“Julian, I was telling your father how I offered you a job for the summer.”
My father smiled at me. I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t told him about the job offer because I knew I couldn’t do it since I would be gone for most of the summer at Mom’s. Dad said, “It does seem like a good opportunity.”
And then Tia said, “So who’s ready to eat?”
Both Dad and Mrs. Brogan complimented us on the dinner. Oddly enough, Dad seemed comfortable with Tia and her mom. Maybe it was the wine. Tia’s mom was a nice lady, but I didn’t think anything would happen between her and my father. I still held out hope that my parents would be getting back together.
It seemed to me that their relationship was moving in a direction that might lead to something. They talked on the phone every time she called. I hadn’t asked my father what they talked about or commented on the fact their conversations were getting longer. I was afraid if I asked either one of them what was going on it might be enough to push them apart again. But my father seemed happier than he had been in a long time and I was grateful for that.
While our parents did the dishes, Tia and I went outside and sat on the porch swing. It was the end of May and about as perfect a night as you could ask for.
“I know it’s selfish of me, Julian, but I wish you weren’t going to Florida.”
“I’m going to miss you,” I said.
For the longest time all I’d wanted to do was go and be with my mother but now that it was here, in front of me, I wished I could slow down time. Of course, I still wanted to see Mom, but I also wanted another couple weeks with Tia. We were both busy with the end of the school year and finals, and with me leaving for Mom’s on the following Saturday, we’d probably only be able to get together and cook one more time.
On the drive home, Dad turned to me. “So why didn’t you tell me she offered you a job for the summer?”
“I wasn’t sure if she was serious. She just kind of said it. And with going to Mom’s.”
“Well, Julian, you need to do what you want to do. She’s the one who left. Maybe you could go to Florida for a few weeks, instead of the whole summer.”
“Maybe Mom will come back this week, and I won’t even have to go.”
“That would be nice but she’s not ready yet.”
“Do you think she will be back?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe. There’s a better chance now than there was a month ago.”
“It was the postcard poems,” I said.
He laughed. “They didn’t hurt, Julian. How about this one: living without you is like winning fake money in poker?”
“It’s not the smoothest line. Remember it is supposed to be poetic.”
“It is what it is,” he said. As if that made any sort of damn sense.
43
On Friday morning, I woke early and made a quick loop around the block to drop some birdseed on the sidewalk. The night before, after my last day of school, I had asked Dad if I could go to work with him in the morning. He looked at me kind of strange and said, “Sure. If you want to. Why?”
“I thought it might be interesting to see you in action.”
“It’ll be fun.” I could tell it pleased my father that I was interested in his work. He’d been a nurse my whole life and the closest I’d seen of him working was when he had to do CPR at the grocery store.
The only time I’d even been in the hospital was that day Mrs. Peters drove over my leg. As the elevator opened on my father’s floor, we faced the central desk with rooms spilling out to the left and right. The halls were full with blood pressure machines and food trays and rolling chairs.
Dad introduced me to Glennis, the nurse secretary. Glennis was tall and chunky with a British accent. Whenever I called Dad at work, she answered the phone, “Hello, 3700, this is Glennis, can I help you?” Her accent would throw me for a second or two, as if I’d somehow dialed the wrong number, and ended up talking to someone from across the Atlantic Ocean.
“Glennis, keep an eye on him,” Dad said.
“I’ll keep two,” she said and smiled.
Dad had told me on the walk in that he would let me come in some patient rooms throughout the day but the first hour or so I’d have to stay at the desk. He said they started every shift in report, getting updates from the night shift nurses about their patients for the day.
As Dad walked away, Glennis asked, “Do you want to be a nurse like your dad?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“He told me you were a heck of a cook.”
“Did he?”
She nodded. When the phone rang, she answered it, that voice of hers bright and alive in my ears.
By eight, most of the night-shift nurses were gone, but the floor was filling up with doctors and visitors. I stayed at the desk, and figured Dad would come and get me when he had time.
Finally, he walked up and whispered, “Want to see me start an IV?”
“Sure,” I said.
The patient was an old man named Guy Wilson. He was sleeping when we walked in the room. When Dad said good morning, the man sat up a little but didn’t open his eyes. “We’ve got to get a new IV in you, Mr. Wilson. The other one infiltrated.”
Mr. Wilson nodded. Dad set all of his supplies—a needle, tape and alcohol wipes—on the bed and leaned over the man’s left arm. I walked to the foot of the bed, so I could get a better view. Dad kept his head down, held the man’s forearm and slowly, steadily slid the needle into his vein. Mr. Wilson didn’t flinch. In one motion, Dad popped the tourniquet and connected the IV tubing, taped it all into place. He turned back to me and winked.
I stayed with him as he made his morning rounds. He had five patients on the floor. A couple of them were still sleeping, one of them was eating breakfast and talking on his cell phone at the same time.
I watched him take vital signs, write in charts, read doctor’s orders and get drugs from some automated machine behind the nurse’s station. I watched him empty catheter bags and ask patients if their food was warm enough. The whole time he moved through the department like a man who was confident in what he was doing.
One of his patients, an old lady named Barbara Hall, was a mess when we walked in her room. She had spilled milk all over herself.
She even had a couple pieces of pancake in her hair. Dad wet a washcloth and wiped her face, took his time picking the pancakes out of her hair. Then he changed her hospital gown.
At one point, he turned back to me. The look on my face must have shown my surprise. “Probably not what you thought being a nurse was, is it?”
“I’m not sure what I expected.”
After he checked on all of his patients, we went down to the cafeteria for some breakfast. Doctors and other nurses and people from X-ray waved and said hi to my father as we walked through the hospital.
My parents never seemed to have a lot of friends. Or if they did, these people didn’t come over to our house, and I couldn’t remember the last time my parents had gone over to someone else’s house. I remember Dennis telling me how his parents had a lot of friends. He said he’d be trying to sleep on a Saturday night and his parents and their friends would be sitting at his kitchen table drinking beer and playing cards.
But in this hospital, my father did have friends or at least people who knew him and treated him with respect. In other aspects of his life, like at home, he seemed unsure of himself. And maybe that was one of the reasons he worked so much, because it was easier for him than being at home, listening to Mom talk about her latest unpublished novel.
Dad told me a little bit about each patient as we ate. How Mr. Wilson had been out playing golf when he had a heart attack. He said the man owned a half-dozen mobile home parks and was rich, very rich. He told me that Barbara Hall was a librarian at UNCG. And Mr. Kelly was about to have his third bypass surgery.
I wondered how he remembered everything about them, and how many people he had taken care of over the years
. Did any of them remembered him or say thank you when they left his floor? I’m sure some must have.
When his break was over, we headed back upstairs. As soon as we stepped off the elevator, I could tell something was wrong. Glennis looked stressed and two nurses were running down the hall.
“3705,” Glennis said into the phone. “Code Blue, 3705.”
“Stay here,” Dad said, as he took off following the other nurses.
In less than a minute, the code team arrived—at least a dozen people. Thankfully, the patient coding wasn’t one of Dad’s. I looked down the hall but couldn’t see my father. I wanted to walk down there but knew if I did I would only be in the way.
The green call light came on outside of one of the rooms. Glennis called to the patient through the microphone piped into the room, “Yes, Mrs. Hall. What do you need?”
“Orange juice.”
“Just a minute,” Glennis said and started to stand.
“I’ll give it to her,” I said.
“You sure?” But I was already heading for the fridge where they kept drinks and Italian ice for patients.
Mrs. Hall was sitting up in the bed, her legs hanging over the side. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying to get some juice.” “I’ve got some. Let’s get you back in bed.”
I helped her lift her legs back into the bed, covered them with the heavy brown blanket. I handed her the little container of juice, but her hands were shaking so much I knew she’d spill it all over herself. “Here,” I said. “Let me help.”
She shook her head and let out a sigh, then finally lowered her hands back to her sides. It was obvious she didn’t want my help but was resigned to the fact that she needed it. I peeled the top of the container back and lifted the juice to her lips. At first, she licked the juice more than drank it, but then she settled down and began to drink. It must have taken me five minutes to get her to drink the small container. When she finished, I wet a wash cloth and wiped her lips, her chin.
“That was good,” she said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I looked up at the TV and realized The Price is Right was on but the volume was turned off. How could I not think of Mrs. Peters? I was glad she hadn’t ended up like this, in a hospital bed, out of it. She’d died peacefully, in her backyard, surrounded by the things she loved: her birds, her cat, and her garden.
I turned the volume up and we watched a good fifteen minutes of the show before Mrs. Hall fell back asleep. When I stood up to leave, my father was standing at the door, smiling at me.
On the drive home, he told me that the man who coded in 3705 had died on the operating table. I didn’t ask why or what happened. I didn’t say anything to my father. What can you say to such a thing?
That night, we did a six mile run. It was a good run, a fair distance. I knew this would be one of the last runs we’d have together for some time.
I wondered if he thought of those patients when he ran. He’d told me before that all he thought about was one step and then another. I hoped this was true because I knew he’d done everything he could for his patients.
And like my cooking, or Mom’s writing, Dad had been in the zone while he was working today. He seemed to move so effortlessly around the floor, breezing into patient rooms, laughing with other nurses, teasing Glennis about something or other. He was in his element and it was clear to me now why he liked being a nurse. It was not what he had wanted to do, back before I was born, but it was who he had become and he seemed fine with that.
We passed through Lake Daniel Park. In the center of the park, a bridge crossed over a small stream. Occasionally we’d see some ducks, maybe small fish, but this time I spotted a large grey bird, a great blue heron, walking slowly in the water. I stopped on the bridge but Dad kept going, because he hadn’t noticed I’d stopped. The bird was stalking prey, moving with ease, raising and lowering its big legs. It jabbed its long beak into the water and pulled out a fish.
When I looked up, Dad was trotting back to me. I heard a whoosh-whoosh, the sound of wings opening and closing as the huge bird flew up and over my head.
“You okay?” Dad asked.
I laughed. “Yeah.”
And we continued to cover more miles, putting distance between our past lives, the way we used to live, and heading forward toward some new sort of life together.
44
When we made it home from our run, I was surprised to see Dennis sitting on our front steps. “Hey, Hale,” he said.
“Dennis.”
My father said hi to Dennis, then patted me on the shoulder and went in to take a shower. “You heading to your Mom’s tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I said. “My flight is at 9:20.”
“I just wanted to stop by and wish you good luck.”
“Thanks.”
“I guess I might not see you again,” he said.
“I don’t know.” I’d forgotten I’d told Dennis that I planned to stay in Florida with my mother if it turned out she wasn’t coming back.
“Look, Julian. I’m sorry about what I said about you and the lady next door. I’m a jerk sometime,” he said.
“Did you know she died?”
“Yeah, I’d heard that.”
“When you heading to tennis camp?” Dennis always spent at least one month of summer break at some camp in New York.
“Couple weeks.”
“Thanks for coming by, Dennis.”
“Sure, man,” he said.
He turned and walked away as I headed in to take a shower and get ready for one more night at Tia’s.
I felt a little guilty about leaving my father alone, especially on this last night, but he’d said to go ahead and have fun. We’d have plenty more time together; it wasn’t like I was going away forever. I had never told him my plans to stay in Florida with Mom.
“Thanks for coming to work with me,” he said as we pulled into Tia’s driveway.
“I had a good time.”
“Me too.”
“Nine okay?” he asked.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Tia’s mom answered the door. She had on a dress, said she was on her way out and that Tia was in the kitchen waiting for me. The house was alive with her father’s voice. I thought I’d come to know Tia’s dad through his singing. He was angry at times, happy and excited at others.
When I made it to the kitchen, Tia was cutting chicken breasts into two-inch long strips. “Chef Tia,” I said.
She turned around and smiled. “Good evening, Chef Julian.”
She’d told me we were going to make steak and chicken fajitas, one of my favorites. I cut the steak into the same size pieces she’d cut the chicken. “You all packed?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said. There hadn’t been much—one suitcase and a backpack filled with a couple cookbooks and the bird book Mrs. Peters had given me.
“I bet you’re excited,” she said.
“I haven’t seen her in almost four months now.”
When I’d called the night before, Mom had told me she was excited about seeing me and kept talking about how much fun we were going to have. It did sound like fun, and I was looking forward to seeing her, but I was already missing Tia and her kitchen and the sounds of her dead father crying out all around us. And I knew I would miss covering all those miles with my father.
While I cut the peppers, she sliced the onions. Her hands looked so soft to me. I wanted to hold her hands, feel my fingers wrap around hers. We tossed the onions and peppers into the hot pan, and I could smell the onions right away, warm and comforting, something I’d grown used to.
Once they cooked down a bit, I pulled them off the heat, dropped them into a plate. Then I put the chicken chunks into the pan. Tia started another pan for the steak. The room came alive with the hiss and pop of a hot pan.
“I’m going to miss cooking with you, Julian.”
“Me too. I’m going to miss you.” She turned to me and I reached over and h
ugged her, kissed her there in the kitchen. It wasn’t a big kiss, but we’d kissed and then hugged again. I didn’t want to let go.
“Maybe the girls will come back,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Plus Mom said now that it was summer I could quit my job and work with her.”
We turned the meat in our respective pans. Four minutes on each side was enough. Tia grabbed a couple tortilla shells and tossed them in the oven to soften them up.
After dropping the peppers and onions back into the pans, we gave them another minute and then they were ready to serve. Tia set the shells on oversized blue plates. I served each of us one chicken and one steak fajita, smothering them with onions and peppers, a handful of shredded cheddar cheese. Tia spooned a dollop of guacamole on each one. On the corner of each plate, she added more guacamole and sour cream.
We went outside and sat on her swing. The fajitas were warm and spicy and the meat had grilled up nice. The cheese cut through it all. Tia ate all of her guacamole with her first fajita and kept stealing mine.
I asked her if she really planned to be a chef when she grew up. She smiled. “Yeah. Since Mom has always had the catering business, I’ve always been around the kitchen. It feels normal to me in a way nothing else does. But I don’t think I’ll take over Mom’s business. I want to go to the Culinary Institute of America in New York. Maybe after that I’ll move to Europe, cook at some skiing villa full of rich people.”
“Have you ever been to Europe?”
“No. Dad promised he’d take me with him on one of his tours, but we never got around to it. What about you, Julian. Do you plan on being a chef?”
“I haven’t thought too serious about it. All I know is that right now I like it and spend a good part of my day thinking about cooking.”
“You should. You’re a natural.”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
She locked up and we headed out of her front yard. It was dark enough that some people had their porch lights on. We didn’t say anything for a little while, just enjoyed this cool night.
A man jogged by on the opposite side of the street, and I couldn’t help but think of my father. I hoped he would be okay. I’d prepared and frozen a couple weeks worth of food for him and showed him how to make a few easy meals, like beaten chicken, baked tilapia, and that ziti and sausage dish he loved. He said not to worry about him, that he was going to stay busy with his training.
Heart with Joy Page 14