That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Half a bagel later, the nurse returns, telling Gladys that she is finished with her treatment for the day and can head home shortly. As the perky blond woman removes the tubes and needles, I see Gladys’s shoulders sag with relief, and I think about how difficult this day must have been for her. I wish she would tell Aaron about her condition already and at least take that one weight off her shoulders.

  “Can I come back?” I ask Gladys. “When you have your next treatment?”

  “Of course, dear.” She starts loading various items into her oversize purse: a small notebook, a paperback book with a plantation home on the cover. “Only”—her eyes catch mine and then quickly shift away—“just check in with me. At some point, I will eventually break the news to my son, and I’m sure it’ll be more comfortable for everyone if you two aren’t both here at the same time.”

  I know she doesn’t mean harm, but my knees nearly buckle at her words.

  “Right.” I force myself to sound chipper, airy. “That makes sense. Okay, stay in touch.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek and head out of the room before she can see the tears that are about to spill from my eyes.

  A FEW DAYS later, as I walk into to the apartment from a job interview, feeling cautiously optimistic about this one thing, I hear voices coming from Wesley’s room. A woman. I can’t imagine he has found some new paramour and brought her home, but still, I decide it’s best not to bother them. Instead, I make my way toward the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that I know is waiting in the freezer. I open a messy drawer to look for the ice cream scooper, the one with the cow-shaped handle that Aaron bought randomly at the mall near my parents’ house last year. I run the scoop under some scalding water in hopes of warming it sufficiently to soften the ice cream and ease its removal from the container. I’m about to turn the water off when I hear Wesley and his guest making their way from the bedroom toward the main room of the apartment.

  I look up to see a heavyset Asian woman wearing scrubs with little pictures of Homer Simpson all over them. She’s carrying a large cardboard box that’s wider than she is and tall enough to hide the top half of her body and the bottom of her face.

  “He’ll be really grateful to have these,” she says as she ambles toward the door, Wesley following in his wheelchair.

  “Hi,” I say, and they both look in my direction, apparently surprised I’m here.

  “Hey,” Wesley rasps. He clears his throat, a quiet rumble, and continues, “This is Peggy. She’s helping me get ready for the move.”

  “Hi, Peggy.” I smile politely, trying not to let it show that I am forlorn about Wesley’s impending departure. I hate that he is journeying to a new home in order to more peacefully end his days. I keep thinking of salmon swimming upstream as they prepare to die. That’s when I notice Wesley’s wheelchair.

  “Your new chair came!” I exclaim.

  “Yeah, finally,” he says. “They delivered it this morning right after you left. Lots of bells and whistles.” He makes a nearly imperceptible movement with his hand, and the motorized chair spins in a proud circle.

  “No popping wheelies in the house.” I laugh and then turn back toward Peggy. “Are you from Bernard Mildred?” I ask, referencing the facility where Wesley is moving.

  “Synergy Home Care,” she answers with a thick Brooklyn accent, her tone friendly.

  I’m not certain, but I believe Synergy is a local home health care agency.

  “I called them for help getting ready to move,” Wesley adds.

  I shoot him a look as if to say he should have asked me for the help, not hired out the task, but I figure I will wait until Peggy leaves to lay into him.

  “He’s all packed up now,” she tells me, lifting her small leather purse off the doorknob of the coat closet, “except for what he’ll need for the next week and a half.”

  “Week and a half?” I balk. “What do you mean? That’s not when you’re leaving.”

  “Yeah, the apartment at Bernard Mildred is ready for me, and I’m feeling like an interloper. I just want to let you get on with your life. You and Aaron both.” He shrugs, as if it’s no big deal that he’s moved his timeline up by two weeks. I’m suddenly short of breath, thinking that I have only a few more days with him and then he’ll be gone. I imagine going to visit him, but I have no income at present, and then I will presumably be stuck at a brand-new job for a while, and who knows how quickly he will deteriorate? Lately, I feel as if he’s weaker every day.

  I have a vision of sitting by his bedside as he dies, and suddenly tears cloud my line of sight for the second time today. I turn toward the ice cream container and start scooping with all my might, channeling my frustration and dismay into my movements instead of my words. Amazingly, the ice cream comes right out, and I realize I never got myself a bowl. I rest the scoop back in the container and turn toward the cabinet as Wesley and Peggy say their good-byes.

  “Thanks again,” he tells her, and I notice again how different his voice sounds. I wonder what’s going on inside his body to cause that change, whether it’s a respiratory condition or some deterioration of his vocal chords. For all my Internet research, I’m hardly an expert on the workings of ALS.

  “Nice meeting you,” she calls in my direction as she walks out the door.

  “You too,” I squeak back, failing to keep my own voice even.

  As the door closes, Wesley turns toward me. “Please don’t get all weepy,” he says, and there’s an edge to his tone.

  “What? I’m not.” I say, wiping away the wetness beneath my eyes with my forearm and picking up the ice cream scooper in one fluid movement.

  “Good,” he says, “because I need to make choices that work for me.”

  “Of course you do,” I answer, not sure why it suddenly feels like we’re arguing. My mind flashes to that moment four and a half years ago, when his parents died, when he totally shut me out, and I wonder if that is what he is doing again, pushing me away because it’s easier than confronting his grief. Well, this time I am not going to engage.

  “I guess I should start figuring out where I’m going to go, too.” I try to keep my tone casual, mellow, like I didn’t notice this uptick in his aggression. If Wesley is moving out, it’s time for me to find my own place as well, so I might as well get busy on that. I have a stab of regret that I gave up my old apartment uptown. “I’m going to call around to some brokers. I’ll catch you later.” I take my bowl of ice cream and head straight to my bedroom. I’m not going to let Wesley attack me to make himself feel better.

  I pass an hour alone in the bedroom, alternating between calling brokers and staring at the ceiling. After I hang up with the sixth broker, I lie back on the bed, absorbing the warm sunlight streaming through the window and listening to the quiet of the apartment. I wonder what Wesley is doing, alone in another room, and I begin to regret my behavior. Even though I’m devastated to be losing him, he is the one being forced to confront his own death, and I would do well to remember that I’m supposed to be supporting him. If he needs to vent a little, I should let him. I can try to have thicker skin.

  I roll off the bed, grabbing the list of brokers and apartment buildings I’ve created. I amble into the hallway and see that Wesley’s door is open. I figure I will try to apologize for skipping out on our conversation earlier, but when I poke my head in, I pause. Wesley has his wheelchair next to the bed and he’s trying to hoist himself out of the chair, onto the mattress. I know he’s been doing this on his own for weeks, but this time he looks like he is really struggling, like he might not be able to make it. This chair is much larger than the other one and moving out of it seems more difficult.

  “Can I help?” I ask, stepping into the room.

  Wesley turns, still half raised from his seat, clearly surprised to see me. “Nah, I’ve got it,” he says lightly.

  “It doesn’t look like you’ve got it. Come, just let me—”

  “I’ve got it!” he snaps through gritted teeth. With
what looks like Herculean effort, he pushes himself out of the chair and allows himself to collapse onto the bed.

  “Jeez. Fine.” I can’t push down my annoyance, even though I’m trying. “I guess you had it.”

  I walk back to my room, but now I get it, why he’s moving sooner than he originally planned. It has very little to do with availability and much more to do with his continued deterioration. I feel contrite that I don’t know how to respond to him better. I hope the people in his new home will give him the kind of support he needs. I wonder who will give me the support that I need.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  July 2017

  I’m waiting on what may be the slowest line I’ve ever witnessed at a Starbucks. There are only two people ahead of me, but I’ve already been standing here for fifteen minutes. I glance at my watch again, stressed that I’m going to be late to see Gladys at her second chemo appointment. I called her earlier this morning, offering to bring coffee with me when I arrived. Now I can’t leave without a caramel frap for Mitch and a simple tea for Gladys. I watch the rawboned teenager working behind the counter, and I’m amazed that it’s even possible for someone to move so sluggishly. Coupled with the day’s indecisive and chatty clientele, this shopping experience is enough to make me contemplate quitting caffeine.

  Finally, finally, the woman in front of me decides what she wants to order, and it’s about to be my turn. I step closer to the counter, and I notice that the petite barista has a purple ring looped through her nose. As I open my mouth to rattle off my order, the girl turns to her coworker and starts complaining about how some appliance behind her was malfunctioning earlier.

  The two of them walk over to the machine, some sort of coffee-brewing apparatus, and start pushing various buttons. After brief but apparently ineffective fiddling, the male barista pulls out his phone, declaring that he can find an online version of the instruction manual. I wait a few more moments, checking my own phone, and look up to find the two baristas giggling over whatever they have discovered on the guy’s phone. After another minute of being completely ignored, I finally find the nerve to speak up. “Miss, I’m sorry, but I’m in a big hurry. Could I place my order?”

  The barista’s head whips toward me at warp speed. Suddenly, she has found the ability to move quite quickly, and for a petite little thing, the glint in her eye has turned surprisingly ferocious. She begins to chide me with her teeth clenched tightly together, uttering each word slowly, as though she is on the verge of erupting, “I am in the middle of something.”

  It’s the way my mom used to yell at me when I was maybe five or six years old and simply driving her crazy. Like if she opened her mouth any wider, she would be unable to contain the savagery of her roars.

  “You and your Hermès bag don’t run the world,” the girl continues, stepping closer to me, “and I will help you, only”—she pauses to look me up and down with a sneer—“when I am ready. Bitch.”

  Her reaction to me is so shocking that I am still trying to catch my breath when a voice speaks up from behind me. “Excuse me!”

  I turn to see my former office mate, Nicola, standing in line a couple of people behind me. Great. Two against one. I brace for whatever criticism Nicola is about to throw at me, seeing that this day is clearly just not going my way.

  To my surprise, she lays into the barista instead. “That is no way to speak to a customer. Not only is it entirely unprofessional, but it was also completely uncalled for, given the circumstances of the current situation. This line has been moving at a snail’s pace—a pace, which I may add, that has not been warranted by the behavior of the patrons in line nor by the complexities of their orders. Which would lead one to conclude that fault lies with you, the barista in charge of the orders, who is slowing the pace of this line and the productivity of everyone waiting herein. Moreover, this particular customer was only alerting you to the fact that she was in a hurry. She did nothing to condemn or insult you, and your reaction was thoroughly unjustified. I think that you owe her a free coffee this morning, wouldn’t you all agree?” She turns back toward the gaping customers on the line, a few of whom begin clapping. I know my chin must be on the floor, so surprised am I that Nicola would ever defend me in any way.

  The barista doesn’t know what has hit her. Her eyes dart to her bleary-eyed coworker and then back to Nicola. “Um, uh, yeah,” she stammers, “you’re right. Uncalled for. I can do a free coffee.” She never even looks in my direction, her focus solely on containing Nicola’s wrath. She scribbles something on a cup and then seems ready to serve the customer behind me.

  “Wait.” I try to use an authoritative tone like Nicola’s, and I rattle off the two other drinks I had been waiting to order.

  Apparently satisfied that I’ve been treated properly, Nicola turns from the counter back to me. She’s changed something about her hair since I saw her last. The blond color is less white than I’m used to, more golden. The softer look suits her.

  “I don’t think I even want a coffee now,” she tells me with a sigh. “I’ve been trying to cut down my caffeine, and maybe this was the tipping point.”

  “Thanks for having my back there,” I offer.

  “Well, if there’s anything I can’t stand for, it’s lack of professionalism, right?”

  True that, I think. “Still, I appreciated it.”

  “Well, once you go into public-interest law, you won’t even be able to afford things like Starbucks, so I thought I should help make one of your last upscale coffee experiences worth what it costs, at least.”

  I can’t decide whether she’s being obnoxious or actually trying to joke with me. Her eyes sweep over me, and she turns back to the barista. “And by the way,” she calls toward the girl, “that bag is not Hermès. It doesn’t even look like Hermès.” She glances back at me like that was the clincher. “Gotta go. Some of us still have a job.” She shrugs and heads out, taking a gust of air with her.

  I shake my head quickly to clear it from that unexpected experience, reminding myself that people are complicated. Realizing I’m still running late, I grab the cardboard tray full of frothy drinks and hurry out the door to the hospital.

  When I finally arrive, the nurse is just finishing attaching Gladys’s IV bag to the metal stand beside her recliner chair.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” I announce as I feel myself burst into the brightly lit room with too much force.

  “Nonsense.” Gladys looks up with a smile as Mitch walks over and takes the Starbucks tray from my hands before kissing me on the cheek. Gladys is wearing a gray zip-up hoodie, and I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her in such casual attire.

  “It’s great you’re here,” Mitch tells me, reaching for his Frappucino. “They found a structural issue with one of our projects, and I really should head in to the office at some point today. It’s a relief knowing Gladys won’t be alone.”

  “Go now,” Gladys tells him. “That way, you can be back before she has to leave.”

  “I can stay the whole time,” I tell them. “My schedule’s kind of wide open these days.”

  “Well, if my darling wife could see fit to tell our son about her condition, we wouldn’t even be in this predicament. There’d be a whole other person to lean on.” He looks at her pointedly, as though they’ve clearly had more than one discussion about the issue.

  “When I can’t hide it anymore, I will tell him. Not before.” She looks toward me and adds, with forced nonchalance, “Always beating dead horses, this husband of mine.”

  “Go,” I tell Mitch. “We’ve got this.” I smile at Gladys as Mitch nods and begins collecting his things—a newspaper, his briefcase.

  After he leaves, I settle in to update Gladys on my job search and the great interview I had yesterday at the Tri-State International Advocacy Group. As I’m talking, I notice that she keeps rubbing her chest, a slight grimace on her lips. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Fine, dear. Tell me, what would the hours
be like there for you?”

  “Strictly nine to five,” I answer with a proud nod, acknowledging how different the work schedule would be from the potentially infinite hours that I was required to be available to Harrison, Whittaker & Shine.

  As usual, the bitter black coffee that I ordered from Starbucks has gone right through me, and I excuse myself to hurry to the restroom down the hall. I’m drying my hands with a brown paper towel that feels like cardboard, hoping that it at least came from recycled material if it is going to feel this unpleasant, when I hear a commotion in the hallway outside. I step out of the bathroom cautiously, not wanting to obstruct any emergency medical care, and two women in scrubs hurry past me. I hang back in case anyone else will be following, but then I notice that the women are running to Gladys’s room. I imagine they’ve gotten the wrong room—I was only in the restroom for a minute or two, and she was perfectly fine before I left. But then I see an orderly running from the other end of the hallway with a gurney, also heading this way. I hustle back to Gladys’s room and see one woman racing to add a medication to Gladys’s IV line and another nurse frantically adjusting the recliner that Gladys is in, like she’s trying to open it up so Gladys can lie flat. As the dark-haired woman moves to the side, I catch a glimpse of Gladys’s face and see that she’s unconscious.

  “Oh my God!” I shout. “What’s happening?”

  The dark-haired woman barely glances at me as the man with the gurney pushes past me.

  “Let’s lift her,” she tells the orderly while the other woman in the room starts putting an oxygen mask on Gladys.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I shout again.

  “Ma’am, you need to give us space to work,” the orderly tells me, as he shoves me a little to the side.

  “Oh my God, is she going to be okay?” I realize that tears are streaming down my face.