Bob’s Dinner

Sylvia broke the adhesive strip with the same care she would give an infant, or the Hummel figurine in her china cabinet. She shouldn’t have taken it to heart when the new guy slammed her purchase on the meat counter without a word. What could he know about tradition at his age?

She didn’t need him. As she lifted the pair of rib eyes off the wrapping paper, she repeated the words that Mr. Jacobs usually delivered with a wink. “Just like you and Bob. One petite and the other hardy.”

Still uncomfortable with the new bridge, she would prefer something light and easier to chew, a tuna stuffed tomato or noodles with pesto sauce maybe. But she had served soup and grilled cheese the night before. Bob deserved a full meal tonight.

Not that he would throw a fit the way his brother, or James next door did when served anything other than meat and potatoes. Bob kept his temper in check at home, same as he did everywhere else. He complimented the chef and thanked her, even when she fed him quiche or slapped cold cuts, a loaf of store-bought bread, and a jar of pickles on the table in front of him and called it dinner.

She made a habit of slapped-together meals lately, but he hadn’t uttered the first complaint. A tear rolled to her chin and threatened to dive into the marinade. She caught it with her shoulder as she turned the steaks in the mixture.

How could that man still find pockets of sentiment in her heart after all these years? She sniffed, covered the meat, placed it in the refrigerator to soak, and washed her hands before ripping a paper towel off the roll to wipe her eyes.

Light-headed and unsure whether to credit blood pressure, blood sugar, or romance, she held onto the counter and waited for the room to stop spinning. As her reflection came into focus in the window over the sink, she smiled. Forget blood. Love was the only thing that took her breath and sent her head reeling so far out of control.

Likewise, Bob’s love for her must be equally out of control to see past the dry, silver mane, creases and bags around her eyes, and the sagging bosom safeguarding her committed heart. She tossed the paper towel in the garbage and stretched to full height, laughing when her breasts remained at her waist. Tonight, for no reason other than gratitude, she would wear her holiday dress for diner and shock the pants off her husband.

Secure with her returned equilibrium, Sylvia approached the stove on youthful strides. The green beans looked as ready for Bob as she felt. She lowered the flame under them and replaced the lid, wishing she could turn a knob and reduce her desire to a simmer until he came in. Maybe she should alert Dr. Koffman to stand by for Bob’s heart tonight.

Out of habit, on the way to the bedroom, her eyes dropped to the lifeless watch she wore on her left wrist. The kids told her to replace the battery or take it off. She knew his feelings would be hurt if she stopped wearing her anniversary gift and, sooner or later, he would notice and take it to the jeweler for repair. Reminding him would only reinforce his fear of losing his memory. Correct time wasn’t that important.

Her heart quickened as she rummaged the closet to find the dress. Why Bob liked the dowdy thing so much was still a mystery to her. She suspected he only said that to make her feel good, same as she did him with the blue suit. Until he told her different, she wasn’t wasting his hard-earned money on anything new. She slipped the dress over her head, stepped into her black pumps, and ran back to the kitchen to put the baking potatoes in the oven.

There wasn’t much she could do with her hair other than pin it up at the neck. He would tell her it looked nice, and she would enjoy him pulling the pins out later. Her hands weren’t steady enough for mascara, and eye colors only got lost in the lines these days, so blush and lipstick completed her primping, except the zipper. She would have to ask him for help with that when he got there. Thinking of how he’d hold the fabric at her bottom while he pulled the zipper up produced a few goose bumps.

Bob didn’t dance, possibly his only imperfection, and couldn’t half hear these days so music was her choice. Elvis matched her mood tonight – deep and sexy. She put the CD in the player, the steaks on the counter-top grill, set the table, and waited. Just this once, she wanted to use candles despite his paranoia about not seeing what he was eating but decided against anything that would make this meal less than perfect for him.

She waited in the living room, same as she had when they were dating, wringing the itch out of her hands that waited to touch him and prove he wasn’t a dream, and blinking the sting from her anxious eyes. When anticipation wouldn’t let her sit still any longer, she jumped off the couch and rehearsed the dance he would probably never give in and dance with her no matter how many years she practiced. Still, she wasn’t ready to give up hope.

Midway through the third song, a car door slammed out front. She went empty waiting for the front door to open.

“It’s Rebecca,” her first-born called as she came through the foyer.

Sylvia muted Elvis and greeted her daughter. Rebecca breezed past and took the steaks off the grill then turned to zip her mother’s dress before she opened the oven for the potatoes. “Dad won’t be here for dinner.”

“I know,” Sylvia said quickly. “Would you like his steak?”

Rebecca filled their plates and sat across from Sylvia at the table. “Mother . . ."

“I know,” Sylvia said. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“I don’t? Are you sure?”

“Don’t spoil it, Rebecca. Anticipation is often the best party. Leave me that much, please.”

One Was Never Enough

One was never enough. He couldn’t stop at one beer, one game, one joke, or one woman. One good deed led to another, the same as one drug to the next. He lived with passion, loved to excess, screwed up with conviction, lost with honor, and never forgot a friend. He couldn’t keep a job, stay out of jail, hate anyone, or pass a person in need. He broke my heart one minute and caught it the next, contradicting his brawny exterior with deep sorrow and feather light caresses.

His failure to manage his life didn’t keep him from protecting mine. As years passed and he lived more in than out of the drugged fog, he always climbed from the hole when I needed him. I saw him at funerals, heard from him when I was sick. He carried furniture when I moved, never missed a birthday, Mother’s Day, or divorce, and showed up to catch tears when I hurt.

He died before my body gave in to disability, but left his love behind to carry me. Often, as I lay struggling to adjust to my new life, memories of his smile brightened my days. Remembering his free-spirited outlook sparked hope that I would either recover my spirit or learn to lose with honor the way he had.

Accustomed to pain and resolved to fate, I went to bed one night without giving my new symptoms a second thought. Hours later, patience exhausted and fear moving in, I considered giving up. How much willpower kept me alive, and would it all be over if I just let it go?

I recognized the feather light touch immediately, and the spirit that crawled into bed beside me. The touch became a caress, followed by a full hug with an invisible shoulder to carry my weight. Somehow, I knew it would be the last time he visited. Maybe he gave everything he had left to me that night.

Maybe he knew one was enough this time.

A Walk With My Real Mother

   I went for a walk with my mother yesterday. I walked out the back door with the confused imposter who had been living in her body the last few years and ended up with my real mother by the time we circled the building and stopped to rest by the front door.

            Her wheelchair supported both of us until I finally let go to sit on the bench. She rode in the seat and I hung onto the handles, gripping a bit tighter than necessary. If the migraine vision stole my balance or my hip dislocated, I could imagine what she might do to herself trying to rescue me, since that’s what real mothers do.

             We had forty-five minutes to kill before the ambulance would return her to the nursing home. She called it the hospital but I think she knew the difference this time. She needed to pretend, the way I had the week before when I wheeled her to the dining room down the hall and called it taking her out to dinner.

            She tucked the surgeon’s report between her leg and the side of the chair and used both hands to drink her diet Sierra Mist, screwing the cap back on after each sip. I wondered which excited her more, having a drink in a bottle instead of a Styrofoam cup with a straw, or realizing she had the dexterity to manipulate the cap without help. Her hands looked confident. Maybe she remembered how I had complimented her penmanship when she signed the forms in the office.

            She noticed how green the grass was despite the heat, and decided the thumping noise in the distance must be a large construction tool. It must have felt good for her to be outdoors. In the last year, she had been out only to pass from a car or ambulance to whichever railed, motorized bed she would occupy next. She smiled at a little girl passing with her mother, removed the cap to take another drink, and laughed when she realized it was ninety degrees and she was wearing a sweater. People would think she was crazy but she really wasn’t even warm.            

          She remembered I had no air-conditioning in my car and apologized for making me come out. I reminded her I like heat, and said I was glad to be there. She mentioned knowing someone else was supposed to have been in my place and the nurse had to call me, but believed me when I said I wanted to be there.

            We talked about the good news from the doctor; the hip had healed and he released her to put all ninety-six of her pounds on it again. In her mind, that meant she could go home soon, and she proved once again that she was in her right mind by telling me in detail all the things she needed to do when she went home.

            I reminded her how much she appreciated the nurses and therapists at the hospital, and how she had saved every menu to show me the wonderful meals they served. She said those things were nice but she was still anxious to go home before she got too spoiled to all that pampering. 

I wanted the confused imposter to replace my real mother so I could avoid the rest of the conversation. Her eyes met mine and asked for the truth, as no one but a real mother can. 

Today, I hope she doesn’t remember that I told her the truth.

Originally published August 2006, Author's Den and Gather

Broken Spirit and Splintered Dream

 
Broken Spirit and Splintered Dream
sucked air through sagging skin.
They rattled around between cold bones
searching for a spot to call their home.

 
"Over here," Spirit cried out.
"This might start a good nest."
He plucked a sturdy silver hair,
Dream grabbed another, to make a pair.

 
"How dare that heart cast us out?"
Dream grabbed another hair.
"Worn out doesn't mean obsolete,
just makes us a little harder to see."

 
"Oh, pay him no mind," Spirit replied.
"What does that old fool know?
He thumps his chest, then takes a rest
snuggled behind a nice warm breast."

 
Dream nodded and braided the hair,
worked up quite a frisk.
She batted her eyes, bit her lip,
suggested they take an unplanned trip.

 
"If we join forces one more time
we'll lick that old ticker.
Penis is only a few feet south,
I'll bet we can entice him out."

 
Spirit forgot his broken state
and turned a somersault.
He said, "That won't be my only trick,
if you can wake up that lazy prick."

 
Dream threw on her favorite costume,
spruced up to fantasy.
Spirit consulted backbone,
in case he couldn't do it alone.

 
Together, they tracked Adreneline
oiled the rusty joints,
Spirit drove life into the muscles,
and Dream outlined new goals

 
Proud of all they'd accomplished,
the pair sat down to rest.
He took her hand and squeezed it tight.
She said, "I think that's enough for tonight"

 
Sandy Knauer

 

 





 

Be Still My Hand

She caught the misguided traitor--once known as her left hand--in time to save face, but too late to protect her emotions. Two decades of near-perfect denial washed away, dropping her in a life-changing spiral of churning, rallied love.

An instant replay of the morning's interactions assured her that she bore total responsibility for the break from reality. He had not crossed one forbidden line, uttered a word of encouragement, donated an emotion, or contributed anything to the imaginary wall she had placed between their seats and those carrying the children behind them in the van. She had looked over during a lull between how's Linda and have you heard from Rob and imagined sadness or regret in his prolonged blink. She turned her world inside out; he blocked the sun from his eyes.

What if she hadn't found the willpower to paralyze the shameful extremity? Were the children old enough to understand the implications of a spontaneous touch? Would he have felt I adore you branded where she touched him? She sat on the hand until it tingled and went numb, wondering how it could have detached from the rest of her, forgotten the divorce, taken on a life of its own, and assumed liberties that belonged to someone else.

When they arrived at the park, she shook blood flow back into the wayward hand, helped release children from seat belts, and grabbed the hands of the two youngest, thinking she might persuade one of them to stay with her when the others took off for swings and slides. He selected a picnic table near the play area, told the children they would watch from there, and sent them to play. The tiny hands in hers broke away and left her, vulnerable to the liberated hand.

She reset her perfect ponytail and emptied sand from her shoe – anything to keep the hand busy while he chose his place, back against the table, facing the action. When he looked settled, she sat on the tabletop, her feet on the bench beside him. Resting her elbows on her legs, she leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her, far from his legs, so she could keep an eye on them and the children at the same time.

In this safe position, she forgot his leg. Instead, she focused on his head. How could a man his age still have that much hair? If anything had changed, it looked like he had more hair than he had twenty years before. That wasn't possible. The hands (both of them this time) went back under her legs. Like a bruise that begs a validating poke, his hair beckoned her aching hands. One touch would satisfy, but how would she explain it? There was a fly on your head?

She walked away when her thoughts went from embarrassing— If I trip getting down from here, I'll have to grab him for support-- to insane--If I'm lucky he'll need CPR before we leave.

The kids enjoyed having her join them on the swings. She was pleased to have those chains keep her hands occupied.