Club Sandwich (12 page)

Maybe it isn’t stoicism, maybe it’s just good acting. Whatever the case, it works for me today as I sit here alone in the surgical waiting room at GBMC hospital.

Rusty offered to come right home, but I told him to keep the kids at the park until dinnertime. They can’t do anything, and Mom would hate it if she spoiled the day for them.

Unfortunately I called Brett in the thick of a discussion with Marcus. “Do you really need me there, Ive?”

“The ambulance is on the way, and I’m sure they’ll get her right into surgery.”

“Call me when she gets to recovery.”

We rang off three hours ago. How hard would it be to pick up the darn phone? I’m sorry her marriage is falling apart, but this is our mother. Our only mother. Marcus is husband number three, and dear God, don’t let there be a number four down the line. The family won’t survive it.

Busy at the restaurant, Brian still calls me every thirty minutes. He’s coming down after the lunch rush, and I’ll actually be glad to see him. Loneliness heavies the air.

Because there was no such thing as outpatient surgery back in the sixties, Mom packed a suitcase for both of us, and she stayed overnight with me. After the descent of the scary mask, I remember
sitting in the hospital bed and watching the nurse enter with a tray of that famed ice cream they bribe you with.

“You’ll get to eat all the ice cream you want!”

Kids, easily fooled by dreams of endless sugar, fall for it. I did. They still do. After her tonsillectomy, Lyra looked at me, the knowledge of my betrayal narrowing her eyes. Yep, I used the same ploy, knowing firsthand she’d take one bite and push the bowl away. Nevertheless, doing so made it easier on me.

Mom unwrapped the flat little wooden spoon and pulled the tab of the cup top to reveal the smooth vanilla coolness inside. She tipped the spoon into the ice cream, dug up a heap, and held it to my mouth. Oh, that frozen sweet mass on my tongue. And then I swallowed. It transmogrified into a substance fiery and glassy and loud. I shook my head as though someone had slapped it from one side, then the other.

One lousy spoonful of ice cream. Great.

We lay in the darkness of the hospital room after watching reruns of
Hogan’s Heroes, F-Troop
, and
McHale’s Navy
on channel 45, and I remember docking my eyes on Mom’s mass beneath the sheets of the bed next to me, hearing her breathing change as sleep took her. And it was good.

The next day an aide walked in, the memory of her as clear as yesterday’s chat with Trixie about what it takes to be a nice girl. Short dark hair sprouted from her head, and white plastic hoops, three inches long and shaped like tear drops, dangled from her elongated earlobes. Pale pink lipstick blanched her lips, and Cleopatra eyeliner defined her snappy black eyes.

Mom, hair having reached the proportions of a mushroom cloud, stood near the foot of the bed adjusting the television set. She apologized for her state of disarray.

The woman waved a dramatic hand. “You look sexy! Downright sexy!”

Mom laughed.

I’d never heard that word before, but I knew it was a compliment.

Nobody’s said that about me for years. Even Rusty skirts his way around the word, telling me I’m pretty and sweet and attractive. Oh, dear Lord!

I reach into my purse for a stick of gum. They’re packaged in such cute little envelopes these days. So many options. I remember the days of Wrigley’s and Black Jack. And that Clove gum! That sure made a kid run and hide from Grandma. My grandmother liked Black Jack too.

Lou, swathed in a leopard-print throw, blows into the waiting room, a jangle of wooden animal-print bangles and gold chains. “Oh, Ivy, I came as soon as I could! Neil called my cell, and the message just came in an hour ago while I was with a client. These cell phones are so untrustworthy.”

Now friendship looks like this.

“I brought you some lunch.” She pulls a brown bag out of her tiger-print tote. “I stopped by the restaurant and got this from Brian.”

I don’t feel like eating. “Thanks, sweetie.” I set the bag beside me.

“Promise me you’ll eat it sometime today.”

“I will. Thanks for coming over.”

“Would I be anywhere else? Oh right, I brought paint chips with me. Now, I know you don’t feel like looking at paint chips, but sometimes it’s good to have something else to concentrate on at times like this.”

She’s right on both counts. “Hand them over.”

“Naturally, I’d like to go a tad bold on you, but you’ll never go for that, so I’m thinking of some of the new greens. You have to live there, so I’m trying to be sensitive.”

“I like these, Lou.”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah. This mossy color looks good. Which room is first?”

“I know you want a new couch, but I was thinking of doing the kitchen.”

“Oh, Lou. The cabinets are horrible.”

“Not if I lacquer them white.”

“That’s a lot of work.”

“I’m up for it if you are, and you know Lyra will help.”

“Definitely.”

“And Ive-O, you’ve got to get rid of all those flags. I mean, I’m as patriotic as the next person, but as a decorating scheme, it’s positively horrific.”

“I’m sick of them myself.” I glance at my watch. One thirty. “You’d think she’d be out by now.”

“Are they going to do a replacement?”

I nod. “The nurse came out a while ago and told me. Everything’s shattered. Socket too. Not surprising, with her osteoporosis.”

“It’s going to be a long recovery for her. And you.” Boy, she calls that with utter precision.

She reaches into her tote. “Because the self-possessed siblings won’t lift a finger.”

Boy, she nails that one too.

“Maybe they’ll rise to the challenge.”

Lou snorts and pulls out a nail clipper, getting to work. Lou’s nails contradict her overall appearance. While one might expect a
French manicure or the latest polish, she keeps them unpolished and extremely short. Just like mine.

“Eat the sandwich, Ive-O.”

“Okay, okay.”

My cell phone rings. Great. “Ode to Joy” blasts into the waiting room, which now contains four other people besides me and Lou, who, by the way, convinced me that I needed a tile backsplash above the kitchen counters as well.

Sofa shopping with Rusty is just going to have to wait.

I rustle through my bag, searching for the blinking light. Yes, finally.

Oh no. “Hey Tony.”

“Ivy. And how are you this fine day?”

“I’m in the waiting room at GBMC. Mom’s in surgery.”

“What happened?”

I offer the abridged version. Tony, practically a one-man show at the
Lavalier
, appreciates brevity. “So can you give me an extra day on my deadline?”

“How about tomorrow evening?”

“Okay.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Don’t know.”

“Terrific.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Hey, how ’bout an encore piece?”

“Nice try.”

“You know, I don’t make enough money for you to be so picky.”

“It’s why they keep me on.”

“You’re a tough taskmaster.”

“No. You’re a good columnist. Your readers look forward to what you have to say.”

“Keep talking the bull, my friend.”

Tony chuckles. “You can do it, sweetie.”

Unfortunately, he’s right.

My mom’s never looked smaller than in that hospital bed tonight. Surely she hasn’t shrunk that much since the night I stared at her form all those years ago, my throat burning a hole through my neck. By midnight, when I tiptoed out, she slept via drip, and I promised an early return. A foam triangle of mountainous proportions separated and steadied her legs. My inner legs itch just thinking about it. They’ll send her home within the week. Along with the triangle.

As I pull out from the hospital, my cell phone rings.

“Mitch?”

“Hey Ivy. I just heard.”

“Who told you?”

“Lou. I called her to reminisce, and she said your mom had the surgery today. You okay? You’re not too tired to drive home, are you?”

“I’m already on my way. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, I’ll let you go, then. Just be careful.”

“Thanks.”

“And I had a really great time the other night.”

“Me too.”

Rusty’s watching a movie in the living room as I enter the house. “Hey hon.”

“Hi Rust.”

He rises to his feet, surprisingly nimble for his size. That’s the thing about Rusty, he wears it well. I guess. “I’ve got the kettle on and a chamomile bag ready in your cup.” He kisses me. “Go get changed, and it’ll be ready when you are.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

The steps loom. So long and so steep. But I think if I can just get up there the rest will be easy. Inside the bedroom my favorite candle burns, and soft music flows from the CD player on the dresser. I just want to strip, climb in bed, and sleep. And I know Rusty well enough to realize this setup isn’t about sex. He’s trying to be needed.

I kiss each sleeping child, then wash my face, brush my teeth, and slip on my nightgown. When I emerge from the bathroom, tea steeps in my favorite mug on the bedside table. Rusty sits at the foot of the bed. “Let me rub your head, hon.”

I go to him and feel his arms fold about me, and I go limp. Yep, I don’t need to move now for a good long time.

Awhile later Rusty asks about Mom and brings me up to speed on the day at King’s Dominion, how Persy finally stood tall enough to ride the Rebel Yell, how Trixie’s nose burned red as the color Lou’s dying to paint the powder room, how Lyra got her period for the first time.

Oh man.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I felt so sorry for her.”

“It’s like missing her first step or something.”

“Sorry, hon.”

“That really stinks. She okay?”

“Oh yeah. You know Lyr. Came out of the ladies’ room, asked for a dollar and went back in. Of course, I was clueless, and when she came back out ten minutes later I asked her what she needed it for.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘I got
it
.’ Just like that.
It
.”

“That’d be right.”

“That’s what you say?
It?
”

“Uh-huh.”

He laughs. “So anyway, she must’ve noticed the clueless expression I had on my face, and she leaned close and whispered, ‘My period, Dad. I got my period.’ She was as red as Trixie’s nose.”

“Poor girl.”

“So is it really that big a deal?”

“Huge. You guys have it so lucky.”

“I won’t argue with you there. How ’bout that tea?”

How ’bout it? Men hate talking about menstrual things. I don’t blame them.

“Get tucked in, hon.”

I climb between the sheets and comforter and feel the egg-crate mattress pad accept my weary bones.

Two sips. All I can manage. Good night, newspaper column. See ya in the morning.