20

 

Sometimes the angels just smile down on you. After leaving Adam and Jennie, I went into the bathroom to smooch a bit with my naked, freshly showered husband, and to give him the good news that we may soon have a replacement for Carmen.

Whispering a simple prayer of, “Please,” I called Marcy. She was not only still available, but thrilled to be offered the job. I’m gratified to learn she helped care for her grandmother for several years before her passing. Because she works at the hospital from noon until eight p.m., the morning timing will work out perfectly. When I asked if she had any conflicts because of children, husband or perhaps with her own parents’ care, she assured me she didn’t. At the age of forty-five—something she had volunteered—her kids were grown, her husband was long gone, and her parents were fine.

We agreed on a wage of ten dollars an hour, which is more than she makes working at the hospital, something else she readily volunteered. Maybe I could have gotten her for less, but the fact that she will be able to start tomorrow morning adds considerably to her value. Besides, it’s what I paid Carmen, and it seems only fair to pay Marcy the same.

Adam and Jennie’s therapy time with Dad is almost up. David is in his study, talking with Lily, his mom. Lily is definitely a talker, so it will be a while before he comes down. He speaks with his parents, brother and sister at least once a week. They are a close family. I know he misses them, and they miss him. Before Dad lived with us, we traveled to their Texas home each July and also visited during one of the major holidays. This past July, I urged David to go without me, to put the airfare on a credit card that we’d worry about later; but he refused, knowing I’d be overwhelmed without him.

Besides, Lily and Artie are often cruising in their Class C Motorhome. In their early eighties, their health and stamina are remarkable—so different from my parents’. Artie’s hip replacement two years ago barely slowed him down, with much of his speedy recovery attributable to his daughter Camille’s dedicated nursing and therapy. Should they ever need care similar to Dad’s, she’d provide it. I’d help as much as I could, paying forward David’s goodness to my parents.

I walk into the sunroom to see Nick walking next to Dad, keeping the same slow pace as he ambulates with Adam’s support. Jennie is trailing the trio. It’s such an unexpected and comical scene that I almost burst out laughing again, but I rein myself in to avoid embarrassing all of us.

“Almost finished here,” Jennie says. “I want to give Joe a shoulder massage.”

Adam guides him into the seat of his wheelchair, and Dad sighs in relief. Nick plops down next to the wheelchair and echoes Dad’s sigh. Dad looks down at him and says, “What you got to be tired about?” Nick just looks up at him and pants. When Dad gives Nick a crooked grin, my heart does a backflip.

Adam tells me, “Joe’s a hard worker. He did great today, didn’t you, Joe?”

Dad is flushed, probably from exertion as well as the compliment. No matter. He looks pleased, even if he does look tired.

“You’re a killer,” Dad grunts, pretending to be put out with his taskmaster.

“Nothing you can’t handle, you Devil in Baggy Pants,” Adam chides, referring to the nickname Dad’s unit had been given by the Germans in World War II.

I so appreciate that Adam has taken an interest in Dad’s military service. During all the years I was growing up, Dad hadn’t spoken about it. Mother never wanted to hear his war stories, and it wasn’t until I visited my grandmother—his mother—during a summer break from college that I learned the extent of his service.

Grandmother had taken me up to her attic to show me a box of his Army memorabilia. I had been stunned to see the number of local newspaper articles that had been written about Dad. The first one I picked up had a caption under his handsome photo that said, Wire Man.

Wire Man? I read the article with a sense of apprehension mixed with incredulity as I learned that my mild-mannered father had parachuted behind German lines and garroted German soldiers with piano wire. My dad? My sweet, easy-going Dad?

Another article talked about his being wounded at Anzio. I knew Dad had a deep scar on his right shin that was from the war, but I didn’t know the extent of the horror of the battle that had resulted in his injury. With the exception of Dad, his entire platoon had been killed. I hadn’t even known how many men were in a platoon, but I had felt an odd sense of gratitude, mixed with wonder, that Dad had not been killed also. Grandmother then showed me the Western Union telegram she and Granddaddy had received, telling them their son was seriously wounded in action in Italy, and they would let them know when reports were updated.

I had asked her how she felt when she received the telegram, and she said that she had “gone all to pieces.”

When I next saw Dad, I asked him about his service and told him what I had learned. He was reluctant to talk about it, but he opened up when he sensed my interest was genuine. Soon after that, he sought out other 82nd Airborne veterans and began attending reunions and events until he broke his hip. Fortunately, I had been able to attend several reunions at Fort Bragg with him.

When I told him we wouldn’t be able to go that first year after the hip break, he was as disappointed as I had ever seen him. Not being able to bask in the glory that was afforded him by the young soldiers at Fort Bragg diminished his spirits for weeks.

I understood, or at least thought I did. It was just something else that had been taken away from him, another loss to be endured. Those reunions had meant so much to him, and even more so after Mother died. Loss of wife, loss of independence, loss of mobility, loss of memory, loss of friends, loss of glorification . . . Loss took a bite out of you one painful chomp at a time until you were nothing more than a mere morsel of your former self.

How can I ever hope to fill the void left in Dad’s life by all those losses? Meeting his physical needs just isn’t enough to make him whole again. He needs more love and companionship in his life, but where will it come from?

I’ve never deeply regretted that David and I weren’t able to have children, but at this moment I think how wonderful it would be to have children who could help fill the hollow holes in Dad’s long days. But I have two loving nieces who over the years visited their Papa as often as college breaks and time off from jobs allowed. Both have plans to visit at Thanksgiving, and Dad is looking forward to their visit as much as I am.

But that’s more than three months away. I envision Dad and Nick’s friendship growing during those months. I believe he’s beginning to realize that dogs can be affectionate, undemanding companions; and for that, there is no better dog than Nick.

David and I didn’t know the joy of living with dogs until we moved to North Carolina. In Miami, we lived in a high-rise condominium on Brickell Avenue, and we worked such long and erratic hours—David, with his real estate development projects and me, selling high-end ocean-front condos—that having a dog didn’t make sense. But after moving to the mountains, it made all the sense in the world. From our first dog, Stormy, then Rocky and Nick, plus the dogs we fostered through the years, we learned how fulfilling it was to give and get doggie love. I want Dad to know that kind of love, too.

I share the good news with Adam and Jennie that Marcy will start tomorrow morning, and thank Jennie again for the reference. They’re genuinely happy for everyone involved.

“You two always bring a touch of magic into my life. I’ve gone from being on the brink of utter doom to utter relief.” They laugh and then assure me they’ll always be here to help in any way they can.

Nick nuzzles both of their hands, one after the other. “Aw, he’s thanking us for making his mommy happy,” Jennie says, and I agree. As Nick and I walk Adam and Jennie to the door, I rub his ears and tell him what a good boy he is.

Maybe Dad is beginning to understand just how good a dog Nick is. Maybe you can teach an old dog new tricks—with Dad being the old dog in this case.