ponders her thoughts, even though he should be able to hear every word she’s saying. On the floor under the TV are two ratty, hard suitcases and a fluffy dog bed that looks like a hat an old Russian man would wear in a blizzard.
“I’ve tacked his medication instructions and his schedule here,” Aunt Jeana says, tapping the paper Scotch-taped to the inside of the cupboard door. “He likes his coffee black and some cinnamon in his oatmeal. And, oh, no celery in his food. He hates celery. Even chopped fine, he can taste it.” Oma has a slight smile on her face, and I know that she’s wondering how it is that Aunt Jeana could have forgotten that she lived with the man for years, so no doubt knows these things already. “Oh, and watch it, because he likes to turn on the stove and walk off.”
Jeana keeps rattling off instructions as Oma circles the room. Oma stops and touches a clock in the shape of a rooster. Mom doesn’t move. She stands still, her arms wrapped around her middle, bunching her shirt so that a peek of skin shows. As I watch her, I wonder how it can be that Mom, five foot six and thirty-three years old, can look dwarfed and as young as me in this house.
“Oh, and watch the back door. I don’t know what the fascination is with that shed back there, but twice now he’s gotten loose and I’ve found him standing at the door, looking confused. He still thinks he can drive too, though where he thinks he’s going is beyond me. I hid his keys on the back of the top shelf, right here,” she adds in a whisper.
Aunt Jeana plucks a chunk of steaming meat out of the pan and pops it into her mouth, chewing it as she rattles off more instructions and excuses why she needs to leave today. Besides Chico’s brain that needs scanning, she lists reasons such as: “My plants have probably all died by now,” and, “I haven’t mailed back my Book of the Month Club card, and I don’t always care for the featured selections.” She pauses, plucks the chewed meat from her tongue, and puts it into Chico’s mouth. He gums it happily. “He’s missing so many teeth that it’s hard for him to chew,” she explains when she looks up and sees that we’re all staring at her. Well, Oma and I are, that is. Mom is turned away, gagging.
“Which reminds me: Sam is having problems swallowing, so you need to—”
“Please don’t tell us that we need to prechew his food,” Mom interrupts.
“—feed him soft foods,” Aunt Jeana finishes her sentence, and her eyes squint tight. “No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. But I’d hope that if your father needed it done, you’d do it for him, simply because he’s your father, if nothing else. That man raised you and paid your way through college. And he’s leaving all of this to you.” Aunt Jeana waves her bony hand, encompassing the room, so dramatically that one would think she was motioning to a whole kingdom.
“What time does he go to bed at night?” Oma asks, to distract her, I’m sure.
“Actually,” Mom says, facing Aunt Jeana, “he didn’t.”
“Mom said Grandpa Sam wouldn’t stop to give her water if—” I say, and Oma glides over and reaches around my shoulder, past my cheek, and pats my mouth shut before I can finish the sentence.
“What time does he turn in for the night?” Oma asks again.
But Aunt Jeana won’t be distracted. Her beady eyes are boring into Mom’s face like stingers as she tucks another clump of hamburger into her mouth. “Didn’t what?” she asks Mom.
“Support me through college. He didn’t give me a damn red cent for school. And
he
isn’t leaving this to me, you are. I’m curious as to why.”
Aunt Jeana grabs the meat from her mouth and holds it out to Chico. There are little gray specks left on her tongue, like scattered mouse turds, when she talks. “You are his daughter,” Aunt Jeana says. “In spite of everything. And considering that you or your children wouldn’t—”
“And Clay is his
“I’ve tacked his medication instructions and his schedule here,” Aunt Jeana says, tapping the paper Scotch-taped to the inside of the cupboard door. “He likes his coffee black and some cinnamon in his oatmeal. And, oh, no celery in his food. He hates celery. Even chopped fine, he can taste it.” Oma has a slight smile on her face, and I know that she’s wondering how it is that Aunt Jeana could have forgotten that she lived with the man for years, so no doubt knows these things already. “Oh, and watch it, because he likes to turn on the stove and walk off.”
Jeana keeps rattling off instructions as Oma circles the room. Oma stops and touches a clock in the shape of a rooster. Mom doesn’t move. She stands still, her arms wrapped around her middle, bunching her shirt so that a peek of skin shows. As I watch her, I wonder how it can be that Mom, five foot six and thirty-three years old, can look dwarfed and as young as me in this house.
“Oh, and watch the back door. I don’t know what the fascination is with that shed back there, but twice now he’s gotten loose and I’ve found him standing at the door, looking confused. He still thinks he can drive too, though where he thinks he’s going is beyond me. I hid his keys on the back of the top shelf, right here,” she adds in a whisper.
Aunt Jeana plucks a chunk of steaming meat out of the pan and pops it into her mouth, chewing it as she rattles off more instructions and excuses why she needs to leave today. Besides Chico’s brain that needs scanning, she lists reasons such as: “My plants have probably all died by now,” and, “I haven’t mailed back my Book of the Month Club card, and I don’t always care for the featured selections.” She pauses, plucks the chewed meat from her tongue, and puts it into Chico’s mouth. He gums it happily. “He’s missing so many teeth that it’s hard for him to chew,” she explains when she looks up and sees that we’re all staring at her. Well, Oma and I are, that is. Mom is turned away, gagging.
“Which reminds me: Sam is having problems swallowing, so you need to—”
“Please don’t tell us that we need to prechew his food,” Mom interrupts.
“—feed him soft foods,” Aunt Jeana finishes her sentence, and her eyes squint tight. “No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. But I’d hope that if your father needed it done, you’d do it for him, simply because he’s your father, if nothing else. That man raised you and paid your way through college. And he’s leaving all of this to you.” Aunt Jeana waves her bony hand, encompassing the room, so dramatically that one would think she was motioning to a whole kingdom.
“What time does he go to bed at night?” Oma asks, to distract her, I’m sure.
“Actually,” Mom says, facing Aunt Jeana, “he didn’t.”
“Mom said Grandpa Sam wouldn’t stop to give her water if—” I say, and Oma glides over and reaches around my shoulder, past my cheek, and pats my mouth shut before I can finish the sentence.
“What time does he turn in for the night?” Oma asks again.
But Aunt Jeana won’t be distracted. Her beady eyes are boring into Mom’s face like stingers as she tucks another clump of hamburger into her mouth. “Didn’t what?” she asks Mom.
“Support me through college. He didn’t give me a damn red cent for school. And
he
isn’t leaving this to me, you are. I’m curious as to why.”
Aunt Jeana grabs the meat from her mouth and holds it out to Chico. There are little gray specks left on her tongue, like scattered mouse turds, when she talks. “You are his daughter,” Aunt Jeana says. “In spite of everything. And considering that you or your children wouldn’t—”
“And Clay is his
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