Read Online They May Not Mean To, but They Do: A Novel by Cathleen Schine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cathleen Schine
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presumably.”
“Don’t believe everything they tell you,” Aaron said.
For a weak man, he was physically strong. His hand still held Daniel’s, and Daniel felt the grip tighten.
“Dad?”
Aaron moaned.
“Pain?”
Aaron moaned again. He couldn’t speak. He looked pleadingly at his son.
When the nurse arrived, she tipped a pill into Aaron’s mouth from a small, pleated paper cup. “Now drink up,” she said, handing him a plastic cup of water.
Aaron looked at her with wide-open eyes—eyes full of fright. Did she notice? Daniel wondered.
“It will help the pain,” Daniel said.
The moans got louder, a crescendo of misery. Daniel thought he had never heard anyone in such misery.
His father’s face seemed to shrink with the pain, his eyes growing wider, fearful, his ears standing out from his head like little elbows.
“Dad, I wish I could do something for you.”
The moaning stopped. “You got a stick of gum?”
Daniel put his head in his hands. He waited a few seconds, breathing deeply. “Dad,” he said when he looked up, “how is the pain now?”
“Nobody tells me anything,” his father muttered, then drifted off into a robust, drugged sleep, snoring deeply.
* * *
Aaron was supposed to come home from the hospital soon, and Molly tried to talk to her mother about how she would manage once Molly went back to Los Angeles.
Freddie was gone already, back to her sleepy undergraduates. Her semester started a week earlier than Molly’s, and Molly envied her that roomful of hungover boys and girls, students forced to sit and listen. You could test students, grade them, fail them if necessary; you could tell what the correct answer was. Your mother was another story.
Molly tried, she really did. She ran through all the things her father could no longer do, all the things Joy would have to help him with, even writing them down on a large legal pad in broad black letters. Aaron could no longer stand up by himself. He couldn’t get himself into bed or out of bed or out of a chair or into a chair. He could not walk by himself, though he often tried, which meant he could not be left by himself for even a minute. Joy would have to dress him, and Joy would have to undress him.
“This is not news to me, Molly.”
He needed to be bathed, frequently. And dried. And powdered. He required ointments and unguents. He needed all the attention to pouches and adult diapers that Molly was so queasy about, as well as the rashes and sores they produced, and even so, the bed linens often had to be changed in the middle of the night.
“I can cope. I have always coped. Haven’t I? Admit it, Molly. Through everything.”
“Yes, you cope, but can’t you cope with some help? Just keeping him fed is exhausting.”
“I order in,” Joy said.
Molly had noticed that. In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, her father was given the remains of the same turkey meat loaf dinner from the coffee shop for days, interspersed with the remains of the roast turkey dinner and the turkey burger deluxe, for variety. Joy had tried to feed Molly endless teaspoon-size portions of turkey leftovers, too, but Molly had rebelled and insisted on cooking. Both her parents pronounced her chicken too spicy and her green beans undercooked, then turned rather loftily back to their scraps.
“Next thing I know you’ll be sending both of us off to assisted living,” Joy said to her now. “To a facility.”
“A locked ward.”
“In the meantime, I need you to fix the computer. I hate the computer.”
She said the words “the computer” with categorical disdain, the way someone might say “Tea Party.”
Molly felt the buzz of her phone and went into the bathroom so she could check the text without incurring her mother’s rage.
“Help,” said the text from Daniel. “Dad thinks I’m in the hospital.”
“You are,” she responded.
“He thinks I’m the patient.”
Daniel was waiting when she got to the cramped café
“Don’t believe everything they tell you,” Aaron said.
For a weak man, he was physically strong. His hand still held Daniel’s, and Daniel felt the grip tighten.
“Dad?”
Aaron moaned.
“Pain?”
Aaron moaned again. He couldn’t speak. He looked pleadingly at his son.
When the nurse arrived, she tipped a pill into Aaron’s mouth from a small, pleated paper cup. “Now drink up,” she said, handing him a plastic cup of water.
Aaron looked at her with wide-open eyes—eyes full of fright. Did she notice? Daniel wondered.
“It will help the pain,” Daniel said.
The moans got louder, a crescendo of misery. Daniel thought he had never heard anyone in such misery.
His father’s face seemed to shrink with the pain, his eyes growing wider, fearful, his ears standing out from his head like little elbows.
“Dad, I wish I could do something for you.”
The moaning stopped. “You got a stick of gum?”
Daniel put his head in his hands. He waited a few seconds, breathing deeply. “Dad,” he said when he looked up, “how is the pain now?”
“Nobody tells me anything,” his father muttered, then drifted off into a robust, drugged sleep, snoring deeply.
* * *
Aaron was supposed to come home from the hospital soon, and Molly tried to talk to her mother about how she would manage once Molly went back to Los Angeles.
Freddie was gone already, back to her sleepy undergraduates. Her semester started a week earlier than Molly’s, and Molly envied her that roomful of hungover boys and girls, students forced to sit and listen. You could test students, grade them, fail them if necessary; you could tell what the correct answer was. Your mother was another story.
Molly tried, she really did. She ran through all the things her father could no longer do, all the things Joy would have to help him with, even writing them down on a large legal pad in broad black letters. Aaron could no longer stand up by himself. He couldn’t get himself into bed or out of bed or out of a chair or into a chair. He could not walk by himself, though he often tried, which meant he could not be left by himself for even a minute. Joy would have to dress him, and Joy would have to undress him.
“This is not news to me, Molly.”
He needed to be bathed, frequently. And dried. And powdered. He required ointments and unguents. He needed all the attention to pouches and adult diapers that Molly was so queasy about, as well as the rashes and sores they produced, and even so, the bed linens often had to be changed in the middle of the night.
“I can cope. I have always coped. Haven’t I? Admit it, Molly. Through everything.”
“Yes, you cope, but can’t you cope with some help? Just keeping him fed is exhausting.”
“I order in,” Joy said.
Molly had noticed that. In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, her father was given the remains of the same turkey meat loaf dinner from the coffee shop for days, interspersed with the remains of the roast turkey dinner and the turkey burger deluxe, for variety. Joy had tried to feed Molly endless teaspoon-size portions of turkey leftovers, too, but Molly had rebelled and insisted on cooking. Both her parents pronounced her chicken too spicy and her green beans undercooked, then turned rather loftily back to their scraps.
“Next thing I know you’ll be sending both of us off to assisted living,” Joy said to her now. “To a facility.”
“A locked ward.”
“In the meantime, I need you to fix the computer. I hate the computer.”
She said the words “the computer” with categorical disdain, the way someone might say “Tea Party.”
Molly felt the buzz of her phone and went into the bathroom so she could check the text without incurring her mother’s rage.
“Help,” said the text from Daniel. “Dad thinks I’m in the hospital.”
“You are,” she responded.
“He thinks I’m the patient.”
Daniel was waiting when she got to the cramped café
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