Eating Heaven (25 page)

Grace says, “That might mean more to both of you than emptying bedpans and cooking and cleaning for him.”

“Oh, I’m still going to cook for him,” I say, blowing my nose, and she smiles. I look around the yard, still marveling at the volume and variety of flowers, at the surfeit of color. “Would it be okay to pick a few of these to put in his room?”

“That’s what they’re here for,” she says, standing and glancing at her watch. “There should be some cutters lying around here somewhere, and the vases are in the kitchen, in the cabinet over the sink. Help yourself.”

When she’s gone, I wander through the garden, letting my mind still to just the task of finding the most beautiful specimens, even though I feel half guilty at plucking them in their prime.

Ernie and Ofelia Sandoval have been married for thirty-seven years, a fact they tell me within two minutes of meeting me. They could be brother and sister, each built like a small brick structure on sturdy legs, graying hair short and practical. Ofelia wears a flowered apron, though, where Ernie sticks to the simple white half-apron of restaurant folk. They owned a café in Corvallis, they tell me, until three years ago when they sold it to start working at Riverview.

“What brought you here?” I ask, filling a carafe-shaped vase with water.

Ofelia pats Ernie’s broad chest. “This is where Mother Sandoval passed,” she says, and a look passes between them that brings tears to my eyes. Why have I never noticed how much pain there is in the world? I’ve never really understood that no one is safe. Grief and pain are everywhere, and somehow, even though my own father died, I’ve missed it.

Ofelia turns to me. “You have someone here?”

“My uncle, Benny Sloan. He’s kind of gotten used to my cooking. I was wondering if I might be able to use your kitchen sometimes?”

“Sure, sure,” they both say, nodding in unison. Ernie says, “Help yourself whenever you want. Sometimes people make special things for birthdays, or bake cookies. It’s an open kitchen. Just clean up.” He smiles. “You like to cook?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s pretty much all I do.”

“Hey, don’t be telling him that or he’ll have you in here helping out,” Ofelia says, turning to boxes of groceries on the counter. She heaves an industrial-size can of tomato sauce and balances it on her hip like a grandbaby. “He’s always looking for his next victim.”

I look around at the basic equipment, the meager supplies. I could bring in a few things, donate an appliance or two, and it occurs to me that I might have found a place where I could do what I do best, and do some good.

“Hi, sleepyhead,” I say when Benny gradually rustles awake. “How are you feeling?”

He looks at me dully.

“Look, I picked you some flowers.” I carry the vase over, set it on the tray beside his bed. “What do you think? As good as the ones in your yard?”

He nods slowly and fumbles with the side of the bed.

“What do you need? Can I help?” He’s trying to push the button to raise the head of the bed. “Here you go,” I say, putting his fingers on the button. He still can’t press it hard enough, so I press it with him, watch the slow-motion progression of his head and torso as they rise into sitting position.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asks, wiping at his mouth with curled fingers.

I pour a cup from the plastic pitcher on the tray and hand it to him. “A couple hours. But I gather you didn’t sleep much last night.”

“No, not really,” he says, and drinks. When he’s finished, I take the cup.

“Better?”

He nods. “Thank you, honey.”

“Benny,” I say. “Tell me the truth, okay?”

“About what?”

“Is this where you want to be? We could get more help at home, you know. They’ll give us all the help we need if you want to go back. We can get more medical visits, get you a cute little aide to come bathe you and do all that private stuff.”

His lips press tight and his nostrils quaver. He’s quiet for a moment before he answers. “Honey, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to stay here.”

“Of course,” I say, turning to tug his blanket across his knees. I don’t want him to see my face. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“You take good care of me, Miss Roosevelt,” he says in an unsteady voice. “If my daughter had lived, if she hadn’t been in such bad shape, I would have wanted her to be just like you. You’re a fine girl. Always have been.” He finds my hand on the bed and holds my fingers.

I nod slowly, close my eyes, and we stay that way for such a long moment that I start to feel lightheaded. I want to talk to him about Rosemary before it’s too late, about his life with my mother, but how do I
start? Do I pretend I don’t know anything? Do I tell him Mom’s version of the story? Or do I accept his silence as a dying wish?

Finally, I open my eyes and smile, extract my hand and pat his. “Anything I can get for you?”

He shakes his head, staring at the blankets in front of him.

“What’s wrong?”

“They got me in diapers.”

“Oh!” I say, then, quickly, to soften it, “Well, not really
diaper
- diapers, are they?”

“As good as,” he says. “But they think they can get my stomach to settle down.”

“Good,” I say, “that’s good.” It’s barely five, but the Sandovals have started cooking. “Are you hungry?”

“No, not just yet,” he says. “Maybe later.”

I wander back to my chair, pick up the booklet I’ve been reading, “A Family’s Guide to Hospice.” “Check it out, Uncle Benny. I’ve been studying.”

There’s no answer. His eyes have closed, and guessing from the rhythm of his breathing, he’s fallen back to sleep.

W
here are you?” I whisper into my cell phone. “You said you were going out for coffee.” Anne’s been gone more than two hours.

Over static, she says, “I’m almost there. It took me longer than I thought, but I’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Yeah? Well, it’d better be a triple iced mocha.”

“Even better,” she says.

“I hate to break it to you, but a quadruple’s just overkill,” I say, walking into the living room, where a large family sits with the tiniest old woman I’ve ever seen.

“You’ll see. Now hang up. I’m pulling into the parking lot.”

I click off, sit on the arm of a chair close to the door. Try as I might, it’s impossible not to eavesdrop on the family’s conversation.

“Jeremy’s going to band camp next week even though he doesn’t want to,” the mother is saying, “and Amber is still working at Burgerville.” Fake laugh. “She spends all her money on clothes, and all her free time at the mall, don’t you, honey? But I guess that’s what girls do these days. I’ve tried to get her to look at colleges, but I know, I know. It’s her life.”

This is what we talk to dying people about? Our own personal burdens? The old woman hasn’t uttered a word. I’d look to see if she’s even listening, but I already feel like an intruder.

I stand to walk outside, but Anne beats me through the door. She turns to look behind her, and I gasp at her surprise.

“Oh, Ellie,” Yolanda says, holding out her arms, and I am in them before I know it, and we’re both crying and I’m saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Honey, for what?”

“I couldn’t do it. I let him down.”

“Shh,” she whispers into my hair, and we stand entwined, swaying. “I should never have left you to do my job,” she says, then pulls away, silver bangles chiming as she wipes the mascara from beneath her eyes. “What would we do without you girls? Thank goodness you were there with him.”

If only I had been. “But I—”

“Eleanor,” Anne interrupts, giving me a look, “has been a trooper. I wish I’d come home sooner.”

“Honey, how could you know?” Yolanda says, absolving us, forgiving us, as she always has whether she knew how bad we’d been or not. “Now, where’s the ladies’ room? I’ll let you girls in on a secret no one mentions until it’s too late: When you get to be my age, all you do is pee.”

“Down that hall, second door on your right,” I say, pointing. Then to Anne, “I broke down and took the tour.”

Anne looks the happiest she has since she arrived in Portland. I’m ashamed at the jealousy I feel. The things I’ve done for Benny are nothing compared to bringing his wife back to him.

When Yolanda’s out of earshot, I say, “How on earth did you get her here?”

“That’s why I was gone so long. She wasn’t going to come. She thought Mom would be here.”

“Right,” I snort.

“I just don’t get how all this turned into such a soap opera, so many years after the fact,” Anne says. “What the hell happened?”

Like I know. The bathroom door opens, and we fall silent at the jangle of bracelets.

Benny and Yolanda’s reunion takes place behind his closed door. Anne and I wait in the living room. She’s in a La-Z-Boy by the window reading a
Christian Science Monitor;
I’m across the room on the couch, eyes closed against friendly intruders. What secrets are being told in Benny’s room, I wonder, what wounds being exposed? Has Benny told Yolanda the truth over the years? Is he telling her the truth now? I try not to think about it. Maybe some secrets were meant to be kept. I certainly don’t feel better for discovering Mom and Benny’s indiscretions, and I’m not sure I feel better knowing about Rosemary. I breathe in, two three, out, two three, and open my eyes. All that matters now is now, and whether or not these two people can find some peace before it’s too late.

Benny’s door opens, and Yolanda wheels him out. They are puffy-eyed but laughing at something he’s said, a corny joke, maybe, or a private one between them.

“Chow time,” Benny says to Anne and me, and we join them. Wrapped in a robe the hospice must have provided, he looks gnarled and shrunken in the wheelchair.

How did I not see it before?

“I’ve got to bring you some clothes,” I tell him, “and your other stuff. We need to make a list after dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I was just—”

“No, honey,” Yolanda says. “It’s good to see someone else boss this old goat around.”

We walk into the dining room, where the Sandovals are serving Sunday dinner family style: chicken and dumplings, fresh creamed spinach, puffy white bread rolls with slabs of butter. Jell-O—yes, Jell-O—salad, with grated carrots and apples and mayonnaise. Jugs of iced tea and Hawaiian Punch sit on every table, and more than a few adults—especially those who look like residents—choose the vibrant red pitcher.

I place tentative spoonfuls of each dish on my plate, dip the tines of my fork into the spinach, taste. I close my eyes at the sweet, creamy sauce laced with just the right amount of nutmeg and something else. White pepper. The chicken is tender, the dumplings soft and light.
Before I know it, my plate is clean, and Yolanda looks at me and smiles. Benny is deep in conversation with another wheelchaired old man, sitting across from him and to the left. I think they’re talking about car engines. The words “horsepower” and “revs” drift my way.

We could be sitting at a church social or a community fund-raiser like the ones we used to attend in Lake Grove, growing up. The mood is light, considering the number of gaunt faces amid family members, and laughter erupts every so often around the room. Benny’s eating only his Jell-O, but his eyes are bright. Anne is exclaiming that she’s eaten too much, and Yolanda asks for seconds on the creamed spinach. Ernie and Ofelia, when they aren’t hustling to refill bread baskets or clear plates, survey the crowd with a look of tired satisfaction that I completely understand.

The next morning, Anne is still asleep when I get up to put on coffee. I’ve been wakened by Buddy’s insistent kneading of my stomach. She hasn’t done that in months; she misses Benny, or maybe Pauncho. Sometimes I think maybe I miss Pauncho, too. My body, though thinner, feels unfamiliar, uncomfortable, too many sharp edges where there used to be rounded corners.

Buddy trots across the floor and jumps onto the arm of the sofa where Anne is buried beneath a cotton blanket.

“Buddy,” I whisper. “Don’t you dare.”

She lifts a paw, tentatively pats the blanket over Anne’s head, then looks at me, like,
What are you going to do about it?

Anne rolls over, and Buddy delicately steps into a space she’s left between her arm and her head, turns three-quarters of the way around, and settles in to sleep.

As the coffee begins to drip, I grab the phone and head for my bedroom, closing the door to call Alice.

“First of all, I want to apologize,” I say when she answers.

“I know you’re going through a tough time,” she says. “It isn’t easy, and sometimes we just snap.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you.” She has been more than kind. As much as I hate to say it, she has been, well . . . caring.

“Benny’s house is all cleaned up, spic-and-span,” she says.

“Thank you, and thank you for taking care of Benny the other night. It’s so weird that it happened when I was gone, of all times.”

“Not really,” she says. “I see it all the time with home hospice patients. They wait until the wife or the sister or whoever is gone, and then, bang.”

“What, they explode?” I knew the woman was odd.

“They let go. They break down. They die, sometimes, even. Strangest thing.”

I close my eyes, imagining Benny letting go of the edge of a swimming pool, floating off until he’s just a speck on the turquoise horizon.

Back in the living room, Anne stirs. Buddy hops to the floor and trots back into my bedroom to nap for the day. I pour a cup of coffee, my breakfast of late, but realize it won’t do me today. Either I’ve reconditioned myself back to the routine of meal eating by last night’s supper, or I’m just plain hungry. Rummaging through the fridge, I sigh at the neatly wrapped lamb—the only sign that Henry was ever here—then pull out eggs, cream, the rest of the Chaource, and fresh herbs.

“Morning,” Anne croaks from beneath her blanket.

“Breakfast?”

“Mm,” she says. “Mm hmm.”

I crack eggs into a bowl, pour in cream, and mince herbs into tiny green specks. Anne stumbles into the kitchen in men’s cotton pajamas, pours a cup of coffee, and leans against the counter.

“I’ve never understood why people like to cook,” she says, taking a long, thoughtful drink. “Where do you suppose you got it from? Certainly not from Mom.”

“I guess I’m just a rebel.” I say nothing about Yolanda. Anne never went on our shopping trips, never stood in their kitchen, mincing herbs or juicing lemons. She was never invited. “How’d you sleep?” I ask.

“Lousy.”

“You know, there’s more room over at Benny’s, and it’s all cleaned up.”

“You’re kicking me out?”

“No! I ju—”

“Kidding! I’m kidding, Eleanor. You’re right. I’ll move over there.”

“Only if you want to,” I say, and we fall silent as I whisk everything together.

“So, El.”

“Yeah?” I pour the yellow-green mixture into an omelet pan bubbling with butter.

“Don’t get me wrong. I mean, I know I’ve probably teased you too much about your weight, but . . . are you okay?”

I turn to look at her, crossing an arm over my middle. “Yeah, fine. I’ve lost a little weight. Stress. You know.”

She nods, takes another sip of coffee. “But you haven’t gone all anorexic or anything, right?”

“No, of course not.” I laugh. “I’m fixing breakfast, aren’t I? Did you see all the food in the fridge?”

“Okay,” she says. “Just checking.”

“Anyway, you should talk. You’ve always been a stick.”

“Yeah, but I’m wired that way. You’re not.”

I smile—that’s the understatement of the century—and say, “I’m okay.”

And the thing is, I might be. Where the smell of melting butter would have made me queasy at Benny’s, it’s now that lovely harbinger of something delicious that it always used to be. This familiar sensation of hunger isn’t a dull annoyance to be quelled with a cracker; it’s a yammering so insistent that I can’t ignore it. And I don’t want to. I want to taste real food again. Instead of the emptiness I’ve been living with, I want to feel sated.

Somehow, I am speeding back into life as Benny is speeding out. Is it the simple relief of no longer being responsible for his physical well-being? Is it being away from the smells and sights and sounds of illness? Or do the dying release their energy to those they love, a parting gift?

“Before we go today,” I say, “I need to make a cake.”

She snorts. “Just like that? And I suppose without a mix?”

I fold the omelet, then cut it in half and slide each portion onto a
small white plate garnished with more herbs. “It’s just as easy without a mix, and it will only take as long as it takes you to get ready.” I hand her a plate, grab forks from the drawer. “Besides, I owe Benny a spice cake,” I say, salivating at the warm slick of French cheese oozing from between perfectly cooked folds of egg.

Later, Anne is standing in the bathroom with the door open and Buddy is perched on the toilet tank, watching her brush her teeth.

“So, why the cat?” she calls through a mouthful of toothpaste, then spits into the sink and rinses.

“She’s a pet, Anne. People have pets.” I take a sip of coffee, tap my pen on the to-do list I’m making for today.
Pack Benny’s stuff, check e-mail, bring Benny’s bills for Yolanda
. The smell of baking cinnamon and cloves and allspice drifts from the kitchen.
Call Henry?
I could tell him Benny’s doing okay. I could tell him . . . what? That I like him? That I miss him after just one day? How needy is that?

“Hi,” Anne says to the cat, then reaches out to pet the top of her head. Buddy arches against her hand, knowing she will elicit a full-body stroke or at least a scratch behind the ears.