The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving (14 page)

accidents

O
ptimism does not prevent me from arriving ten minutes late for work again.
Th
is time, Elsa is not waiting in the kitchen with her tack bag or in the foyer tapping her foot but in the living room, where she's seated in my spot on the couch with her hands in her lap like she doesn't know what to do with them. Otherwise, she's calm like a cobra.

“Sit down,” she says.

I sit in the chair along the near wall.
Th
e first thing I notice is that the map is gone.
Th
ere's a giant white rectangle running the length of the far wall. Faintly, you can see hundreds of tiny pinholes in the sheetrock, more or less evenly spread.
Th
e second thing I notice is that Elsa's not dressed for work. She's in a yellow sweater and man's corduroys and rubber gardening clogs.

“
Th
ere's been an accident,” she says.

Suddenly I can hear the blood surging behind my eardrums. My voice comes to me as though from a distance. “Is he okay?”

“It's Bob.”

A silence sets in as I grope for an appropriate response to this news.

“He was on his way to see the Biggest Watermelon in the World,” Elsa explains.

I knew all along Bob was destined for something like this. Sooner or later, his Magoo-like inattention to the ever-lurking potential for disaster was bound to betray him.

“He was driving through the desert,” Elsa explains. “He fell asleep at the wheel.”

“And he hit a watermelon?”

“A billboard.
Th
e only one within miles.”

“Jesus. Is he—”

“He's okay, stable. Pretty banged up, though. A broken leg, three broken ribs.”

It's comforting to know that Bob's probably taking it like a champ. Making lemonade. Stroking his baby blanket.

“
Th
ank God, he's all right,” I say.

She searches my face, briefly but critically. I'm not sure what she's looking for, but my sympathy for Bob must be written there.

“You know,” she says, “Bob hasn't always tried this hard.”

“I know. I got the impression. Trev's told me as much.”

“Yes, I'll bet he has,” she says, as though it were an accusation. “Bob likes to do things on his terms. Bob is conditional. He likes to show up with gifts and pretend he never went away. He thinks fried chicken is the cure to everybody's problems.”

Not anymore he doesn't. I could tell her that. But I've learned my lesson about defending Bob.

“Everybody lets Bob off the hook. Everybody is so quick to forgive Bob. And do you know why? Because he's basically an infant.”

I wonder if she knows about the blanket. She must.

She glances at the bare wall for diversion. I watch as her gray eyes make a sweeping survey of the faint pinholes, just as mine did. Her face slackens ever so slightly. She looks sad and overwrought beneath her hard veneer. When she catches me staring at her, she looks back at me intently for what feels like a long time. So long that I begin to feel transparent.

“He trusts you,” she says.

“Bob?”

“Trevor. And that scares me.”

“Scares you?”

“Trevor needs continuity. Nobody's doing him any favors by not sticking around. It does more damage than it does good.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep.”

“Where am I going? I have no family. I have no job opportunities. I have no life.”

She leans forward on the sofa and looks me right in the eye. It's like looking straight at the sun. I stare shiftily back at the bridge of her nose.

“It's not about you this time,” she says. She releases my eyes, and they dart straight for the window. I can feel myself blanching as she leans back in her seat.

“
Th
is time it's about somebody else.”

I have no clue where she's going with any of this, but wherever it is, I'd rather not go there. Suddenly, I feel as though I'm on trial alongside Bob.

“I'm not sure what I think of you,” she says. “But Trevor likes you, he trusts you, and that's all I need to know to be scared of you. And that may sound ungrateful.”

“I think I understand.”

She pins my eyes in place once more. “Do you?
Th
en maybe you could clear something up for me. Because this was never supposed to be personal. So I'm a little confused about how we got here.”

“I'm sorry,” I say, though I'm not sure why I'm apologizing. I'm even less sure what any of this has to do with Bob's misfortune.

“So how did we get here?” Elsa wants to know. “Tell me.”

“Get where? Where are we? I don't understand.”

“I was required to get a license, you know?” she says, by way of explanation. “Just like you. I took all the same classes as you. I have to do ten hours of continuing coursework every year just like you. I remember all the checks and balances, all the idiot-proof diagrams, and those silly mnemonics. But what I don't remember is the part about creating unreasonable expectations and dispensing unsolicited advice.”

“What are we talking about?”

“For starters, I'd like to know how he got it in his head to take this road trip?”

“You mean the map?
Th
e map was just an exercise. Nobody ever said we were actually going to do it. Did he say that?”

“He's got it in his head that the two of you are driving the van to Utah.”

“For real?”

“To see Bob.”

“I—but I had no idea.”

She looks at me doubtfully. “His pulmonary is weak, his breathing is shallow.
Th
e last virus could have killed him. He needs access to medical facilities at all times.
Th
e next bug could be too much for him. What on earth were you thinking?”

Th
e answer, of course, is that I wasn't. All of this is Trev's doing—everything short of Bob's accident. And I'm only beginning to see the elegance of Trev's design.
Th
is is an invitation. Or maybe a challenge. Trev is counting on me to answer this call. But why? For what? Could it be that by putting the onus on
me
, by making this visit to Bob
my
idea, Trev is protecting his mother? Is it for Elsa that Trev has fought the Battle of Bob all these years; beaten back his father's flagging offensives, rejected his peace offerings like Trojan Horses? Is Trev—Would-You-Give-Her-Moroccan-Meatball Trev—really so expansive that he would go to such ends on his mother's behalf? Could it be that by allowing her to protect him—from Bob, from the world at large, from all things uncertain—Trev is actually trying to protect her? Suddenly Trev seems like a stranger, his inner workings invisible to me, like he's been somebody else all along. And yet I've never felt closer to him.

“Tell me, then,” says Elsa. “What you were thinking when you cooked up this trip? And just when were you planning to tell me about it? Or were you just planning on leaving while I was in Bend and not telling me at all?”

“I guess I was thinking it's something he needs to do,” I lie.

Elsa clamps her eyes shut and breathes deeply. Calmly, she proceeds. “What gives you the right to decide what my son needs? I don't remember any of this in the service plan. Are you a psychologist? A physician?”

“I'm the best friend he's got.”

Now she stares me down more intently than ever.
Th
is time I meet her eyes unflinchingly. But truth be told, I'm only reflecting her glare, shining it back on her in hopes of blinding her to my own weakness. I'm not sure how long I can hold it. We both know she's stronger. We both know that I'm ultimately unreliable, that even my best intentions are suspect, and that in my own way I'm every bit as crippled as her son. But somehow I manage to outlast her, and she looks out the window.

“You're fired,” she says.

mr. goodbar

C
onsider my selfishness. Consider that in the seven minutes I've been parked in
front of the Chevron Mini-Mart, staring stupidly at the dash console, feeling sorry for myself as I ponder my invisible future, I've yet to reflect upon Trev's fate in all of this. He's the real victim here, right? He's the one being denied a friend, an ally, or at the very least, a bathroom attendant. But maybe I'm still giving myself too much credit. Maybe this is what Trev wanted. Maybe we weren't conspirators, after all. Isn't it more likely that Trev put me in the hot seat because it was the closest one to the door? Isn't it more likely that I pushed him one too many times?

I'm feeling reckless. It's ten in the morning. But nothing short of a twelve-pack will do. And some chips. And a gigantic Mr. Goodbar. Failure makes me hungry. It's a wonder I'm not three hundred pounds. In thirty-odd visits to the Chevron Mini-Mart, the counter guy—and it's always the same guy: midfifties, big belly, narrow shoulders, tattooed hand, one bad tooth—has never spoken to me beyond the obligatory “Is that it?” or “
Th
at'll be ten eighty-six.” But of all days, today he's suddenly Chatty Cathy.

“Mornin', boss,” he says, as I heft my twelver onto the counter.

I nod, just barely. Among the riot of moods and impulses presently elbowing for room at the forefront of my emotional queue, chattiness is somewhere near the back.

“
Th
irsty today, huh? You want some bacon and eggs with that, boss?”

“Good one.”

“
Th
anks.” He glances at the clock above his head as he's bagging the beer. “Good day to drink,” he observes.

“It's for tonight,” I explain.

His neck gets fatter when he smiles. “Oh right, tonight,” he says, with a little wink. “Gotcha.”

“Look, how much?”

“Fifteen thirty-six,” he says, dropping the giant Mr. Goodbar in the bag. “Hope you're not diabetic, boss.”

“Just give me my fucking change, please.”

“You ever tried the sour cream and onion?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“You know what?” I say. “I don't need this. Stop. Please. Just give me my change, and let me get on with my life.”

“Suit yourself, boss.”

On the drive home, my thoughts turn to Bob. I imagine him in traction, encased in some kind of body cast with his legs hoisted up, doing his best to be cheerful in a world where billboards and giant watermelons conspire to annihilate you, smiling sheepishly, almost apologetically up at a squat gray nurse with skin tags on her arms who ministers to his exposed areas with a wet towel. You can't fault him for being cheerful. Who knows, maybe he planned all of this. Maybe in spite of all his broken bones and dashed desires, in spite of the complete and unmitigated fiasco he's made of his life with his clownish bungling, Bob has reason to hope. I almost envy him. He's still got something at stake.

I park on Wallace and approach the apartment from the back. Skirting the laurel hedge along the north side, I peek around the corner. No sign of the blue Blazer. Venturing out a few tentative steps, I crane my neck and confirm that Chuck's blinds are closed. Easing into the corridor, I sniff the air for Madge's cigarette smoke. I crane my neck once more and make a sweep of the laundry room. All clear. I scurry up the steps with my bag of beer and duck under Madge's window when I pass. As I'm fidgeting with my keys, I hear footsteps on the stairs and begin to fumble in earnest, cursing myself for carrying around a bunch of keys that no longer unlock anything, since everything they ever protected has vanished, fled, or been liquidated. Lighting upon the proper key just as the steps reach the landing, I slip into the apartment and close the door stealthily behind me. I stand with my back pressed to the door, breathing quietly lest I betray my presence as the footfalls round the corner and proceed with purpose in my direction.
Th
ey stop in front of my door. I feel the percussion of the knocks on my back. After three fruitless attempts, I hear a shuffling of feet, and soon a shadow descends on the living room through the window. It's only a blob, further obscured by the Levolors, so I can't tell whether it's Chuck or the Cockroach, or Donald Rumsfeld for that matter. I don't even know who the enemy is anymore. My twelve-pack is getting warm. I want to cry. I want to be left alone, to lick my wounds and drink my beer and eat my Mr. Goodbar. But no. My wrist is beginning to cramp from the weight of the beer. Just when I'm sure I can't hold out any longer, the shadow recedes, and finally, the footsteps retreat slowly from whence they came.

I lock the door, and close the blinds, and feel my every muscle slacken as darkness envelops the room. A relative calm washes over me. Retiring to the sofa, I crack a beer, and stare dully straight ahead at the luminous clock face. It's 10:31 a.m. I think I can smell the bottom from here.