to be here because I couldn’t take good enough care of him.”

“Well, no,” she says, “it’s not medically necessary. Do you want my opinion?”

I nod, holding my breath.

“No matter how able you are as a caretaker, it seems to me Benny’s the kind of guy who might make it a tough job,” she says. “He doesn’t let on when he’s not feeling well. He doesn’t want to be a burden, or maybe he’s too embarrassed about certain things to have you help him.”

I nod. To say the least.

“Well, maybe if we take care of him, he can relax more and do what he needs to do before dying. We’re not his family; we’re
supposed
to do the yucky stuff. Maybe you could help him with other things, like talking about what his life has meant, writing his memories down. Or maybe he needs help wrapping up something that feels unfinished.”

Tears spring to my eyes and I nod, but I can’t answer. If I could get Mom to come here, push them together in his room and close the door, maybe they’d realize that some things are more important than hurt feelings and events from so long ago it doesn’t matter anymore.