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Friday, August 27th, 2010
There were little jam jars on our breakfast table. Marmalade and strawberry. No plastic packets in this fancy place. Dad wasn’t talking with his mouth full this morning. He kept shifting in his chair. The hotel restaurant was almost empty; most of the white tableclothed tables had already been reset with fresh jam jars. I couldn’t finish my toast so Dad ate it for me. While waiting for him to finish I picked up a jar and read the fine print: Not for individual sale.
“Take it.”
“What?”
“Take the damn thing.” He grabbed it from my hand and put it in his pocket.
“But I don’t want yellow.”
He put it back and pocketed the red.
The red light was blinking on the telephone when we got back to our room. I stepped into the bathroom and squirted toothpaste on my toothbrush. When I grabbed for a towel he was standing by the door.
“Jesus, Dad. You scared me.”
“She’s here. She’s on her way. I said we’d meet her in the lobby.” He scanned the bathroom. “We’ll need more towels,” he said, rubbing his chin. “I need a quick shave.”
Two high-backed chairs that faced the front desk were free in the marble lobby so that’s where we sat. The white-shirted employees behind the front desk went through stages of busy, calm, busy. I wondered what I’d look like in a white-pressed shirt, my name engraved in gold, gold like the gold gleaming lobby. Caitlin. Here to serve you. The pin wouldn’t say that, but that’s what it would mean.
Dad’s knee pumped like a jackhammer.
I turned to the elevators. Couples and families getting on and off,
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arms loaded with shopping bags. Boxing Day. Then I remembered: they don’t call it that here.
Last night was my second Christmas without turkey for supper. Spaghetti and meatballs at Mamma Leone’s. Our corner table sat beneath a clot of hanging plastic grapes. We went there after watching the figure skaters go round and round at Rockefeller Center. Round and round.
I never knew you could lose so much in one day. The biggest day of giving, the day December peaks up to: a day set aside to rip open gifts from loved ones. I should’ve gone to the hospital; I’d heard the voice by then. But Dad’s shift was first and his Caddy was already gone by the time I woke up. I was watching TV in the family room when I heard the side door open. He came straight through without taking off his boots. He stood in the middle of the family room for what seemed like a long time. Long enough for the snow to slide off and form a blurry puddle.
“She’s gone.”
“I know.”
Round and round. And then the world stopped.
I’d never seen Linda walk through a door before. She was sitting next to my father the first time we met. The table in the restaurant was circular, half-circle for seats. When I’d settled down on the plush I’d locked Dad in the middle.
Her hair was blond (not red), her eyes green (not blue), her skin pale (no freckles) her teeth straight (no front tooth gap), but when she’d stood up to shake my hand she was Mom’s height.
One good thing the chemo did for Mom was smooth her skin. No wrinkles. Not even where the bone-pain had gathered. She looked younger as the years pushed her forward. Except for the red squiggles congregating around her nose. Rosacea. The name of a flower. But even with such smooth skin she never looked as young as the blond nestled next to my father.
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