The Doorstep Diaries, Day 20

Visitors come on Sundays.

There was nothing the nurse could do. Parents, the girlfriend, even Grandpa showed up. There was barely space in the tiny room to sit. The ringing of the old TV was off. It was a small party, as Sundays always are.

And all parties have food.

Sally brought oatmeal cookies in her purse. There was a nervousness about her. A sneaky sort of defiance. Her cheeks blushed. A bit more perspiration.

Grandpa brought it in a paper sack labeled “Beef’s Deli”.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Tucker but you’re not allowed to bring food into the hospital. Tom’s sick.” The nurse stopped him in the hall. The father, Sally and the girlfriend ushered past him. They hugged and hooted and told Tom how good he looked. Even the father managed to rub his Tom’s head.

Grandpa had a craned neck and back. He was arthritic. They all are at that age. It’s the eyes though. They never get old. With a few cracks he somehow straightened to the height he was meant to be, five foot ten or so, and was level with the woman in white.

“What do you have for lunch today, Nurse?” He knew her name. He knew this was Nurse Hadley. But still, ‘Nurse’. I love old people.

“I pack my lunch.” She said.

“Then you don’t know what sort of hell you’re putting your patients through. If the cancer doesn’t kill my grandson your Jell-o mush will. Boys need food. Real food.”

And with the bag he marched through the door and reclined into his crooked posture. “Hiya TomTom.” He said and swung the bag around. The nurse stood with her arms crossed near the doorway. Her lip upturned for a moment--I don’t know if
it was a smile—and then she was gone.

Inside the girlfriend sat by the window. Grandpa cajoled with the boy, rubbed Tom’s head with vigor (it was where the father must have got it from) and proceeded to tell a half-truth about a wounded man he knew in a hospital in the war south of Seoul who caught a spy posing as a nurse, a cross-dressing spy no less. “They’re effeminate types anyway, hard to tell which is which without a peak up the skirt.” The girlfriend smiled and stared at the family. She didn’t wear make-up. It wasn’t one of those visits.

Sally slapped Grandpa disapprovingly.

“He deserves to know,” Grandpa said, “might find a traitor in the midst here. Al Qaeda. You never know. How’s the sandwhich?” Hot pastrami on rye.

“Good. No, great!” Tom said with as much as he could muster. He took it with a lot of water.

The father sat a little further off. There was enough room near the bed for two. Someone always had to sit a little further back when it was crowded like this. He didn’t look sad at all. He just sort of stared, his eyes fixed on no particular thing, like he was trying to drink it all in, everything. The light falling through the window, Sally with her boy, her boy and his girl, the family and his father.

Sally didn’t wear sweats. She didn’t wear a skirt either, so it was sort of a wash. But nothing could look better than the hot pastrami on rye. Thick layers of meat. Toasted. Mustard.