35

 

Both Dad’s and Nick’s health hold, and we’re all looking forward to the arrival of our family for Thanksgiving. Not only are my nieces Laura and Sarah coming, but so are their parents—my sister Kathy and her husband Tom.

And joy of joys, so is my other sister, Cindy. She’s living a fulfilled life in Washington State as the director of a public relations firm that promotes the concept of “green” on behalf of solar energy industries, wind farms, and companies that collect, clean and distribute water. Her long-time boyfriend Jay won’t be coming with her, and we’re sorry that’s the case. We were hoping her son Daniel would accompany her instead, but he had to fly to China for business. It’s too bad, because David and I like him very much, and Dad hasn’t seen him in at least two years.

We’re just happy everyone else is making the effort to come. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone, although Kathy and Tom can be challenging. Cindy, on the other hand, is a gentle soul who can calm the rough waters that tend to swell when Kathy and Tom are in the mix.

It isn’t as if they aren’t good people. They just have a tendency to rub both David and me the wrong way with their passive-aggressive barbs, uninformed opinions, and unwelcome suggestions—which often seem more like criticisms.

Their daughters, on the other hand, are delightful young women. They’re educated, well-traveled, and employed in jobs they love. Neither is married, but they’re still young and more interested in pursuing their careers. I adore them.

So does Dad. He loves his family with a wide-open heart, and that heart is near bursting in anticipation of having them with him again.

Today David has gone to the airport to pick them up. Flights were coordinated to arrive within hours of each other, and I’m glad the big Tahoe has plenty of seating, plus room for luggage. Dad keeps asking me how much longer before they get here. I don’t pacify him with, “Soon,” but rather tell him it will be a few more hours. The Charlotte airport is two hours away, and the drive, along with the wait for staggered arrivals, means David will be gone for at least eight hours.

The days are shorter, and darkness is upon us when I see the Tahoe’s headlights coming down the lane. I’ve been watching for them so I can get Dad down to the garage in time to greet them when they pull in.

David drives in, and the gals tumble out like a small army of ants, all of them descending on Dad with loving pincers, hungry to hug him.

David moves much more slowly in getting out of the Tahoe, and I burst out laughing when I see his hair has telltale signs of having been raked with nervous fingers. He looks shell-shocked, and I can only imagine what he’s had to listen to in the close confines of the vehicle over the last two hours.

The volume of their excited voices is amped so high that Nick, who’s waiting in vain to be acknowledged, trots into Dad’s apartment to escape it.

“Let me stand up, let me stand up,” Dad says, trying to rise against the seat belt on his wheelchair. I unfasten it and lock the chair in place, then watch in amazement as he begins to push up from the seat, leveraging his weight on the arms of the wheelchair. He’s determined to give and receive proper hugs.

Cindy and I have exchanged hugs and are now on either side of Dad, gently supporting his back, giving him a little assistance as he rises, until he’s taken from us and enfolded into the warm holds of my nieces and their mother.

As David and Tom unload the luggage, we women get Dad resettled in his wheelchair and aim it toward his apartment so we can gather together to fully embrace the blessing that is family.

 

 

 

After having our chicken-surprise dinner—an untried recipe at that—we women take Dad to his apartment. David and Tom are wordlessly delegated the job of cleanup. Nick stays upstairs with the guys, and I can understand why. Our happy voices that dissolved into laughter time and again over dinner, rising in volume as two bottles of wine were emptied, convinced him it was the only safe and sane thing to do.

An hour later I give my sisters brief but thorough instructions about what they need to do to get Dad ready for bed. I’m happy to relinquish that responsibility and spend time with my nieces. We head upstairs to the room they will share. They unpack as we talk, and about a half hour later, Kathy and Cindy join us. They’re both so pretty, but right now they look downright haggard. I hold in my smug smile. It’s good for them to get a taste of what goes into getting Dad ready for bed. Admittedly, they’ve done this on top of a long day of travel, so their deep fatigue is understandable.

Kathy plops down in a chair, and Cindy throws herself back on one of the twin beds and says, “I need another glass of wine.” Laura and Sarah and I have already had a glass, but there is still enough in the bottle for a generous pour for my sis.

“I’ll go get another bottle of wine,” Sarah volunteers. Yeah, that’s the ticket, let’s all get tipsy and spill our souls. I can see the evening unfolding before us . . . and I smile.

 

 

Marcy has come in for a few hours this morning to help with Dad before going home to prepare the Thanksgiving meal for her family. Everyone likes her well enough not to take offense when she says, in her spectacularly frank fashion, “You ladies need to get here more often. Rachel here’s been killin’ herself taking care of your dad. And it don’t hurt your dad none to see ya, neither. He’s in a fine frame of mind this morning, happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

They’re a bit shocked at being talked to like this, and therefore momentarily speechless, which gives Marcy a chance to hit them between the eyes with one last barb. “And he ain’t gonna live all that much longer, so ya gotta make peace with yourselves before it’s too late.”

Now I’m the one who’s shocked, but mostly because the phrase “ain’t gonna live all that much longer” has taken root. Cindy says, “The family’s lucky to have you, Marcy. You’re right. Rachel’s been doing everything and we haven’t even been here to visit, let alone help. Thank you for your honesty.” Always the diplomat.

Kathy, Laura and Sarah vocalize their agreement, and the next thing you know, we are all in a group hug, with Marcy sandwiched in the middle.

We say our goodbyes, wishing her a Happy Thanksgiving, and head upstairs with Dad to have a quick continental breakfast before we begin preparing the Thanksgiving meal.

We’re all tired and hungover, and after Marcy’s admonishments, we’re subdued during breakfast. But the atmosphere becomes festive and lively as we five women start working together. We’re all speaking loudly so we can be heard over each other. Unlike me, my sisters are capable in the kitchen and have everything under control, so if I play my cards right, I’ll only have to deal with garnishes and drinks.

Laura and Sarah are setting the table, going back and forth to the china room to root out all they need to make it festive. Their chatty questions and suggestions, along with my sisters’ friendly disagreements that often turn into laughter, have kept Dad, David, and Tom out of the kitchen. Even Nick, who knows many hands flying around can often produce tasty tidbits, has left us to join the males. They’re watching the pre-game shows, and I wonder how they can even hear the TV over our loud voices.

The volume rises to an “11” when Cousin Debra walks into the kitchen. I hadn’t even heard her knock, but apparently David had. Her husband Charles, trailing behind her, staggers back from the cacophony of happy squeals that greet Debra. Whatever Debra has in the food-warming bag she’s holding is in peril of being knocked out of her hands, so I hurry to rescue it and set it on the counter.

Charles moves into the mix, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and returning hugs with his free arm. Behind his wire-rim glasses his eyes are large and round with a hint of shocked desperation. He seeks out David in the living room, almost as if he’s looking for a touchstone of testosterone to counter the decidedly female dominance in the kitchen.

Tom stands rooted in his spot and raises a hand in greeting, keeping his distance from the teeming throng. David is coming our way, pushing Dad’s wheelchair, with Nick on his heels. Another round of hugging and kissing ensues. Kathy, Cindy, Laura and Sarah have been effusively loving on Dad all morning, as if they can’t get enough of him. Charles extracts a quick handshake from Dad before getting bumped from the circle.

Dad is beginning to show wear from all the demonstrations of affection. His hair is tousled and his sweater is askew. Six different colors of lipstick pockmark his face and the top of his head in a dozen places. He’s handling it well, even cheerfully, but he startles when Kathy, our family’s loud and effervescent cheerleader of yore, bends down and cries, very close to his ear, “Debra’s here!” in a voice that has enough robustness behind it to push David, Charles, and Nick out of the kitchen and into the recessed safety of the living room.

 

 

The third bottle of wine bites the dust as we wind down our eating. I splurged on a case of decent mixed wines, and I must admit there is definitely a difference between good bottled wine and box wine.

The turkey has been slain for a second time, and the table, which looked so elegant just an hour before, is strewn with bits of food and blots of stains. Dad added color when he set his wine glass on the rim of his plate instead of on the table, and it toppled over. Fortunately, his wine glass was plastic; but, not so fortunately, my best tablecloth is ruined.

I find it oddly comforting that I couldn’t care less. A dish towel had sopped up the worst of it, and the dinner din had resumed with barely a blip.

With nine pairs of legs occupying so much space, there is no room for Nick under the table, so he keeps to the edge of the rug, quietly mincing about, sorting out which hands are most generous.

After two rounds, he stops by Dad’s chair and sits down. Dad’s hand reaches over and rests on top of Nick’s head. Nick doesn’t move, though I see him register the touch. His eyes close, and he lets out a soft, happy puff of breath. Despite their growing amount of time spent together, it’s the first time Dad has shown physical affection for the big boy.

No one else notices, but there’s the equivalent of a seismic shift under my feet at this development. When Dad removes his hand, he reaches for the soggy remains of a roll but doesn’t drop it on the floor. Instead, he holds it between his thumb and forefinger with atypical agility and waits for Nick to take it from him.

Nick’s tongue slips out and gently gathers it in. It’s the most delicately I’ve ever seen Nick treat food, and I realize his delicacy is rendered on Dad’s behalf.

Tears sting my eyes, and I’m sorry David didn’t witness the touching transference of so much more than food. It would have been nice to have that shared moment to start off each subsequent telling of the time when total trust between two reticent beings was finally, irrevocably, established.