photo by Jane Bell Goldstein
A Visitor
by Bill Carpenter
“She’s having a good day today,” they tell me at the front desk. The hallways leading to your room are painfully familiar. I’m never sure if the walk is too long or too short. Knocking softly, I open the door and there you are, sitting at the window where the late autumnal sun paints you in a buttery light.
My love for you in this moment is as deep as any time in my memory. We got through difficult times with laughter and silliness. Was it craziness, joy, or sheer determination? Forgetting and remembering are twins that haunt our lives.
I’m drawn to a memory of when you impulsively bought an eggplant at a farmers market.
“What the hell can you do with an eggplant?” the cynic in me asked.
“I don’t know. I like its color.” I should have realized the mischievous grin behind your flippant answer implied you already knew. You’d find something special. Oh no, you didn’t make a clichéd parmesan or ratatouille. You found a recipe for a caponata, a dish with pine nuts, cocoa, cinnamon, currants and mint suffused in a tomato and balsamic vinegar sauce, served warm, almost like a salad. Alongside the broiled sea bass and wild rice, it was a dinner I’ve never forgotten. You constantly tricked and amazed me with moments like that and I loved you for it. Always clever, over-the-shoulder devious, and now . . . I don’t even know if you’ll recognize me.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
I pull a nearby chair closer to you and sit. “I’m George.”
“Of course, you’re George,” you answer with a tilt of your head. “Who else could you be?”
“I guess I’m being silly. How have you been, Laura?” I ask the scripted question.
“Very well,” comes your scripted answer. An awkward silence follows.
“You remember me?” you ask, with a hint of sadness, as if momentarily confused about our roles.
“Always, Laura.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid,” you confess, turning again to look out the window. “How come June and Brad don’t come to visit me?”
“Brad was here day before yesterday. June came last Tuesday,” I reply testily, immediately regretting my annoyed tone. Your remembering the names of our son and daughter should bring me some comfort.
“Tuesday?” Your eyebrows knot, perplexed.
“Yes, last week.”
As if to dismiss your confusion, you look at me, smile, and say, “Well, I’m glad you’re here, George.”
Your smile is the one thing about you that is unchanged, the smile that endeared you to me from the moment I first saw it when I asked you to dance at a college mixer. “So am I. Nothing is more important to me than you. I want you to know that, Laura.”
“Not even your stamp collection?” Your question is punctuated by a familiar mischievous smile.
“Not even my stamp collection,” I answer, with a smile of my own, wondering where you got the idea I collected stamps.
I watch that playful smile fade like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. You stare out the window and several moments of awkward silence pass until you say, in a hushed voice, “I’m tired, Brad, maybe you should leave.”
And there it is again. I stifle the impulse to remind you I am George, and Brad is our son, but simply answer, “Okay.” I have no idea where to direct my anger. Standing and walking to the door, I stop and turn to take one last glance at you, only to discover you studying me.
“I hope you’ll come visit me again,” you say with a look I refuse to believe is confused or pleading.
“Of course, I will. Nothing could keep me away.” I move to depart, then turn back once more. “Hey.”
“What,” you ask, turning away from the window to look at me.
“Keep smiling.”
You do. It’s a natural reaction, like laughter. “Just like that,” I say, wondering if either of us fully understands how precious the moment is.
Leaving, I walk down the hallway, a walk where every step aches, each one taking you further from me.
My love for you in this moment is as deep as any time in my memory. We got through difficult times with laughter and silliness. Was it craziness, joy, or sheer determination? Forgetting and remembering are twins that haunt our lives.
I’m drawn to a memory of when you impulsively bought an eggplant at a farmers market.
“What the hell can you do with an eggplant?” the cynic in me asked.
“I don’t know. I like its color.” I should have realized the mischievous grin behind your flippant answer implied you already knew. You’d find something special. Oh no, you didn’t make a clichéd parmesan or ratatouille. You found a recipe for a caponata, a dish with pine nuts, cocoa, cinnamon, currants and mint suffused in a tomato and balsamic vinegar sauce, served warm, almost like a salad. Alongside the broiled sea bass and wild rice, it was a dinner I’ve never forgotten. You constantly tricked and amazed me with moments like that and I loved you for it. Always clever, over-the-shoulder devious, and now . . . I don’t even know if you’ll recognize me.
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
I pull a nearby chair closer to you and sit. “I’m George.”
“Of course, you’re George,” you answer with a tilt of your head. “Who else could you be?”
“I guess I’m being silly. How have you been, Laura?” I ask the scripted question.
“Very well,” comes your scripted answer. An awkward silence follows.
“You remember me?” you ask, with a hint of sadness, as if momentarily confused about our roles.
“Always, Laura.”
“Sometimes I’m afraid,” you confess, turning again to look out the window. “How come June and Brad don’t come to visit me?”
“Brad was here day before yesterday. June came last Tuesday,” I reply testily, immediately regretting my annoyed tone. Your remembering the names of our son and daughter should bring me some comfort.
“Tuesday?” Your eyebrows knot, perplexed.
“Yes, last week.”
As if to dismiss your confusion, you look at me, smile, and say, “Well, I’m glad you’re here, George.”
Your smile is the one thing about you that is unchanged, the smile that endeared you to me from the moment I first saw it when I asked you to dance at a college mixer. “So am I. Nothing is more important to me than you. I want you to know that, Laura.”
“Not even your stamp collection?” Your question is punctuated by a familiar mischievous smile.
“Not even my stamp collection,” I answer, with a smile of my own, wondering where you got the idea I collected stamps.
I watch that playful smile fade like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. You stare out the window and several moments of awkward silence pass until you say, in a hushed voice, “I’m tired, Brad, maybe you should leave.”
And there it is again. I stifle the impulse to remind you I am George, and Brad is our son, but simply answer, “Okay.” I have no idea where to direct my anger. Standing and walking to the door, I stop and turn to take one last glance at you, only to discover you studying me.
“I hope you’ll come visit me again,” you say with a look I refuse to believe is confused or pleading.
“Of course, I will. Nothing could keep me away.” I move to depart, then turn back once more. “Hey.”
“What,” you ask, turning away from the window to look at me.
“Keep smiling.”
You do. It’s a natural reaction, like laughter. “Just like that,” I say, wondering if either of us fully understands how precious the moment is.
Leaving, I walk down the hallway, a walk where every step aches, each one taking you further from me.
