Falling Out Of Bed. Mary Schramski
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phone rings and the sound startles me a little. It’s probably David, letting me know what time he’ll be home for dinner. I pick it up and hear Jan’s whisper.
“I can’t understand you,” I say. “What’s the matter?” I’m in the breakfast nook again, looking out the window, my heart pounding.
She says more breathy words I can’t decipher.
“Is Dad okay? Jan, you have to speak up.”
“The garage door is broken and the water heater went out last night,” she says in her normal voice—the cartoon cat one.
I take a breath, relax a little. Dad’s household problems can be fixed. “Did you call a repairman?”
“Stanley is so depressed. He won’t eat, won’t get out of bed. I don’t know what to do.”
“Why won’t he eat?” I’ve never known my father not to eat, not take care of himself.
“I don’t know. And he said he’s not going to do any more radiation treatments.”
My heart races more. He’s had half the treatments, Jan driving him to the radiation clinic a few miles from his condo.
“Let me talk to him.” But I know he won’t come to the phone. I’ve called twice a day since we came home and have only spoken with Jan.
“He’s so depressed, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”
“What can I do?” I begin to feel a little sick to my stomach.
“Come here. He seemed okay when you were here.”
I was hoping my father and Jan would get into a routine, Dad going to his radiation treatments, Jan taking care of him. At night when the house is quiet, I imagine Dad getting better, and later, talking about how awful this time was. Yet, deep down, I knew when I left Las Cruces, it wasn’t going to play out that way.
“He wants me there?”
“Yes, he wasn’t so depressed when you were here.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to David and call you back,” I say then hang up. Although my father is ill, I’m happy he wants my company, that I can help him in some way.
I look out to the yard and wish things were the way they were the day I planted the daffodils. My life was so calm, so perfect that early October afternoon.
CHAPTER THREE
D avid and I are standing in the garage by his workbench. After I hung up with Jan, I called him and explained that I need to go back to New Mexico. He didn’t say much except we’d talk when he got home.
I cleaned house all morning to keep busy then packed and repacked my suitcase. I kept changing my mind on what I should take, folding different jeans, T-shirts and sweaters then hanging them back up. After I finally got packed, I spent three hours in the kitchen, making dinner—Paprika Chicken, David’s favorite and chicken stew. When I heard the garage door open, I rushed through the house to meet him.
The garage door is still open and a crisp winter wind blows brown leaves under our cars.
“Why do you have to go back there so soon?” he asks.
“I told you, Dad’s condo has some problems, and Jan said he’s depressed. Maybe I can cheer him up.” I stop, realize I’m breathless. “She said he feels better when I am there.”
David rubs his left eye with the back of his hand. He looks tired, and I feel awful for not even letting him come into the house before I started telling him about this.
“I’d be depressed, too, if I had an ex-wife taking care of me. Hasn’t that woman ever heard of a repairman? If she can’t handle the house, how is she going to help your father?”
“I had a feeling Jan taking care of Dad wasn’t going to be that easy. She says he won’t eat, doesn’t want any more radiation treatments. Maybe they need some moral support.” I shrug. “What else can I do?”
“She couldn’t leave you alone for a few more days? We just got back. I don’t think it’s a good idea to run there every time she calls. What did Stan say?”
“He won’t come to the phone.” I hug myself. “You’d do the same for your mother.” This isn’t true. David would send money, call—but he wouldn’t worry like I have. Most men are different that way, and maybe they’re better off.
“No, my sister would do it. And what about your sister?”
I laugh, shake my head at his question. David knows how my sister Lena is. She won’t fly, won’t take car trips. She’s a barrel of anxieties, lives on disability and borrows money from Dad. She still tries to get money from me, and I used to lend it to her until I realized she was never going to pay us back.
“You know how my sister is.”
“Yeah.”
Whenever I bad-mouth my sister to my father, he always explains what a hard beginning Lena had, before my parents adopted her. My mother was told she might not be able to get pregnant and she wanted a child desperately. They adopted Lena when she was six months old. She only weighed nine pounds. Her fourteen-year-old mother had left her with relatives who’d neglected her.
Every time Dad tells me she had a rough beginning, I know he’s right, until the next time Lena tries to hit me up for five hundred dollars. And even though she’s four years older than I am, most of my life I have felt like the older sister.
“So how long do you think you’ll stay?” David moves a screwdriver with a yellow handle from one side of his workbench to the other.
“Not long. I’ll just get the condo straightened out, cheer Dad up, come back as soon as I can. I figure three days will be enough to get the repairs done.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“I got an airline ticket for tomorrow. I was looking online and it was such a good deal, I was afraid I’d lose it. You could come with me if you want to. Dad was better when you were there.”
“I’ve got too many projects. Besides, with Jan there, your father’s condo is too crowded. I’ll hold the fort down here.”
He walks to the remote button, hits it hard and the garage door rumbles shut.
We are in bed. I have the TV on, and David is lying on his back waiting for me to turn off the TV so he can go to sleep. The gray-and-white light from “Leave It to Beaver” illuminates our bedroom. June is talking to Ward in their spotless kitchen, but I have the set on mute so I have no idea what problem they’re solving.
“Isn’t it wonderful I got a good deal on an airline ticket,” I say, although this isn’t true.
“What airline again?” He yawns and so do I.
“American.”
“How much?”
I close my eyes, continue to shade the truth. “One ninety-eight.” The ticket actually cost almost three hundred dollars. I put it on a credit card I have that David doesn’t know about—one I got when I was teaching. I don’t like doing this, but sometimes I don’t tell the truth about money just to avoid a fight. David has always worried about our finances. I’m sure it’s because his father died when he was eight and their family struggled financially after that. He’s explained how they never had enough and he wouldn’t have been able to go to college if he hadn’t gotten an academic scholarship. I guess our childhoods follow us around whether we want them to or not.
“That price isn’t bad,” he says.
I relax a little, wet my lips. “While I’m gone you’ll have plenty to eat. There’s the leftover Paprika Chicken, and the stew I made this afternoon.” I felt good as I neatly stacked food in the fridge—knew David would have home-cooked meals