Club Sandwich (32 page)

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t know what else to do, with the restaurant and all.”

“Get that husband of yours home.”

“Tell me about it.”

I might as well just come out and say it. “I don’t know how I’m going to pay for this, though.”

“How much is it?”

“Two-fifty a week.”

“So call Brett. Miss Moneybags. It’s all I’m good for.” Her voice, soft, quivers.

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

“Have you thought about seeing a doctor?”

“Oh yeah, that would be rich. Marcus Forsythe, political candidate and husband of a crazy woman.”

“You’ve got more on him. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“We have a coffee tomorrow night with some influential people, fund-raising and all that.”

“Come by the restaurant during the slow hours. I haven’t seen you in a while, and I miss you.” I add that to subdue the rising hackles.

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks. It’ll be nice. Have you seen the place since the work was done?”

“Not yet.”

“You’ll like it.”

We’re silent for a second, and then she speaks. “I’d give anything to sit in Grandpa’s diner again.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“How did life get so complicated?”

I sigh. “I don’t know. But it isn’t just us. Maybe it’s just the way it is these days. For everybody.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Okay, well, hopefully I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I tell her how much I love her. And I hang up with no promise of cash. But a heart full of sorrow is mine.

In bed, I begin to pray for everyone in one big, sweeping, generalized groan. Dear God, come in and work Your wondrous ways. We need You so badly. We need grace. We need mercy. We need Your loving hand.

Jesus died for me. A simple thought. I, a sinner, desperately in need of grace, had all I ever needed for the taking. Rusty sings a song called “Jesus and Me.”

“Now it is Jesus and me, for each tomorrow, for every heartache and every sorrow.”

Each tomorrow. Yep, that’s what I need, Lord. Just tomorrow. Every day, just tomorrow.

“She loves Glenn Miller,” I tell Margaret. “And I brought some of her favorite magazines.”

“She’ll do fine, Mrs. Schneider, don’t worry.”

“I can’t help myself.”

“It’s okay. It’s natural.”

“And you’ll call me if there’s any problem?”

“You bet. Don’t worry.”

Mom looks scared.

“And sometimes, she starts preaching.”

Margaret laughs. “I’ve seen it all.”

I’m sure that’s true. “I’ll be by at 3:45.”

“She’ll be ready for you.”

I check the week’s menu list on the way out. Wednesday, Swedish meatballs and egg noodles. Good. Mom loves Swedish meatballs.

Brett’s comment about Grandpa’s diner set me to thinking.

I sit at the kitchen booth nursing a cup of coffee as Garret and Matty chop stuff. “So here’s the deal, guys. I’ve been looking over
the books, and as nice as running a
bistro
sounds, business has been slacking off. It’s not that your food is bad, I love it. But for at least this month, I want to try running a couple blue plate specials. Meat loaf. Chicken-fried steak. That sort of thing. I also want you guys to dream up a burger menu. Standards. But put a few gourmet ones in there too. Shiitake mushroom teriyaki stuff, whatever.”

Garret raises his brows. “Brian’s going to freak.”

“Brian’s not here this month.”

Matty smiles. “Hey, I like my job. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep this place afloat.”

“Great. Okay, then let’s start it up next week. Can you have the new menu ready by Saturday night? I’ll make them up Sunday and have them ready to go Monday morning.”

“You got it.” Matty’s already dreaming. Garret, too. Good. It’s smart to let these creative types do their thing.

At two o’clock, Brett slips in wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. And she’s gained some weight. Which makes sense. She and I possess opposite coping mechanisms. My stomach closes up shop; she eats all day long. I give her as warm a hug as I am able to give. “I’m glad you came.”

“I couldn’t not come. I think I’m drowning and that I don’t even have the right.”

“Come sit down. I’m having Garret make you something special for lunch.”

“You having lunch?”

“Yeah. How does a big sloppy cheeseburger sound?”

“Perfect.”

“Blue cheese?”

“You know me.”

I give Garret the order and sit back down with Brett. A check sits on the table in front of my chair. “Thanks, Brett.”

“I’m sorry I gave you grief last night. I just can’t seem to control myself these days.”

Fact is, I still don’t remotely want to be her, boss sound system and all.

“Apology accepted.”

“How’s Mom doing at the day care?”

“They haven’t called, so I’m assuming everything’s fine. I’m getting off here at three thirty, and I’ll go pick her up. You ready for that coffee tonight?”

“Oh sure. I’ll just sit there and smile and nod. Piece of cake.”

Brett fills me in on the girls and the general state of her life. Her emptiness touches my soul. I can’t find it in me to be upset that she’s really no good to me. That perspective is from God, pure and simple.

“Let me pick Mom up,” she says.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I need to see my mother.”

“You got it. Thanks.”

Wow.

“Mom?”

She’s crying. Glenn Miller plays, and her dim room feels chilly.

“Ivy?”

“It’s me, Mom. What’s wrong?”

“I was thinking about when I met your father.”

No volcanoes at Harry’s first public supper with us. Harry played the perfect gentleman, and we all kept the conversation light. Mom said little and played with her napkin.

“You want to talk about it?” I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Oh, I was just thinking about that day. Your father was coming down the street from some bar with a buddy, and I was sitting in the car with my friend Eleanor.”

Uh-oh.

“And a fight broke out, nothing to do with your father, of course, but they didn’t want anything to do with it. He and his friend jumped in the backseat of our car.”

Oh man.

“I was wearing Chanel N°5, a Christmas present from my father, and do you know, Harry leaned up and said, ‘You smell really good.’ ”

Only it wasn’t “really good,” it was “extremely good.” And it wasn’t her and my father, it was my grandmother and grandfather.

She finishes the tale. “Tell me about how you and that nice fellow Mitch met.”

“Dr. Roberts?”

“Hi Ivy.”

“It’s about my mother. Her dementia is getting more pronounced. It’s all been happening so fast.”

“We need to check the arteries leading to her brain.”

Mom’s arteries are harder than James Carville’s head. I heard that knee-jerk liberal on
What Do You Know
the other day and wanted to throw up. Rant, rant, rant. Rave, rave, rave. How did this
guy ever become a celebrity? I mean, foaming at the mouth isn’t exactly an attractive quality now, is it?

I should know. I’m doing it right now!

“What can be done?”

“Well, we can do a balloon catheterization on the arteries that aren’t completely blocked. The problem is, I don’t know how strong your mother’s heart is. She does have that arrhythmia. We’ll have to run tests to make sure the surgery can be done safely.”

“When can we get this scheduled?”

“Is she HMO or PPO?”

“PPO.”

“Good. I’ll have one of the office managers call you and set up appointments for the testing. You prefer St. Joseph’s, if I recall.”

“That’s right.”

We exchange a few more details, and I hang up. Thank God for Reuben and Harry and their willingness to drive a car.

I want to ask Reuben if he’s found any opportunities for Rusty, but if I do, he’ll know for sure I was eavesdropping.

Rusty’s sent some very interesting e-mails. Slipping little things into his remarks like, “not all it’s cracked up to be,” and “becoming increasingly disillusioned with life on the road” and “missing the milestones in the kids’ lives.” He’s definitely relinquishing his hold on the singing business, and doing so in such a way as to save his pride. Reuben’s a genius.