Blind Acorn Page 8

  As I stood in the kitchen collapsing gift boxes for the recycling bin, a text from Gina appeared on my phone. She wanted to meet for an early lunch. I agreed reluctantly, knowing that the apartment visit would now have to wait for another day. We arranged to meet at Stone Bowl at noon, so I left the boxes and headed for the shower.

  I arrived a few minutes early, but Gina was already seated and waiting. She had a cup of coffee before her and smiled as I approached the table. “Hey!” I exclaimed, “being early is not a Gina thing! Early resolution?”

  She smiled again and, this time, I noticed that it was a tired smile. I sat and asked the waiter for hot tea before asking Gina, “So what’s wrong? You look stressed.”

  “I am,” she admitted. Then she paused before continuing, “I want to tell you something, but I need you to promise that you will repeat it to no one. Except Mitch. I know you two tell each other everything. But no one else.”

  I was momentarily sidetracked by the thought that Mitch and I no longer told each other everything the way we used to do. But I shook the thought away to focus on Gina. “Of course! Do you really need to ask me that?”

  There was a sign of the old spark in her eye as she grinned. “No. No, I don’t. But Jack made me promise to extract that assurance.”

  “Assurance extracted. So, it has to do with Jack?” I encouraged her to continue.

  At that point, the waiter brought my tea and asked if we were ready to order. We did so hurriedly, and he left. Gina looked at me for a long moment before she said, “Yes, it’s Jack. Remember a couple weeks ago when we begged off from dinner and I said we thought he had the flu?” I nodded as she said, “Well, it wasn’t the flu. He had a TIA, a ministroke.”

  “What!?” I fairly screamed. Several other early-lunchers turned to look and I dialed down the volume, if not the intensity. “What are you talking about, Gina? Forty-two is too young to have a stroke!”

  She nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? But it happened anyway.” Her hand trembled as she lifted her coffee cup to her lips, then placed it back on the table without drinking. “It was so scary,” she whispered.

  I scooted my chair around the corner of the table so that I was close to her and I took her hands in mine. “Gina,” I hardly knew what to say. “Gina, talk to me. What happened?”

  She cleared her throat and I could see unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “It was a normal Monday evening. Dinner was in the oven and I wanted to finish wrapping Christmas gifts before we ate so I asked Jack to help me. He said he wasn’t sure that he could, he suddenly had an awful headache and thought he’d lie down for a while before dinner. I was annoyed,” she choked out the last.

  I waited for her to settle and said nothing. The waiter brought our food and we quietly began to eat. After a few bites, Gina put her fork down and continued.

  “I was so busy being annoyed as he left the room that I almost didn’t notice him staggering toward the stairway. I asked him if he was alright and his answer didn’t make any sense, his voice was halting, and his words slurred. I called 9–1–1 without another word. By the time help arrived, he seemed a little better but was still confused and seemed weak. We went to the hospital and the doctors checked him out, did CT scans and MRIs and an ultrasound. They confirmed that it was not a stroke but a TIA, a ministroke.”

  “Is there much difference between the two?” I felt painfully uninformed.

  “Yes and no. The symptoms are pretty much the same so you can’t tell the difference when it’s happening. But, fortunately for Jack, the TIA doesn’t result in permanent brain damage the way a stroke does. Many people have TIAs first and later have strokes. But we’re hoping to avoid that.”

  “Well, that sounds like some good news in all of this! Do they know what caused it?”

  “Jack has some of the risk factors at play. His blood pressure is high and so is his cholesterol. A silver lining is that he’s quit smoking,” we both smiled widely at this. For years Gina had been trying to find a way to get him to quit.

  “So, what happens now? Does he take medication or something to prevent another attack?”

  She shook her head. “His doctor thinks that won’t be necessary, at least not for now. There are lifestyle changes that should make a difference. As I said, he’s quit smoking. And he’s exercising regularly and eating better. No more fried food, lots of vegetables. He needs to make sure he gets enough sleep. And it would be good if he reduced stress. That’s a tough one, but we’re working on it.”

  “But he’s doing okay now? No more episodes?”

  “Right. He’s better about it than I am,” she admitted. “I thought I could lose him,” again her voice was a whisper. “I complain about the stupidest things, things that don’t matter at all. You know what I mean. I’ve told you about all the irritating things through the years. Have I also told you about the important ones?”

  Her eyes were pleading with me to find a redeeming feature in her many casual conversations about her husband. “Gina,” I said softly. “It’s me. You don’t need to tell me how important Jack is to you. You told me that in no uncertain terms long ago. You have too much class to bore me repeatedly with it.”

  I thought she’d at least smile at that, but she just nodded her head, looking all the while at the tablecloth.

  “Gina,” I waited for her to raise her eyes to mine once more. “You aren’t responsible for this. You didn’t cause it. You, we, are fortunate that it wasn’t more serious, and it sounds like Jack has a great start on making sure it doesn’t happen again. Stop beating yourself up over it.”

  When she exhaled, it sounded like she’d been holding the breath for a very long time. Before my eyes, she softened and smiled. “I’m so glad we got to talk about it at last,” was all she said.

  I patted her hand again and we sat in silence. Finally, I asked, “Why didn’t you tell me, though? We could have talked about it any time you wanted to. You know that, right? Of course you know that!”

  “Oh, I wanted to!” she hurried to say. “But Jack was so upset at the thought of anyone knowing that I agreed to keep the secret with him. I finally told him that I really needed to tell you —for my own sake. I told him that I felt disloyal keeping something from you that was so important in my life. Our relationship has always been like that and I felt that it would begin to change if I didn’t tell you. I think he understood. In any case, he agreed to it as long as you were complicit in the secret.”

  “I get it. Not sure why he feels the need to keep it a secret but I’m on board.”

  “He’s afraid,” she rolled her eyes, “that he’ll be seen as weak if anyone knows. Mostly at work. He doesn’t want anyone second-guessing him or thinking him less than capable.”

  Before I added my eye roll to hers, I thought about it and decided that he might be right.

  The waiter brought fresh coffee and tea and we sat for a long time. We talked about the silly and mundane events surrounding Christmas and watched people outside hurry through the cold and wet wind. When we left, it was after three and snow was in the air.

  Twenty-Nine

  The holidays for me that year were more sad than anything else, and I was glad they were in the past. I seemed to have lost the capacity for feeling, or conveying, joy. I sank into winter with gusto, wrapping both my body and my spirit in layers of protective clothing. I wallowed in my misery through the frozen mud of February all the way into the early April warmth that brought the yellow haze to the trees as they prepared for spring bloom.

  Just before Easter, the building that housed my office was being fumigated and was closed for the day. We’d sent patrons home yesterday with brown bag lunches to get them through until tomorrow. I’d arranged for the phone to be forwarded to my cell. I had a tote bag full of paperwork and was headed to the apartment to try to get some of it done. I was looking forward to spending some time ther
e, even with the work. It would be good to be alone and, I expected, quiet. I successfully crept up the stairs without attracting the attention of Mrs. Harrop.

  I opened some windows and turned on some soft music, looked at the work I’d spread over the kitchen table, and took a deep breath. As I exhaled, I turned and walked back into the living room. I had what I craved, quiet time alone. Why was I so miserable, then? Why was I feeling so alone?

  Looking around the room, my attention was snagged by the worn and too-small carpet under the coffee table. I’d brought it from our basement; it had been relegated there after its most recent accident and would probably (eventually) have been put in the trash if I hadn’t brought it here.

  We’d bought it when it was relatively new many years earlier. We were browsing an estate sale at a time in our lives when we had little to spend but liked looking. Nothing really appealed to us on that day and we were about to leave when Mitch spotted this little rug on the porch, beside a wicker rocking chair. We’d just learned that we were expecting out first child and it had changed our perspectives on many things. Mitch thought the bright colors in the little rug would make it a perfect addition to a playroom. While I agreed, it would still be some time before we needed to furnish something like a playroom. There were so many other things we’d need first. But Mitch really seemed to want the thing, so we bought it.

  At home, it was the first thing we put in the room that we’d planned to be the nursery. For months, every time I looked in there, all I saw was the colorful little rug and it seemed to be waiting for the baby the same way we were. Eventually, we added furniture to the room but when we brought Dylan home from the hospital, the rug was the first introduction we made.

  Over the years, it had absorbed (and had cleaned from it) countless spills, from various bodily fluids to juice and soup to, in later years, wine and sunscreen. We’d always found a place for it in the house until the dog used it as a placemat when he stole a porkchop from the kitchen. After it was, again, cleaned, we rolled it up and put it in the basement. We didn’t want lingering smells to encourage the dog’s thievery.

  While its colors were now a bit dulled and much of the softness had been cleaned out of it, the rug reminded me of so many good things from the past nearly twenty years. Suddenly, I knew that it didn’t belong here; this was the wrong place for this piece of my —our —life. It had a home, and this wasn’t it.

  Quickly, I rolled it up and carried it down to my car. It was going home with me today, even if it meant going back to the basement. You don’t send away a thing that is so important in your life. Maybe I was learning something in my time in the apartment, after all.

  Back inside, I renewed my enthusiasm for work. By midafternoon, I had finished everything I’d brought with me and felt pretty good about that. It was time to go home and be productive there, as well. I’d begin by taking the dog for a walk, then I’d think about something special for dinner.

  We walked further than usual, and I realized we were very near Angelo’s Bakery. We all loved Angelo’s carrot cake, so I detoured to see if they had one. After buying the last one in the case, I shuffled it back and forth between hands on the way home, happy to have found it.

  The dog was ready for a nap when we arrived home, but I was still feeling energetic and thought I’d do some laundry before starting dinner. There was one laundry rule in our house: you were responsible for your own. Having said that, I admit that I often collected it all and did it anyway. The rule was in place to ensure that, if someone wanted an item that hadn’t made it through the laundry cycle, it would never be on me. And it worked. And everyone also knew that I’d frequently do their laundry.

  I collected what I could find from all the bedrooms and brought it to the basement laundry room, sorting it in general piles around me on the floor. Scooping up the first pile, I tossed it in the washer with soap and started the cycle. Walking to the stairs, I noticed a paper napkin on the floor and picked it up to toss in the trash. But before it made it there, I realized that there was a phone number written on it. Turning it over, I could see that there was nothing else. No name. No clue about where the napkin came from. And I didn’t recognize the handwriting.

  Okay, I thought, everybody’s laundry is here. It could have fallen out of any pocket. Don’t jump to conclusions. But jump I did.

  I brought the napkin upstairs with me and went straight to my phone to call the number. “Warm Earth Landscaping,” answered a lovely female voice, “how can we help you?”

  “Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry. I seem to have called the wrong number.”

  “Okay. Well, have a good afternoon,” the voice replied before hanging up.

  What did that prove? I asked myself. The obvious answer was nothing. Maybe it was an innocent business contact. It wasn’t anybody’s home number. But Mitch might have been told to call Lovely Voice at work. Maybe she was married, too. The number was written on a cocktail napkin; he probably met her in a bar. But he’d left it in his pocket in the laundry. How interested could he be to have done that? Slow down! Maybe it belongs to one of the kids. Sure. Like our kids did a lot of landscaping. Maybe one of them applied for a job. All of this was getting me nowhere.

  By the time everyone else came home, I’d made a plan. I waited until we’d all started eating and then I remembered to mention it. “Oh, by the way, I did some laundry today and found a phone number on a napkin that must have fallen out of one of your pockets. I put it on the kitchen counter by the door.” Then I waited to see who would react, expecting that it would be Mitch. I was right.

  “That’s mine,” he said. “Thanks.”

  That was it. End of conversation. Not such a good plan, after all.

  Thirty

  I was still out of sorts when I arrived at work the next day. My computer was ready to give up the ghost and I needed it to generate several reports before it did so. Coddling it with restarts and cooling off periods was getting me there, although very, very slowly. During each of its many breaks, I’d hurry out into the dining room and try to be helpful there. Mostly, I just disrupted everyone else’s flow and got in the way.

  Mrs. Luney (that’s right —Luney) waved an envelope in the air every time I passed through the room. I had promised to help her with a form that her doctor’s office had sent her, but I hadn’t meant right now. That didn’t stop her from trying. Twice, I had whispered to her that we’d talk after lunch. But she continued to wave her arm and the envelope, adding frowns and grumbling as time went on. Finally, I reached for the envelope, which she was glad to relinquish, and told her, “We’ll talk after lunch. Meanwhile, I’ll put this in my office where it will be safe. Is that okay?”

  She agreed, although I knew that she’d be at my door as soon as she let go of her fork. I checked the computer’s progress and, after putting the envelope on my desk, closed the door and returned to the dining room. Raised voices were coming from the kitchen and I knew by the rising volume that Rona must be involved. The door hadn’t even swung shut behind me when Rona demanded, “You’d better tell them that we need to turn that thermostat down! It’s too hot in here to work!”

  This was not the first time that temperature had been an issue. We had one thermostat for the whole space. It controlled the kitchen, the dining room, my office, the storage area —everything. To make it Rona-comfortable in the kitchen meant that diners often ate with their coats on, noses red and running. And my office would be beyond cold; the computer might like that, but I didn’t. Rona’s usual response was that the rest of us should wear more clothes.

  The others in the kitchen looked to me expectantly. “Rona,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, “how about if we just open a window for a few minutes? It should cool down in here without making everything else cold.”

  “That would be great,” she said, not sounding so reasonable to me, “if I actually worked by the windows. But I don’t! I have too
much to do to stand around over there and fan myself.” But she huffed off in that direction and I hoped that would be the end of it.

  The next time I entered the kitchen, Rona had removed her apron. Those pesky rules said that aprons were mandatory over the street clothes of anyone entering the kitchen. And she knew that. “Rona,” I asked, still trying to sound reasonable, “what happened to your apron? Do you need a new one?”

  “What I need,” she shot back, “is some cool air. Those things are plastic! Do you know how hot plastic clothing is? Apparently not, as I seem to be the only one who notices, and I cannot work like this!” And she stormed from the kitchen, leaving dessert half plated. I took over the dessert plating and hoped that she wouldn’t return for a while. She didn’t.

  With the last tray of dessert, I walked back into the dining room in time to see Mrs. Luney leave the table and knock on my office door. She must have been served early. I handed the dessert tray to a volunteer and went to help her with her form.

  Thirty-One

  On one warm Saturday late in April, I had just arrived at the apartment when my mother called. “Trinity,” she began, “How are you? Isn’t it the most wonderful day?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. How are you and Dad?” I answered, holding my hand over my eyes. I could already tell that she wanted something and wasn’t sure I had the energy for her. I had come to the apartment hoping to recharge, after all.

  “Great! We’re just great! I wish,” now her voiced slowed and her tone was almost reverent, “I wish I could say the same for my friend Sherry. You remember Sherry, don’t you? She’s a little older than I am, was originally close to my cousin Donna. Very trim, elegant looking. Sherry, I mean. Not that Donna isn’t trim, of course.”