by Delia Ephron
“If I talk to him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. He left yesterday for Montana to spend a week in the woods with a woman who talks to moose. That’s all.”
“Oh. Okay. Bye.”
In my desk drawer are some of my father’s blank checks. Angie sent them to me when she cleaned his room before we checked him into UCLA. I slip one in my wallet.
For days I have put off going back to the Home and getting him to sign away his life savings. The ear, nose, and throat party, now a day away, has kept me from going. Also Angie’s reports of his rising suddenly out of his wheelchair (when his ’round-the-clock nurse looked the other way) and crashing down. She says this week he rarely talks—a consequence of his seizure, perhaps. Looking after Jesse and Ifer while Joe’s in Montana, even seeing Buddha through her final days of pills were excuses I made to myself for not dealing with the check business sooner. But this morning I woke up determined to get it signed and over with.
I come down the stairs at full speed. “Jesse, listen, I’m going to see my father, then I’m stopping at my office and—Why aren’t you two ready for school?”
Jesse is at the table stabbing his toast with a fork. Next to him, Ifer, her arms straight down at her sides, her head hung forward, is weeping. Buddha is licking milk out of her cereal bowl. “Get that cat off the table,” I say.
“She has to go home,” says Jesse.
“Don’t make me,” wails Ifer. She throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Please don’t make me.”
I disentangle. “If your mother wants you, then you have to go home. Have you seen my purse? I took my wallet out and now I don’t know where my purse is.”
Jesse turns his head to the left and then to the right. “I don’t see it.”
Ifer follows me back upstairs. “Can’t you go to court with me and help me divorce my mom?”
“Is she abusive?” I rummage through my closet. Ifer’s breath is on my neck.
“Yes, she is so rude. Baby M divorced her mother.”
“No, she didn’t. That was a boy named Roger or something. I forget his name. Anyway, rude isn’t abusive.” I look under the bed, then check the bathroom.
“What’s abusive?”
“Hitting.” I see my purse. “Thank God, here it is. I’m out of here.” I rush down the stairs and out the door.
“Suppose I’m pregnant,” Ifer yells from the window as I start to drive down the block. This makes me accelerate. Considering this seriously will break the stress barrier. I don’t even look back.
I walk into the Home briskly, wave at Angie, who is behind the desk, and don’t hesitate until I get to my father’s room.
This pause before entering is habit now: habit formed after a lifetime of worrying about what I will find. I wish my being nervous were a consequence of not wanting to see someone I love in an advanced stage of the dwindles. Then entering his room wouldn’t seem treacherous, only sad. What drives me isn’t love but responsibility. I am the best Girl Scout ever. If only I could get over this fear of the unknown.
“Hi, Dad. Dad?”
He’s in his wheelchair, bolted in now with a metal bar across the front, the way people are locked into roller coasters so they can’t fall out. He stares at me blankly. I open my purse and pull out the check. “I need you to sign this.”
“Is that Eve Mozell?” A woman peers around the door, which, given how I barged in, I have almost slammed into her. She’s in a chair, knitting.
“Yes?”
“I am Ogmed Kunundar.”
I shove the check back in my purse. “Mrs. Kunundar?”
“Ogmed,” she corrects.
“You’re the nurse they hired? What an amazing coincidence.”
“Oh, no. The nurse is having coffee.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
She puts down her knitting and pats the bed. “Sit.”
I sit instantly, obediently, as if I were her pet dog.
“Omar is worried. He says you do not have an arm or a shoulder.”
“An arm or a shoulder?” I repeat dully.
“For leaning on,” says Ogmed. “So I am here.”
“You don’t even know me.”
Ogmed shrugs. “Sometimes I am the Salvation Army.”
I am having trouble comprehending this entire development. First he has his mother call. Then he’s so concerned he sends her? I remember he said, “You need a mother.” Well, yes, but yours? “How did you know I would be here today?” I ask.
“I took a chance.” She smiles at her own cleverness.
“Pat,” says my father.
“He keeps saying that,” Ogmed tells me. She tugs at the yarn that runs out of her lap and down into her purse, which is open on the floor. “Pat,” says my father again, staring at Ogmed with a look that could be happy but then again could be something else.
When Maddy and I were little, we used to play a game. I would put my hand over my mouth and say, “Am I smiling or frowning?” She would guess, and when I took my hand away, the face I was making was so odd that she never knew whether she had guessed correctly. That’s the kind of face my father is making.
“Pat is my mother’s name.”
My father starts wheezing. His breath sounds as if it were coming out of bellows. I jump up.
Ogmed watches him carefully, her head cocked to the side.
“Should I get a nurse?”
“Wait,” she says.
My father stops wheezing. She resumes knitting, and I plunk myself down again.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long.” She is wearing half-glasses and she peeks over them to answer me.
“It’s awfully kind of you to come.”
“You mean crazy,” says Ogmed.
“No.”
“That is what you were thinking.” She holds up her knitting to examine it. It is a very large hunk in bright purple. I hope it’s not something Omar is expected to wear.
“Is that for Omar?”
“A sweater,” she says, nodding. “He is too busy to shop.”
“Is he married?”
“I am wishing but nothing is happening.”
“Oh.” I start to blush. I can feel the heat moving from my neck up. I sort some mail lying on my father’s bedside table. An American Express bill. A pamphlet from the League of Women Voters.
My father’s head twitches, and every muscle in my body tenses. Don’t have another fit, I am begging you. I can’t run away hysterically in front of this woman I am never going to be able to call Ogmed. It would be too embarrassing, so please, please, don’t have a fit. His head twitches again and then drops forward.
“He’s asleep,” Ogmed announces.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
I feel as if my father has finally done something for me. I feel a tidal wave of gratitude.
“Sit down. Relax yourself,” says Ogmed.
There is no alternative, so I do. Ogmed wiggles back in her chair. She must be short, because her feet dangle above the floor. She has the snuggly body of an old-fashioned grandma: just plump enough to be cozy. She’s wearing stretch pants in an orange that would be visible three blocks away on a dark night. Her top is a polyester pullover in a tropical print. Neck down, she is straight from Miami, but neck up, she is a Middle Eastern fantasy: a broad face with almost no wrinkles, in the loveliest light brown; thick gray hair pulled back loosely into a long braid; and black eyes that promise age-old wisdom. I want to sit at her feet and sip tea. Sip tea and have her read the leaves.
“May I get you something? They have coffee, tea.”
“Shush.” She puts her finger to her lips and nods toward my father.
Except for the clicking needles, the room is quiet. Even peaceful. It is unfamiliar to sit this way, it feels almost risky. My family always talks. If we don’t talk, we leave. If we don’t talk, we han
g up.
Still, Ogmed and I stay like this for half an hour, maybe more. My mind wanders. I think about stabbing my father with her knitting needles. I think again about doing him in with his own bullet, now a recurring daydream. Only this time, after I shoot him, I declare to the world that I have done it and I’m glad.
My father’s breaths short out now and then. Ogmed looks up, making a clicking sound with her tongue that sounds almost exactly like her knitting needles. He wakes and stares straight ahead at the TV, which is not on. Ogmed clicks her tongue at that too. I watch his eyes water. Are you sad? Frightened? Or are your tear ducts breaking down like everything else? Can you tell me something about what’s happening to you? Anything?
I think all these things to avoid thinking about something else: the check in my purse. How in the world can I ask him to sign the check in front of Ogmed? I could say the check is for his phone bill, or maybe back taxes. But why aren’t I, the devoted daughter, paying them? Why is the devoted daughter getting her father to sign a blank check?
“We need some money out of my father’s bank account,” I hear myself say too loudly. My own voice comes at me like a stranger’s. “I have to see if he can sign a check.”
The needles stop. “You need money?”
I am hating Georgia, hating her for telling me to do this. “No, we need some of my father’s cash to pay for his nursing care. Dad, I need you to sign a check so I can send it to Georgia.” I put the check on the tray in front of him. I take a pen out of my purse and wrap his fingers around it. “Can you do this?” I ask softly.
He moves his hand, and then it starts shaking, batting back and forth like the needle on a heart monitor showing intense fibrillation. I pull the check out from under the pen, which rips it, and jam the check back in my purse. I wait to hear the needles clicking again before I look up.
Ogmed is bent over double, stuffing the knitting into her purse. The nurse, returned from her hour-long coffee break, is waiting for us to leave.
“May I buy you lunch? It was so kind of you to come. So unnecessary and so kind.”
“I would like a cup of tea,” she says as she snaps her purse closed and tucks it under her arm. “Good-bye, Mr. Mozell.” She bobs her head at him.
“Be sure to call if there are any problems,” I inform the nurse for Ogmed’s benefit. This is not what I planned to say. I planned to tell her to call Madeline.
“Bye, Dad.” I kiss him for Ogmed’s benefit too. I touch my lips to his forehead, which doesn’t feel like skin. It feels like waxed paper. “Let’s go,” I say to Ogmed.
We head down the hall, slowly because she doesn’t like to move fast, I can tell. “He has the dwindles, that’s what they said at UCLA when I asked them what was wrong.”
“He’s dying,” she says.
“That’s what they mean, I think. In a year or two.”
“Now.”
“What?”
“Anyone can tell,” she says impatiently.
“I thought—” I can’t say any more.
Ogmed slides her arm under mine and guides me. I feel my chest start to split. She squeezes my arm. “Look at that,” she whispers as we walk by a woman who is reading the newspaper. Or rather, the paper is open, wide open, her hands grasp the pages firmly, but she is sound asleep. Her head has fallen forward like a dead weight. It makes a dent in the top of the L.A. Times. My eyes start to blur as Ogmed steers me past the woman, past Angie, and out the door.
“Which way?” she asks.
I point at the deli on the corner where my father and I used to lunch.
Ogmed accelerates, and now I am just her sidecar. We get to the restaurant.
“Two, please, by the window,” says Ogmed, keeping a firm grip on me. She lets me off at one side of the booth. Again, obediently, I sit.
The waitress is not Debbie, thank God, but another who has endured four years of my father’s obnoxious flirting—the entire time he has been housed at the old folks’ home and brought here regularly for an afternoon outing. “How’s your dad?” she asks.
Now I am weeping buckets.
Ogmed opens her purse, fishes around, and pulls out a tissue.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that I knew he was dying—” The D word comes out in a choke and I’m flooding the table. And sweating too. My shirt is sopping wet. “I said he was, but everyone else said—”
Ogmed pats my hand, which starts another flood. “We will have two cups of tea and two tuna fish sandwiches. You should eat,” she adds. This practically makes me wail.
“You like tuna fish?”
I nod.
“Good.”
I hunt for a dry spot on the tissue. Ogmed produces another from her purse and offers it.
“You see, he’s always been such a nightmare and—” I can’t get any further.
Ogmed reaches over and smooths my hair. Again and again, she moves her hand across my brow and over my head. I sit back, out of her reach. If she touches me once more, I swear I will cry and never stop.
“So,” says Ogmed, as if I were not Niagara Falls. “So tell me about yourself. Are you married?”
I nod.
“How many children?”
“Just Jesse, the driver. He’s sixteen.” I mop my eyes.
“And what about the rest of your family?”
“Two sisters. Georgia and Madeline. I’m in the middle.” Now I have no trouble speaking. The thought of Georgia and Maddy dries me up.
“Georgia is the one that needs the money?”
“Oh no, she doesn’t need money. It’s that my father has to have ’round-the-clock nursing or they’ll kick him out, and it’s very expensive.”
“I will take care of this.”
“What?”
Ogmed unsnaps her purse, hunts around under her knitting, and pulls out a portable phone. She taps in a number. “This is Mrs. Kunundar. I have to speak to my son.
“Omar, I am here with your friend Eve. She is fine. Yes, we went to her father. He is dying, but she is very lucky. It is not a good idea for her to pay for the repair. One of your noses will pay for three cars and that should be the end of it. I will tell her.” She presses End, snaps the portable phone closed, and puts it back in her purse.
“Now you don’t have to worry.”
“But I don’t mind paying for the repair. It’s my son’s fault.”
“Fault is never the point. As far as I am concerned, it is settled and you should tell your husband.”
I should tell Joe? How will I explain this to Joe?
She sits back and sips her tea. The waitress puts the sandwiches on the table.
“Why am I lucky? Why did you tell Omar that I am lucky?”
She says this as if it were completely obvious: “Because you are here.”
“Kim, I just saw my father and I don’t think I’m coming in.”
“What’s wrong? Where are you?”
“In the car. I’m exhausted. I’m going home to take a nap. Could you go over to the Nixon Library and run through the party schedule with Madge Turner? Make sure the food stations are all located correctly, double-check the time schedule for the speeches, the food, the performances.”
“No problem, I can do it.”
“Did you confirm the Citrus Singers? What about the flowers? They should be there tomorrow by three. Leon too. Call him. Remind him the party starts at seven-thirty.”
“Eve, stop, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
On the car radio, I vaguely register a news item. A young girl, lost for three days in the Sierras, has been found. “She’s safe,” her father’s voice breaks, and I can hear in the background a little eight-year-old, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”
“Are you there?” asks Kim.
“Take care of things, okay?” I push End, which disconnects us, then push Auto Dial and zero-two.
“Corinne, it’s Eve, would you put Georgia on?”
“Hello, darling.” I hear her upbeat voice. “We’re done.
We just closed the issue. Maybe I am the world’s eighth wonder. Then again, maybe not.”
“I can’t believe you asked me to do that.”
“What?”
“Make him sign the check. That was disgusting. He’s dying.”
“Who said he’s dying?”
“Anyone can tell.”
“Who said it? Did the doctor say it?”
“I’m not asking him to sign anything else.”
“Take it easy. You didn’t have to do it. Why do you always think you have to do what people tell you to?”
“It’s my fault? Are you saying it’s my fault?”
“What I’m saying is, it’s not mine. Hold on a second.”
I push End. End, end, end.
I go into the house quickly and quietly. I can see Ifer’s and Jesse’s backpacks and books spread all over the living room. Did they ever get to school today? Who knows? Just hurry. Get upstairs fast.
“Mom?”
Not fast enough. “What?”
Jesse and Ifer come into the hall and gaze up at me on the stairs. Ifer is still in her boxer shorts and T-shirt. “Can we talk now?” asks Jesse.
“Are you pregnant, Ifer?”
“No.” She has the decency not to meet my eye.
“Good. Now leave me alone.”
I go into my bedroom and slam the door. There’s a knock immediately. “What?” I say in my nastiest voice.
“Dad called.”
“He did? Did you tell him where I was?”
“I told him you were visiting your father.”
I whip open the door. “You mean your grandfather!”
“Okay, my grandfather. God, don’t have a cow, Mom.”
“Say it again.”
“My grandfather.” Jesse starts backing down the stairs.
“I didn’t go there.” I am amazed to hear this lie fly out of my mouth.
“You didn’t. I thought you—” He stops. “God, your eyes are all red.”
“That’s what I looked like when Matt dumped me,” says Ifer. “I wouldn’t even go out.”