The weekend filled up with my sisters and their children. I walked to each house to see the latest renovations and give unsolicited garden advice; it was what I missed most about being away from home in the spring. My mother scaled down the size of her garden patch over the years while my sister’s got bigger and bigger. Ida’s took up the most space.
“I’m in competition with Martha to see who can get the biggest tomatoes this year,” she said.
“What about me? Mine were bigger than the both of yours last year,” Angela said, pouting.
They looked at her in unison and laughed.
“That’s why you’re not in the race,” Ida said.
Lynne was too overwhelmed with nursing school, the state board exam looming ahead, and now the Army to garden. If she didn’t pass her boards, she wouldn’t be able to join the Army.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about a garden right now. All I can think about is malignant hypothermia,” she said, complaining.
“Little ears,” Angela said, waggling her finger.
“Oops, sorry,” Lynne said.
But her comments opened the doors to discussions about her possible enlistment, and the men had to put their opinions in the mix, as well. The bickering went on for hours, all thoughts of Wax Spencer banished.
Monday I spent getting ready for the trip east, packing enough for three days, just in case. Buying a little gift for my grandparents, I’d never met them on their turf, and the anticipation sweetened the anxiety of the job interview. At my sisters’ insistence, I got my nails done and a hair trimming.
As I was going through the motions of the first step toward achieving my lifelong dream, waves of something I couldn’t identify kept sweeping over me. It had started at my sister’s house, when we sat around Martha’s kitchen table talking about shopping lists and diaper rash remedies and heirloom tomato seeds. For the first time in my life, I felt totally disconnected from my sisters. We were at such different places, and I wasn’t sure if what I was feeling was disdain or envy or confusion. Their lives were complete. They were educated, employed, wives, mothers. Even Lynne had an agenda which was incomprehensible to me.
I didn’t even have a boyfriend; at age twenty-three, I was still a virgin. I hoped my dream job, as yet uncertain, would fulfill all the requirements and expectations I had for a happy life, because at the rate I was going, there would be nothing else for me. I’d force a smile and keep trudging along.
Early Tuesday, Martha’s husband drove me to the airport; he worked there and said it wasn’t an inconvenience for him. Waving goodbye to him, it was anticlimactic; did I expect a big sendoff with friends and family in attendance? I pulled my little suitcase through the terminal, feeling a pang of excitement for Mademoiselle, and nothing more.
The plane landed in LaGuardia, and as I struggled to get my bag out from under the seat in front of me, the sensation of being completely in the moment struck. I had no idea what the next instant would bring. Seeing my grandparents waiting for me just outside of the security gate shocked me, was exactly what I needed to ground me in space and time.
“Bubbe,” I screamed. “Zayde!”
Never having cried when I saw them in the past, something about them going out of their way for me, getting up at six in the morning to take the subway to the airport to welcome me and see me for ten minutes moved me. Hugging them both, they were a taken aback by the display of affection. My bubbe dug through her black leather handbag, produced an ironed and folded hankie, and patted my face, careful not to wipe off my freckle cover.
“Wait, I have something for you,” I said.
Digging through my bag. I pulled out a small leather bound picture album in which my sisters had organized photos of their kids. We visited as we walked to the front entrance, and a driver with a sign hand printed with Weiner was waiting for me. My granddad snickered, my bubbe elbowing him in the side. We kissed and hugged again, saying we’d try to see each other before I left. I went with the driver, watching over my shoulder as my tiny grandparents walked back to the subway. I brushed away another tear.
As it turned out, I would see my grandparents every Friday night for the next year. Celebrating the Sabbath with them was wonderful; my mother did a great job but it was very authentic the way my grandmother did it. You knew she was going through the motions from her heart; it wasn’t just about teaching her daughters. Worshiping God as she lit the candles, she said a blessing over the challah. We drank wine and laughed until it was time for me to leave.
Occasionally, if I stayed too late, I’d spend Friday night in their tiny Brooklyn apartment, sleeping in the same bed my mother slept in, surrounded by artifacts of her youth. In the morning, I’d have a solemn breakfast with them before taking off for my own apartment.
The job turned out to be exactly what Ben Smith said it would be; an entry level editing job. Living in New York was disappointing; I didn’t have friends with which to go clubbing, and the glamour I thought would surround me, like in Woody Allen movies, never materialized. I kept waiting to hear George Gershwin music playing when I was on the street.
The boring job accentuated a boring life, made tolerable by exploring the city when I could, and visiting my grandparents as often as possible.
About every six weeks, I’d hop on a plane and make the trip back home. My brother-in-law would pick me up on his way from work. I never missed a birthday or holiday. At the end of May, in time for Memorial Day weekend, I came home again, this time for my sister Martha’s barbeque.
Lynne would be home from Maryland where she was training to be a field medical unit nurse at Walter Reed Hospital. I didn’t think that sounded like a job that would be most useful stateside, but didn’t offer my opinion, remembering my mother’s warning about trusting recruiters.
The town made a big deal of Memorial Day with parades and lots of interaction between veterans, and the community. Already evidence of it, grandstands set up along the main street in preparation for the next day excited me. I was home!
We pulled up to my mother’s house, and I could see everyone was there already, waiting for me in spite of it being late. Mother stood at the screen door like she always did, and I could see my sisters standing behind her and their children surrounding them.
“I wish I had a camera,” I said, smiling.
No one seemed to think that was very comical. My brother-in-law had my suitcase and put his hand on my back as we walked up the stairs to the porch.
“What’s going on?”
Their expressions made it clear they were upset. Oh God, did one of the grandparents die while I was in the air? I thought. I wouldn’t be able to tolerate living in New York if that was the case.
“What’s wrong?” I said, walking through the gauntlet of family. Angela herded the children into the family room while my mother took my hand. “Mom, get it out, will you? You’re scaring the hell out of me.”
“Come in here, sit down,” she said, leading me to the kitchen table.
“Is it Bubbe?”
She shook her head.
“Oh, thank God,” I said. “What is it then?”
Lynne and Ida were close by, and I could see that Lynne had been crying, her eyes were red rimmed and she held a tissue in her hand.
“Someone tell me! Is it one of the husbands?”
My mother put her hand on my shoulder.
“It’s Walter,” she said in a soft voice.
I was caught off guard. Who the hell was Walter? But a wave of heat went through my body. I remembered the hand reaching out for me. I’m Wax. Walter Spencer, but everyone calls me Wax. My heart started beating a little faster.
“Wax?”
“Yes,” Lynne said. “He’s been hurt. Seriously hurt. They flew him in to Walter Reed last week. Mom called me and I was able to see him. His mother keeps calling here, asking for you. I didn’t want to give her your number in the city because of work and everything.”
Yes, God knew work was so busy and so
exciting; I wouldn’t be able to finish the important things I needed to get done if I heard that someone I loved was wounded. Loved? I was shocked; it had to be sarcasm weaving its way through my mind, attempting to cover the pain in my heart.
“Why would she keep calling for me?” I asked. “I haven’t spoken to him in years.”
After my disappointment that he hadn’t read my mind and showed up for graduation, he’d sent me a graduation card with his APO address on it, but I didn’t feel it was necessary to acknowledge it.
“Evidently, he asked for you,” Ida said, putting her hand on my shoulder.
“His mother said the flight nurse told her he was calling out for Pipi during the flight in from Germany, before they put a breathing tube in place,” Lynne said.
I felt like someone had dumped a bucket of freezing water over me. My lips were shivering.
“How awful,” I managed to choke out, seeking out Lynne’s eyes. “What’s wrong with him?”
“It’s not good,” she said gently. “He has a severe head injury. They don’t know the extent of his brain involvement yet.”
Everyone looked at me, concerned. I didn’t understand why. I wasn’t going to go off the deep end because an old high school friend had been injured. Head injury, brain involvement, breathing tube. I thought of my father and grabbed onto the table to keep upright.
“If they don’t know how bad it is, he could be okay, right? I mean, what else do you have to tell me?”
Lynne had her hand on my back.
“Let me get you a cup of tea,” my mother said, trying to soften the blow.
Tea was my mother’s panacea for all ills. A nice, strong cup of tea. I plunked down in a chair.
“What am I supposed to do now?” I asked.
“Do you feel like you could talk to his mother?” Ida said. “I’ll go with you if you want to see her in person.”
“We can both go,” Lynne added, safety in numbers.
I agreed that talking on the phone about it sounded awful.
“Let her recover from her trip and have her tea first,” my mother said, her hand still on my neck.
My sisters were hovering over me, taking turns patting my back.
“I think I should call her now and set up a visit,” I said.
The phone was an old-fashioned rotary dial phone that hung on the wall. My mother had written down the number for me but my hands were shaking so badly, I couldn’t dial it. Lynne came to my rescue and put the call through.
Mrs. Spencer picked up on the first ring. I didn’t remember her voice so high pitched and old. She really was from the Midwest.
“Hello, Philipa,” she said drawing out the O. “I’m so happy you called. You must have heard about Walter.”
I told her I had, that I’d just arrived home and the family filled me in. I didn’t think it was necessary to go to her, now that I’d heard her, and that she sounded fine, and then I heard her sniff. She wasn’t fine, she was crying.
“Walter’s in a coma, a drug induced coma. He has a head injury, and the coma will help his brain heal,” she said, weeping.
I thought of my dad again, wondering if Wax had ever shared the story of my father’s death with his mother. I felt sick. Had my dad called out for my mother, for us, before he died?
“I’m so sorry,” I finally got out, looking at my waiting family, shuddering, my weak attempt at comforting her. “What can I do?”
“Please, will you go to see him when you get back to the east coast? He went there, to the Middle East, to try to forget about you, Philipa. He’s been in love with you all these years,” she said, softly. “It’s not that far from the New York.”
I listened to what she was saying, but it didn’t make any sense. Hearing he loved me from his mother didn’t ring true. Was there something I missed? I wasn’t going to get into an argument with her, with my family listening in.
“It’s at least a five hour drive. I don’t have a car in New York. I’d have to fly down. I’ll get in touch as soon as I know what I’m going to do, okay Mrs. Spencer?”
We talked for a while longer, and then I hung up.
What possible good would it do for me to fly to Washington, DC while Wax was in a coma? I didn’t say anything because it would sound selfish and uncaring if I refused. My family stood by waiting for me to fall apart.
“You heard it,” I said. “She wants me to go to Walter Reed to see him.”
No one said anything, but I could tell in my sister, Ida’s eyes that she was thinking what else do you have to do? I shrugged my shoulders, answering her silent question. I didn’t have anything else to do.
“He’s in a drug induced coma.”
“Supposedly, they can still hear,” Lynne, the registered nurse said. “I have to be back on Monday but if it’s okay with Mother, I’ll leave early. We can fly together.”
We looked over to her.
“Is that right?” my mother asked, seemingly shrinking before our eyes. “I didn’t know they could still hear.”
She might have been thinking of my dad; us girls were. If he was alive for a few hours after the attack she might have been able to tell him she loved him one more time. I shook my head to rid it of such sad thoughts. Everyone was silent.
“It’s fine with me if you leave early,” she said. “I don’t see any other way.”
“Okay, I’ll go,” I said.
If it would get things back to normal, if it would shut the voices up in my head, I’d go. Anything to move on.
“It’ll have to wait until next week, though.”
“Oh, I don’t think you should wait,” Lynne said.
“Me, either,” my mother added, the others chorusing in agreement.
“You want me to go now?” I asked, incredulous.
Their looks said the same thing. Selfish woman, you’ll regret it if he dies.
“Oh, for heaven sake. Okay, okay, I’ll go now.”
My heart was pounding so hard I decided the only way I would survive the trip was to simply submit myself to my sister who had a commanding presence. Although I kept it to myself, if memory served, it was Lynne who encouraged me to walk home with Wax so many years ago on that first day of high school, so it was really her fault I was in this predicament.
I don’t know exactly how she did it, but by using her clout as an Army nurse, she got us on a flight to Dulles that night. My bags were ready for the trip since I hadn’t had a chance to unpack; Hubert loaded the car up again, this time with Lynne’s bags, too. Sitting in the front seat, Lynne’s attempt at putting me first, I glanced at the porch with my family watching, tissues to eyes, waving as Hubert backed the car down the driveway.
Chapter 8
It’s my turn to have the family Memorial Day picnic this year. Everyone comes from the city, braving the hour drive to our farm. My grandparents fly in from Brooklyn and drive with my mother. They are actually considering leaving Brooklyn to live in the Midwest, here with me. We have ninety acres with swimming ponds, in-ground pool, a putting green, all sharing space with horses, sheep and cows. I have a huge vegetable garden. It’s enough land for my entire family, and they are all planning to build.
After Wax’s discharge and rehab, we began a whirlwind romance and then after a short engagement, we married. It only took three months; ten years and three months after we met.
Wax and I have four children; two sets of fraternal twins, boys, two years apart, six and eight. Our house is a madhouse most of the time.
My sisters have twelve kids divided between them. Lynne just had a baby, a little girl. She isn’t married, and won’t tell us who the father is, although Chris called me last night and asked if he could come along to my picnic with Lynne. Confiding in me, Lynne had said her inner clock was ticking so when she discovered she was pregnant, there was never any question about having the baby. I think it adds a nice touch to our conventional family.
Our farm is amazing. Wax loves everything about the farm; especially t
he equipment. We have two vintage tractors and several more in the garage in various states of restoration. More vehicles for zooming around the property include golf carts and ATV’s. Finding them as junk, he refurbishes them himself. When the brother-in-laws and the older kids are here, they race around our property, helping with building projects or clearing land for the house Martha and Hubert plan on building. They’ll be the first transferees from the suburbs with the others following as soon as possible.
Inside, my sisters and I are in the kitchen, competing. We strive to bake the lightest cake, or the biggest loaf of bread, or the tenderest brisket. My mother and grandmother put their two cents in, too, adding to the rivalry.
The day of the picnic is sultry; every window is open in my big farmhouse. In spite of the fans, it’s going to be hot inside once the ovens are lit. Everyone is already here, and there’s very little for me to do while my mother and grandmother and sisters take over preparations for the meal.
***
The upstairs of our house is compromised of large, airy spaces. The breeze flutters the white cottage curtains hanging at every window, blowing in the wind. The morning of our picnic, in our master bedroom, while I buttoned up a pair of shorts, Wax came in.
“Whatcha up to?” I asked.
“I’m changing my leg,” he said, sitting on the end of our bed. “Your nephew is about to get his ass kicked.”
I laughed as he put his running leg on, a specially made prototype of an athletic prosthesis Wax helped to develop. A long-standing speed feud between Dave, Martha and Hubert’s oldest son, and Wax, challenged to a foot face around our farm.
From all the work around the farm, his physic is amazing, muscular after the lankiness of youth; he’s in top physical condition. Leg switched, Wax stood, coming to me for a kiss.
I’m getting used to his shaved head. Evidently, it’s the way baldness is dealt with now. Running my hand over his head, remembering that thick, wavy hair, my fingertips played over the horseshoe shaped scar on his scalp.
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