THE FALL
They’ve come back to the house after being away almost the entire day. Saturday, and she’s—The kids and he, and they entered the house, he in the lead and carrying a big canvas bag filled with vegetables and fruits, and saw—They were away, first to the farmers’ market. Good early start, did lots of things during the day, and when they got home, one of the kids yelling “Mom, Mom, we’re back—” She didn’t want to go. Said she was too tired and weak, and she looked it too, so maybe it shouldn’t have been that much of a shock when they got home and—Usually she goes with them. All four in the car, fifteen-minute trip, every other Saturday unless the weather’s bad. He’d wheel her around in the chair and she’d point or say she wanted to go to that particular stand and he’d push her there, and she’d carry in her lap some of the things they bought. The kids like the honey sticks they can find nowhere else but the Saturday farmers’ market near where they spend a month every summer in Vermont. There’s also an open-air bakery—three long tables together, with the sellers behind them—where the kids like to get a croissant each, chocolate or plain, or a butterfly, though the French owner of what they call The Patisserie, though he makes all the goods at home, calls the pastry something else in French, but not papillon. They did that today. First honey sticks, which the kids finished. Then he got what he wanted from several stalls, asked the kids if they saw anything they wanted but pastries; they didn’t so they lined up at The Patisserie, got two chocolate croissants and this time a walnut-raisin bread because he remembered last time they were here she said they should get one next time—they had too much bread in the house then to buy one—since she was sure she’d like it just by its looks. Apples, pears, cherry tomatoes, a canteloupe, cider, lots of different vegetables, three different kinds of greens, she likes steaming them, herbs—she gave him a list of which ones and which she likes to dry—“And if you can manage it, pick up a few small plants at the Gardenmobile for the side of the house, but tell the seller you want them mostly for the shade.” At the Japanese grocer’s, a single card table, half-pound of bean sprouts, daikon, strange kind of scallion—almost all white—and something that tastes and looks like Chinese parsley but the grocer’s daughter—her father doesn’t speak English—said it isn’t. Then when they got home—Then they did lots of other things elsewhere and when they got home, each of the kids carrying a plant to show her mother and he a big bag of produce and the filled canvas bag—In the car after the market, before he pulled out of the lot, he said to the kids “So, where do you want to go now?” “Home,” one said. “I want to show Momma the plant I chose.” “For pizza,” the other one said. “Yes, pizza, pizza,” the first one said. “Too early for either,” he said. “And lunch will be later. You had your honey sticks and there’s half a croissant each if you want, and if you’re still hungry after that there’s pears, apples, carrots.” “I’m thirsty,” one said, and he said “You both had different kinds of cider samples—apple, apple-raspberry—at the fruit stand. What do you say we go to the art museum? It’s a little chilly out, and it shouldn’t be crowded so early.” “Yes, the museum,” she said. “Great idea, Daddy. I want to buy a Monet key ring I saw there. I’ve my own money I brought.” The other wanted to buy one too and had money. They went to the museum, straight to the gift shop. It’d run out of Monet key rings and also Monet crayon sharpeners, their second choice of what they remembered from their last visit there. Everything else they wanted—a stuffed Paddington Bear, a doll based on a book about a girl, Linnea, who goes to Monet’s garden, a multicolored Slinky—they didn’t have enough money for, and he didn’t want to add any to what they had, since he found the dolls and Slinky overpriced. A traveling Monet exhibition dominated the museum—he’d thought it left—and you needed special tickets for it. His would be expensive, theirs half-priced, and they’d seen the show two months ago, but what the hell, he thought, the kids like to take the audiophone tours—they didn’t last time here but had since at two other museums, both plugged into one cassette and the youngest, it seemed, always darting the opposite way the oldest was going and pulling her plug out—and Monet was one of his favorite painters of any era, and tickets to the exhibition included admission to the museum. But they were sold out. “Well, long as we’re here let’s go in anyway; maybe we’ll discover something new and there’s always some of the permanent stuff we like.” He bought tickets—the youngest girl’s was free—and they walked around but there wasn’t much to see if you didn’t like, and he didn’t, American colonial and Georgian furniture, vases, silver, an exhibit of teapots from around the world, second-rate eighteenth and nineteenth-century European paintings and sculpture, the same room of African and New Guinean folk art, old drawings in a cramped space, two rooms of photographs of tiled roofs. Almost the entire Impressionist wing, which he felt was the only reason to come here if there wasn’t a special exhibition he wanted to see, had been sent to another museum in partial exchange for the Monets, and the rooms had been temporarily converted to an expensive Parisian café resembling one in Monet’s time, and the room where American contemporary art used to be had been turned, since they’d seen the exhibit, into a Monet gift shop. “Success, that’s all, they’re making a fortune,” he said. “We got to remember to tell Mommy about this.” “Maybe we can get the key rings in there,” his oldest daughter said, but they weren’t allowed in without a Monet-exhibit tag. They left the museum, but right outside it he said “No, I’m going to protest, this is too much,” and went to the ticket counter and said he’d like passes for another day for the money he paid to get in today, and if they don’t do that, then a refund. “I’m telling you, I’ve never done this before, but I feel shortchanged. Outside of the Monets, which we couldn’t get in to, this place is bare.” After some discussion between themselves and then a phone call to someone higher up, the ticket sellers gave him three passes. “So what are we going to do now?” he said when they got back to the car. “Pizza,” both kids said. “Okay, it’s around lunch time,” and they went to a pizza shop nearby, and he had coffee while they had pizza, garlic bread and, though he didn’t want to get it for them because it’s such junk but it was the only kind of drink for kids they had, soda. At the table he said “So what do we want to do after this—any good suggestions?” “Let’s go home,” one said. “I want to show Mommy the plant I chose and tell her what you said we should about the Monet shop before we forget,” but he said it was too early. He’d made an arrangement with her. He’d take the kids all morning and half the afternoon if she gave him half a day free tomorrow. “I don’t know what I’ll do with them, if you want us to be out of the house,” she said. “I can’t drive anymore, so I can’t take them anyplace. Maybe we’ll cab somewhere, and I’ll work it like that.” “If you don’t think you can do it, or you’ll get too tired, just give me a couple of hours in the morning. That seems to be when you’re strongest, and anywhere you want—here, outside—and I’ll take them for the afternoon,” but she said no, she’ll figure something out. “And you know, it’s not as if I’ll be getting any of my important work done today. A few pages of reading, but the writing stuff I’m already too bushed to.” Maybe by now, he thought, she isn’t tired anymore—took a nap, got some rest—and she can get some writing in. Then she’ll really think his giving her almost the whole day free went to something, and she’ll do her best to give him more than two hours tomorrow, or at least those two. “Let’s go to the playground,” he said. “Too cold,” and he said “So we’ll run around and warm up and go down the slide and things. Come on, only a short time, and then we’ll go someplace like the Bagel Nook for dessert, and even—I shouldn’t be doing this; don’t tell your mother; nah, no conspiracies, so tell her if you want—but another soda, though between you, and Soho brand this time, you know, only natural and no sugar.” “Okay,” “Yea.” They went to the playground. He caught them at the bottom of the slide a few times, went down with each of them once, then the two of them in front of him, spr
inted around the park the playground was in, then said he wanted to work out on the parallel bars—“Haven’t done it in a long time and I like the feeling it gives my arms and chest after, puffs them up, makes them feel young.” So while they climbed on the Junglegym, he went on the bars, just swinging back and forth while he stayed stiff between the bars and a couple of times flipping himself off and landing on his feet a foot from the bar ends. Then they sat in the car till he wasn’t sweating anymore, and he said “Okay, dessert,” and at the Nook he gave in and they got a soda each but the Soho brand and a plate of cookies and he had a coffee and buttered bagel. He thought of calling her to see how she was. “Should we call Mommy?” and they said yes and he said “Nah, now that I think of it, she’s probably working and getting to the phone will be difficult for her,” and the older one said “She always has her portable phone with her in her walker basket,” and he said “Even still,” for what he didn’t want was to give her an excuse to tell them to come home, for, even if she doesn’t get any work done, longer he stays away, more she’ll feel she has to give him those two-hours-plus tomorrow and maybe even doing most of the putting-the-kids-to-sleep tonight instead of him. “So what now?” he said when they finished eating, “we still have some time left,” and the oldest said “Let’s just go home, Daddy; we’ve been out plenty,” and the other said “That’s right.” “Why? I’m still feeling energetic and want to stay out and do things, and you must be feeling frisky too what with those two sodas and pizza and you finished the cookies, I see, and they looked good and sweet,” and the younger said “They were okay.” “Good. There are no movies you two would like,” and the older one said “Why not?” and he said “Too violent or explicit or just plain disgusting,” and one of them asked and he had to explain “explicit”: “Where they show adult things kids shouldn’t see and maybe not even adults, because they are so disgusting and, and…well a whole bunch of other words I’d have to explain, and the movies for kids are all stupid, just plain stupid.” “Not all,” the older one said, and he said “I meant most,” and she said “Then let’s go to the Rotunda. They have a good kids’ bookstore there.” He didn’t want to, been there twice already this week getting things for the house and his wife, but it was a small fairly attractive mall, fifteen minutes away, so that would take time, and the ten to fifteen minutes back, and he could have another coffee at one of the two food places there while they had something, or nothing—no coffee for him and they could just look at the books in the store and maybe each could buy one if that didn’t come to much, and he could do a little supermarket shopping there so he wouldn’t have to do it Monday or Tuesday, so he said “Yeah, that’s a very good suggestion; I didn’t think of it; thanks, dear.” “I thought of it too but didn’t say it,” the younger one said, and he said “So thank you too. Maybe your sister picked it out of your head you were thinking it so hard,” and the older one said “She’s only saying that; it was my own.” They went to the mall, kids to the children’s bookstore while he browsed through the adult one across the hall and bought a book his wife had said she wanted weeks ago—a week, anyway—if he was ever near a bookstore. He had been—this one; in fact, several times since she’d said it, or a couple of times, at least—but he forgot: the new Consumer Buying Guide annual; “That or the one Consumer Reports puts out,” which the store also had, but it was more expensive and didn’t seem to have as much. She wanted to replace their broken-down drier and was also looking into buying a minivan, then selling the two-door they have, because it would be more comfortable for the family and also because of all the accessories she has to take with her when they go out: this elaborate Swedish walker with a basket and seat; wheelchair sometimes when they go to places—museums, theaters, zoos and parks—where she has to do a lot of getting around; eventually a motorized cart, she suspects, which means a special lift or removable ramp. “Just looking ahead,” she said, “not deceiving myself, and a couple of companies—Chrysler, I know—are giving a five-hundred-dollar rebate on the lift, and I don’t know how long that’ll last. Maybe the response will be so great, or just nothing, that they’ll cut it off.” Older child found a book she’d always wanted, other one didn’t see anything she liked. “Good,” he said, “you did it right; didn’t see anything you liked, you didn’t buy. You’re not, as they say, a compulsive shopper.” Explained “compulsive” and said all this while they walked to the supermarket inside the mall, older child already reading her book along the way. Milk, yogurt, cheese, pasta, cabbage and beets, because he forgot to get them at the farmers’ market and his wife wants them to make borscht, some cleaning things, wax paper, bread for the kids, deli, seltzer in several flavors, juice concentrate. “Can anyone think of anything we need but didn’t get?” and the younger one said “Parakeet seeds, we’re all out,” and he said “Great; I’ll tell Blue you reminded me, and will he ever be appreciative. Also those treat sticks as a special treat after the bread he had to eat the last few days.” “And a light for my night light,” the older one said, and he said “You still need that thing?” “Yes, and Mommy said the little bulb in that little lamp by her bed went out too, so we can get them at the same place.” Got them, paid, when he was pushing the cart to the exit he looked at his watch. Why not give her another half-hour? More he gives, better rested she’ll be. Probably rested plenty already and maybe only now is just starting to work. Even if she only gets a half-hour in, it’ll be something, might satisfy her. “Mind if we stop someplace for coffee?” he said after he got the packages into the trunk. “I don’t want to,” the older one said. “We want to go home,” the other one said. “Please, I’m a little tired; I could use a quick pick-me-up like a coffee.” “You’ll get sick with all that coffee,” the older one said. “Mommy said you shouldn’t have so much, and you get too angry with it too.” “Not angry; nervous. But just now I need one. Sometimes an adult body does. I’m telling you, I know. And then with it, I won’t be too sleepy to drive.” So they went to a convenience store on the way home. He had a decaf—poured it himself when they weren’t looking, not that they’d know the meaning of the red handle of that pot, but they might ask; they shared a fruit drink and a packaged pound cake. “Listen, whatever I said before about no conspiracies, this time please don’t tell Mommy about all the cake I allowed you today. She’ll kill me.” They sat in the car in front of the store; then, to stop them from eating and drinking so fast, which when they were done they’d want to go straight home, he decided to start a conversation. “So, what did you both like best about today?” “It’s not over,” the older one said. “I know, but so far.” “The pizza and soda.” “Yes,” the younger one said. “Besides that,” and they both said the outdoor bakery at the farmers’ market. “Seriously, what else? Not just food,” and the older one said “The gift shop at the museum even if it didn’t have my key ring.” “I liked it when you went down the slide with us and then with me alone,” the younger one said. “Now you’re talking,” he said. “I liked it all but maybe the slide, going down with you two together, the most. That was like heaven, but the good heaven, where you’re alive—sliding down, my two darling girls in my arms in front of me. And it was also scary, we went down so fast.” “Yeah, maybe that was the best,” the older one aid. “And then the pizza and after that the French bakery.” Then they went home. Opened the door. The older girl did; he had two bags of groceries in his arms and was going to go back for more once he put these down in the kitchen. The older girl screamed. The younger one, behind him, yelled “What?” and squeezed past him and ran in, and then she screamed. He went in with the packages; they were both already beside his wife on the floor, plants they brought in, next to them. Her eyes were closed; are closed; blood all around her head and arm but not coming out of the gash in her head anymore. He puts the bags down on the dining room table near her, says “Oh no, oh God,” and yells “Go away, go away,” and they get up and jump back and start screaming, and he gets on the floor and says to the ceiling “Wh
at am I going to do, what am I going to do?—stop screaming, I can’t think,” and they stop and he puts his ear to her mouth. She doesn’t seem to be breathing. Turns her over on her back and puts his ear to her chest, to her mouth and nose, doesn’t hear or feel anything. Feels her wrist but isn’t sure he’d feel anything even if there is a pulse there, since he doesn’t know how to do it. He breathes into her mouth, hard, pulls away, breathes some more, pulls away, says to the older girl “Call Emergency, 911, tell them your mommy’s very hurt, unconscious, and to send an emergency ambulance right away. Right away. 911 and that she might not be breathing. Do it now, now,” and bends down and breathes into her mouth and calls her name after he pulls away, breathes some more into her and calls her name again and again. “Oh why did I stay away, why didn’t I come back?” he screams. Her walker’s on its side. She must have slipped while pushing it and fallen, and the walker slid away from her and hit something and fell over, or she just slipped and fell with it and hit her head hard on something, not the floor, or maybe just something sharp on the floor, because of that deep gash. Later she’ll say she doesn’t know how it happened: she was getting out of a chair, had her hands on the walker for support, and that’s all she remembers of it. “A towel, get a towel,” he yells to the younger girl, “and wet it good so we can wipe Mommy’s head—maybe that’ll help her—and did you call that 911?” he yells to the older girl and she says “Yes, they said they’re coming, they wanted to speak to you, but I said you were blowing air into Mommy. Is she going to die? Is she dead?” and he says “No, never, don’t think of it, go outside and wait for the ambulance and tell them this is the house. Wave to them, make sure they see you,” and the younger girl’s brought the towel, and he wipes his wife’s head and face with it and breathes into her mouth, feels for her heartbeat, nothing seems to be there, breathes into her again and listens for her breath, nothing, calls her name, shakes her shoulders, yells “When will they come?—call them again—you,” to the younger girl, “dial 911 and give them our name and address and say we called before and ask when they’re coming,” and she does. The emergency team comes about ten minutes after his older daughter first called them, and they put some machines on his wife and revive her, and he puts his hand on her temple and feels the pulse, and they say she probably never stopped breathing, it just must have seemed that way to him because her breathing and heartbeat were so low or he wasn’t listening or feeling at the right places and that his mouth-to-mouth resuscitation probably helped rather than hurt, though sometimes it can do the reverse. She’s taken to the hospital. When she goes she’s smiling at them and muttering something they don’t understand except for the word “outside.” He leaves the kids with friends for a couple of hours and goes to the hospital. She’s sleeping but not in a coma and will most likely be her old self tomorrow though with a tremendous headache, the doctor tells him. Then he picks up the kids, goes home, brings the rest of the bags in from the car, has to throw away a few things that spoiled, like milk and deli meat, makes them supper and himself a drink and sits down at the table with them.
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