They May Not Mean To, But They Do(19)

*

Aaron was supposed to come home from the hospital soon, and Molly tried to talk to her mother about how she would manage once Molly went back to Los Angeles.

Freddie was gone already, back to her sleepy undergraduates. Her semester started a week earlier than Molly’s, and Molly envied her that roomful of hungover boys and girls, students forced to sit and listen. You could test students, grade them, fail them if necessary; you could tell what the correct answer was. Your mother was another story.

Molly tried, she really did. She ran through all the things her father could no longer do, all the things Joy would have to help him with, even writing them down on a large legal pad in broad black letters. Aaron could no longer stand up by himself. He couldn’t get himself into bed or out of bed or out of a chair or into a chair. He could not walk by himself, though he often tried, which meant he could not be left by himself for even a minute. Joy would have to dress him, and Joy would have to undress him.

“This is not news to me, Molly.”

He needed to be bathed, frequently. And dried. And powdered. He required ointments and unguents. He needed all the attention to pouches and adult diapers that Molly was so queasy about, as well as the rashes and sores they produced, and even so, the bed linens often had to be changed in the middle of the night.

“I can cope. I have always coped. Haven’t I? Admit it, Molly. Through everything.”

“Yes, you cope, but can’t you cope with some help? Just keeping him fed is exhausting.”

“I order in,” Joy said.

Molly had noticed that. In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, her father was given the remains of the same turkey meat loaf dinner from the coffee shop for days, interspersed with the remains of the roast turkey dinner and the turkey burger deluxe, for variety. Joy had tried to feed Molly endless teaspoon-size portions of turkey leftovers, too, but Molly had rebelled and insisted on cooking. Both her parents pronounced her chicken too spicy and her green beans undercooked, then turned rather loftily back to their scraps.

“Next thing I know you’ll be sending both of us off to assisted living,” Joy said to her now. “To a facility.”

“A locked ward.”

“In the meantime, I need you to fix the computer. I hate the computer.”

She said the words “the computer” with categorical disdain, the way someone might say “Tea Party.”

Molly felt the buzz of her phone and went into the bathroom so she could check the text without incurring her mother’s rage.

“Help,” said the text from Daniel. “Dad thinks I’m in the hospital.”

“You are,” she responded.

“He thinks I’m the patient.”

Daniel was waiting when she got to the cramped café ten minutes later. She swept in, looking harassed, windblown. She always looked harassed and windblown, he thought, even when she was reading a magazine on the sofa or sitting in a restaurant at dinner. Her clothes were always pressed and tucked in and perfectly, overly, coordinated; yet she always appeared to be weathering a great storm. Maybe it was the way she moved—big, jumpy gestures.

“Mom is going to have a nervous breakdown and die,” she said.

“Hello to you, too!” He stood up and kissed her. She rested her head on his shoulder for a moment, relaxed and soft. Then he felt her pull herself up. Back on duty.

“Those two are killing each other. What are you eating? I want a panino.”

He laughed. A panino, singular. She did like to be correct, Molly did. “I already had a sandwich at the hospital that was prepared in 1958,” he said. He ordered an espresso. “A good espresso place in our old neighborhood. Imagine that.”

“Imagine that. You sound like Daddy.”

Daddy. He liked it when she said that. It made everything seem softer, kinder than it was. “He’s in agony one minute, and then the next minute he forgets he was in agony. It’s like a backward curse. Or a Greek myth: Dad-alus.”

They talked about Coco and his kids for a few minutes. Ruby had turned twelve a couple of months before. Many of her friends were studying for bar and bat mitzvahs. She was not interested. Even the lure of a party and gifts did not entice her. Religions caused wars. Religion was mass hysteria. Like soccer fans, but worse. Cora, on the other hand, was already planning her party, five years to plan it, that ought to be enough, Daniel said, laughing. Then he remembered he should probably ask Molly about Freddie. “How’s Freddie?” Molly started to tell him how Freddie was, and he nodded, not listening. Molly said, “Are you even listening? You never listen, Daniel.” Molly always told him he didn’t listen, and it was true. How else did people get through the day? Daniel’s notion of a perfect afternoon was to sit in a garden in the warm sun with bees buzzing lazily around him, his eyes half closed, a battered Panama hat comfortably situated on his drooping head, like the scene in The Godfather with an ancient Marlon Brando. Daniel had no interest in being ancient just yet. He just didn’t like to rush. He gazed idly at the glass display case and wondered if the cookies were any good. He held his hand up to summon the waiter.

Molly thought, He moves like an old Chinese man on a hill doing tai chi, dignified in the dawn. His expression was serene, self-possessed. But Molly knew he was merely distracted, constantly distracted.

“Wake up,” she said. “What are we going to do, Daniel? About Them?”