THE LAST LUNCH

THE LAST LUNCH

The meals in our house were used as a fighting arena where my brother would pick a fight with Dad over the most trivial matters to vent his frustrations and anger over God knew what and made us want to run far away from their vicious exchanges of cataclysmic proportions.

Their specialty were fights during Christmas Eve dinners and Easter lunches – the solemn occasions were ruined, the past holidays viewed as unpleasant events we tended to forget as soon as possible and the forthcoming celebrations were anticipated with apprehension and a tight knot in the stomach.

In the meantime, Dad and I were left alone. My brother went abroad, others moved to their burial places. My father and I could not see eye to eye when I found out how much debt he had incurred. It was a real mess.

It had been a month since we spoke to each other. The fight involving money, debt, life and death was weighing heavily on both of us. I know now that he was more affected because he was more vulnerable since my mother’s death, coinciding with his retirement, which had left him all alone to not only eat in bars and taverns but practically living there, drinking as if his life depended on it, begging so-called friends, former colleagues  and sometimes strangers to join him when his solitude was more unbearable than shame.

For once I realized I was not the only one hurting and being angry with the world. I had my fair share of trouble with Grandma, suddenly finding myself in the position of her sole caregiver, but there was someone else who needed me as well. Therefore I decided to let go of my grudges – they were pointless because life had already proven to be too short.

It also dawned on me that his sudden solitude probably felt like an isolation tank to him. Unlike me, who embraced solitude, he was used to being surrounded by the people who vanished into thin air out of the blue. They would get in touch only to ask for money or a favor. It was so painful to witness people’s selfishness and lack of empathy.

In the meantime, Grandma had died. No more inventing and reinventing all kinds of broths, potage and soups since only two teeth had been left in her mouth and she could not chew nor swallow without choking.

Easter was approaching and my father extended an olive branch in the form of breaking bread over Easter lunch. I accepted. We made a deal: he would provide the roast and salads, I would bake the Easter bread, make a cheese pie and bring desserts. We decided the eggs would be our mutual contribution.

Dad was visibly uncomfortable when I arrived. I was intent on being cold and distant but seeing him so melancholic yet resolute to patch things up, I had no heart to do it. What made it worse was the way the apartment looked. Everything seemed old and faded, with a bit if dust and grime here and there, a kind of reflection of his mental state. The traces of scrubbing and cleaning were there but that only made me feel worse. It was so sad and disheartening.

He had really made an effort. He put on Mom’s nicest tablecloth, the fine china and crystal glasses. The roast and salads were in the middle and it hit me he had done them by himself: some parts were a but burnt but still crispy and edible, some were juicy: the vegetables in the salads were chopped irregularly but the effort was there, the taste was fine. He had even colored the eggs himself using the onion tunic.

I praised him for the job well-done and he told me a detailed story how he had called one of my aunts to ask about the right way to do all that.

I placed the bread on the plate and the dessert in the fridge and returned to the table. Our food was far from the luxury of before, when my grandparents and my mother were alive. Back then, the table was groaning under the weight of all kinds of roast, various vegetable and pasta salads, cheese and meat pies, Easter cakes and tarts, wine, juice and beer.

There we were, with a couple of dishes and a load of uneasy silence crying (and dying) to be filled.

We ate slowly, trying to find the words to express what had to be said. Then my father asked if he had told me how he had colored the eggs and prepared the meat. I took a sip of apple juice and smiled indulgently thinking he had already forgotten. He retold the story again, as if he had been rehearsing it a dozen times beforehand.

I went for the crispy parts of the roast, scraping the burnt surface, and he drank water – an unusual occurrence in his everyday life since my mother’s death. He not only looked sober, he looked sombre and avoided eye contact. At one point, he started picking up invisible crumbs and then smoothing down the tablecloth. The moves were slow, deliberate and strong, as he was trying to straighten some deep wrinkles imperceptible to the naked eye.

Then he told me again how he had colored the eggs and prepared the roast, all the time keeping his eyes glued to the table, smoothing down the invisible creases of the cloth with extreme care, slowly, deliberately. This time I got worried. Something serious and disturbing was happening. He barely touched his food.

I went to the fridge and took out the cheese and the dessert and started a new topic. For some time I was considering how to solve his loneliness and decided a new wife or at least a female companion would be the greatest benefit. I recruited several friends for help and we managed to locate one suitable candidate, a woman that would be good for him.

So I cut him a slice of cake and poured him some juice and said:“ Dad, I think loneliness is killing you. You should have a woman.“ He sprayed the juice through his nose onto the table: „Are you crazy? You want me to remarry?“ He sounded incredulous but I kept on.

„It doesn’t have to be marriage, it could be just for company.“ He started shaking his head, gulping the juice. I gathered more courage:“ Just for company, okay? There is one great woman your age, around 65. She is still pretty, smart, you can go for walks, travel. She has her own apartment, pension bigger than yours. Just give it a try, please!“

He was still shaking his head but at least he was eating the cake and even smiled, his gaze still averted: „What good would I be for a woman now?“

I pushed:“Suit yourself but you are not used to being alone. You need a capable, kind woman, at least as a friend. She’s a widow too.“

He started eating then, still smiling. At least he is smiling, I thought.

„Her name is Danica and she has two adult sons“, I went on.

„How do you like the meat?“ he asked.

„Don’t change the subject, you should try it, for your own sake! For my sake! Get the worry off my head!“

I cleared the table and he suggested egg knocking. „Let’s see whose egg is stronger!“ He won. Apparently, onion tunic made the egg stronger than a shiny food color and highlighters.

I went to make coffee and when I came back, the mood had changed. He started to pick up the invisible crumbs and smooth the tablecloth again, so serious and focused on the task that I felt desperate and lost and scared.

„Here is your Turkish coffee“, I said, putting the cup down. He moved it to the side and kept on smoothing the surface. Then he seemed to remember something, stopped, picked up the cup and drank it in quick, long swigs although it was really hot. He put it down and raised his eyes to me for the first time during lunch, He seemed distant and troubled by something.

„Have I told you how I called my sister to ask her how to color the eggs with the onion tunic and how to roast the meat?“ Then he launched into the story all over again!

This was not my father. Was it the drinking? Junk food? Bar-hopping lifestyle at 68? Loneliness? Dementia? There had been registered cases in people younger than him. Something had to be done, immediately but I had no idea what or how. I went home, telling him I would send the cleaning lady the following week.

He came a few days after Easter, carrying minced meat. Oh, boy, had I had a very tough day that Friday! He begged me to make burgers for lunch so that we could eat together but I brushed him off. I told him I had had a tough day and „maybe some other time“. He left and at the door, made me promise we would have that lunch and I agreed.

He died in his sleep on Monday. We found him the next day. He wasn’t picking up the phone so his neighbors got anxious since he had had an appointment with the building tenants as the president of the tenants council. The heart attack knocked him right on the spot, he didn’t even had the time to turn around in bed.

I have had several dreams in which he asks me to bring him some sparkling water and a burger, if it’s not too much trouble. The water is always delivered promptly. The burger is still in the making. I am thinking that this weekend, when the rain lets up, he will finally get his burger. I hope he will enjoy it more than anything he had when he was alive.