Though my Dad hadn’t mentioned it, I chose a phone that I felt would be simple for him to use as well. I set him up on my plan, and then spent some time with him showing him how to make and receive calls, as well as text. To his contacts, I added the information for Marge, Liz, my mom, and me. I couldn’t think of anyone else to add.
“Can it take pictures?” he asked. “I’ve seen phones that can do that now.”
Pretty much all phones have done that for years, I thought to myself, but I said only, “Yes, it does.”
I showed him that function and watched as he practiced taking pictures and then examining them. I also showed him how to delete the ones he didn’t want. Though I had the sense that much of the information was overwhelming, I watched him carefully tuck the phone into his pocket and head out to his car.
I saw him again at Marge’s house the following day. She’d risen from her nap and our mom had chicken soup waiting. Marge ate half the bowl – less than we’d hoped – and when the tray was taken away, our dad took a seat beside her. He looked almost shy as he began to show her photos of various faucets, sinks and towel rods as well as options for floor and wall tile. Obviously, he’d been at the home improvement store, and this was the only way he could make sure that Marge was part of the design process.
Marge knew that our dad had never been a man of words, nor had he ever been openly affectionate. But through his labors, she could see that in his own way he was shouting his love for her at the top of his lungs, hoping that she could somehow hear what he’d always found so difficult to say.
Dad took notes as she made her selections, and when they were finished, Marge leaned closer to him, giving him no choice but to hug her. “Love you, Daddy,” she whispered. Then, rising from the couch, he lumbered out of the house. Everyone knew he was off to purchase her selections, but after a few minutes, I realized that I hadn’t heard him start his car.
When I got up to peek through the curtains at the driveway, I saw my dad, the strongest man I’d ever known, sitting in the front seat of his car with his head bowed and shoulders heaving.
Wonderful aromas always floated from Marge’s kitchen these days, as my mom tried desperately to make food that would tempt Marge into eating more. There were soups and stews and sauces and pasta; banana cream and lemon meringue pies and homemade vanilla ice cream. The refrigerator and freezer were stuffed, and every time I came by, she handed me food for my refrigerator, which had gradually filled as well.
Whenever Marge was awake, my mom would set a tray in front of her; by the second week of February, my mom had begun to feed her because her left side was growing weaker as well. She would carefully raise the spoon to her lips, wiping her mouth between bites, and then offer my sister a sip of something to drink through a straw.
While Marge ate, my mom would talk. She would talk about Dad and the way the young new owner of the plumbing business was giving Dad a hard time for missing so much work. By that time, my dad had probably accrued years of vacation time, but the owner was the kind of guy who was never happy, a man who demanded more from the employees while demanding less of himself.
She described the tulips she’d planted for my dad and the lecture she’d attended with her Red Hat Society friends; she also regaled Marge with things that London had told her, no matter how inconsequential. More than once, I heard my mom pretend to be upset that no one had notified her in advance about Marge’s and London’s roller-skating adventure.
“I picked you up and dropped you off so many times at that rink that my tires made tire grooves in the parking lot asphalt – and you forgot to mention when my granddaughter was trying it for the very first time?”
I knew that she was only half-teasing, that she would have loved to have been there, and I silently berated myself for it. My mom, after all, not only wanted to see London on skates that day; she’d wanted to see her own daughter, skating with abandon and joy on her face – one last time.
As the second week of February rolled around, I had the sensation that time was simultaneously speeding up and slowing down There was a slow-motion quality to the hours I spent at Marge’s every day, marked by long stretches of silence and sleep; on the other hand, each time I showed up, it seemed that Marge’s deterioration was accelerating. One afternoon before pickup, I stopped by and found her awake in the living room. She and Liz were speaking in low voices, so I offered to leave, but Liz shook her head.
“Stay,” Liz said. “I was about to touch base with one of my clients anyway. It’s an emergency. You two talk for a bit. I’m hoping this won’t take long.”
I took a seat by my sister. I didn’t ask her how she was feeling, because I knew it was a question she hated. Instead, as always, she asked about Emily and work, London and Vivian, her voice slurred and tinny. Because she tired so easily, I did most of the talking. Toward the end, though, I asked if I could ask her a question.
“Of course,” she said, her syllables running together.
“I wrote you a letter for Christmas, but I never heard what you thought about it.”
She smiled her half smile, the one I’d grown used to. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she said, “I’m not ready to say goodbye to you just yet.”
I confess that I sometimes wondered if she’d ever have a chance to read it. Over the next three days, whenever I went to the house, Marge was always asleep, usually in her bedroom.
I would stay for an hour or two, visiting with Liz or my mom, whoever happened to be around. I would admire the latest repairs or renovations that my dad had undertaken, and more often than not eat a large plate of food that my mom would put down in front of me.