If Memory Serves

(This story may be difficult for someone struggling with mental health issues or with the loss of someone close to them)

If Memory Serves

Sunlight splashed through the east window of her kitchen and caught the specks in the air, making the light seem ethereal, touchable, magic. She’d always loved this window, the way the light played through it, transforming the air into fairy dust and the day into possibility. Making the house look golden and the world so clean.

Apparently her violets loved the window, too; since she had moved them there, they had become hardy little souls, sporting brave umbrellas of purple flowers as they had never done before. She dared not move them for fear they would revolt, simply drop the umbrellas and die in protest.

"Good morning ladies,” she said softly, tenderly checking the soil for moisture, and adding "or gentlemen” in case her assumption was wrong. Can’t hurt a violet’s feelings, it’s sensitive.

She looked out the window and smiled at the messy garden, neglected these past few weeks, but pretty, all the same, now in its fall decline. The cosmos was 8 feet tall, rivalling the sunflowers; the lavender lifted its last purple heads to the sun, and the dahlias poked out from under the weeds, stretching for their fair share of autumn light. She might get to neating that up later. She might not. It all depended.

She had just recently become an early riser. Her husband had always been the meadowlark and she the nightingale, but in recent weeks their roles had reversed, and she rose to cook breakfast at the dawn. She tiptoed past the guestroom where her husband had slept the last several years. Because he snored, because she read in bed. It was kind of sad, but there it was; if they both wanted to sleep and be pleasant human beings, separate boudoirs it was. Actually, she found it kind of sexy when he would knock at her door and ask to be invited in; the separate sleeping arrangements definitely did not dampen the quality of…other things.

They’d been married for over 45 years, and it wasn’t all perfect, but there was no doubt that they were good together. They were partners, teammates, lovers. She was grateful for the three children they’d raised, the home they’d built, the trips they’d taken, the good things they’d done together in their small town. Things were drawing to a close, but the final pages still held a sweet and interesting tale of comfort, companionship and laughter. Much, much laughter. Growing old—that alone was both terrible and hilarious, and people without a sense of humor became bitter. She and her husband had not.

She opened the pantry and, looking over the ingredients, decided: pancakes. It had been quite a long time since he’d eaten some pancakes. It was late September, and there were fresh blueberries in the refrigerator. He loved those. There was maple syrup that they’d just picked up at a local farm. There were a few rashers of bacon in the fridge to cook and serve on the side. And of course, coffee in the French press. Bold and delicious, like fall. They loved this time of year. Maybe they would go pick apples later in the day or wander down to the river and feel the cool breeze on their faces as they walked. It depended; she’d see.

1 ½ cups all-purpose flour or whole wheat flour, 2 tablespoons sugar, 1 tablespoon baking powder, ½ teaspoon fine salt.

      She’d gathered the ingredients automatically; she had made this recipe so many times, she no longer had to look at a cookbook. She whisked together the dry ingredients in the old green bowl that had been her mother’s. She decided to use whole wheat flour, it was better for them, and more flavorful, and she liked that it looked like sand on a beach.

How many beach vacations had there been? The first was their honeymoon in St. Thomas. They’d come home right after the wedding to quickly rip open some envelopes, so they’d have money for the trip. A lot of people would say they were foolish not to set aside the nest egg of wedding presents, but she had always thought it was worth it. From the beginning they’d loved to travel and would rather have the memories of a good trip than nice furniture. And their honeymoon was perfect, except for his sunburn on Day One. That did kind of inhibit things a little. She laughed, remembering.

      There were lots of visits to Daytona when the kids were little and her parents lived in Florida. They stayed in Thailand for awhile while he was working there and did Hawaii on the cheap with all the airline credits he earned traveling for work. But the best beaches, they thought, would always be in the Caribbean, where the sand was fine and light as sugar and the air was filled with jasmine and remembrance.

1 ¼ cups milk, 1 large egg, 5 tablespoons melted unsalted butter, 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract.

      She poured the milk into a new bowl, and the white cascaded down like a snowy white waterfall. She thought of the time it had snowed so hard, and so quick, that seven feet of snow soon lay in their driveway. They managed to push open the side door, partly protected by an eave, and started to dig a path toward the road. Their neighbor’s two dogs skittered across the top of the snow and landed in the trench they’d dug. There was no lifting those big dogs out, and so Skipper and Jonesy spent the day, with their dog Ginny. And they had to let them in, it was below zero outside. Chaos, with three large wet dogs chasing around the house!

     The best part was to come—the eggs. The neighbors had chickens, and in return for the dog-sitting, they sent over two dozen beautiful eggs, fresh as could be, and with deep golden yolks, nothing like the pallid thing from the grocery store that she was now mixing with the milk. She missed those little chickens, she thought, not only because getting a surprise package of eggs every now and then was terrific, but also because she just plain liked the chickens. They were funny. They made noises like no living creature she had ever heard. Chickens in real life did not sound like chickens on the cartoons. They sounded plaintive and sad and deeply depressed, like they needed a hug. And at the same time, all that sorrow in one little squawky wail was kind of amusing.

      That spring, raccoons got into the henhouse and destroyed the chickens. Left a bloody mess, not like foxes, who are neat about it and just take the bird. She remembered that the neighbors lost heart for chickens after that carnage. And that she and her husband went over and helped take the chicken coop down and brought meatloaf and mashed potatoes—comfort food—for dinner. And it was a good night, all four of them huddled in the cool dark, with citronella candles, eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes and remembering the chickens.

      They had the best neighbors! In their neighborhood, the men would traipse back and forth, borrowing tools, sharing tips and information on home remodeling projects. And occasionally, a beer. The women shared recipes and kids’ hand-me-downs and conversation. And each other’s children.

      “And now, we share walkers and wheelchairs,” she said out loud to no one. There had been a number of those kinds of needs this year to be sure—John’s knee, Debbie’s ankle, Dave’s heart…he was really sleeping late today, but she liked it best when he didn’t wake up until the breakfast table was set, anyway. So let him rest.

      She added the melted butter to the mix. He really shouldn’t have the butter, but at this point in their lives, how much did it matter to have a little saturated fat once in a while? Tomorrow, they would have bran cereal and skim milk. Today, it was pancakes. Besides, she only made these once a month, if that. When the children were little, it was more. But now, the day needed to be dealt with, there wasn’t always time for such luxury. There were appointments.

She added the rich brown vanilla, real vanilla, and that scent never failed to make her think of baking Christmas cutouts with the grands. They wouldn’t be here for Christmas this year; they’d had to travel so much lately and besides it was the other grandma’s turn. She would still decorate the house, and bake, and the other two would come for a quiet Christmas at home. But no grands this year. Sighing and just a little selfishly teary, she whisked the wet ingredients until they were smooth and glossy. 

“It is not your turn,” she said to herself, sternly. “You have had plenty of turns, plenty of attention. You will not be sad this Christmas, and you will not begrudge Other Grandma her turn.” She added under her breath, “even if she doesn’t deserve them as much as you do.” She considered her next pancake move.

Blueberries, no question. His favorite addition to pancakes! She pulled a cupful from the fridge and stemmed and washed them, patted them dry. Just after they retired, she’d taken him blueberry picking. Somehow, he had grown old in this part of the country without ever going blueberry picking. She was amazed. So was he.

           “Look at this,” he shouted, to anyone in earshot. “You don’t have to climb a ladder. Or kneel on the ground. You don’t get stuck by thorns. And they TASTE good! These things are a miracle!” He picked ten quarts because he just didn’t want to stop, didn’t know how to stop. Which of course they brought home and she was the one who had to freeze them and bake them into pies and turn them into jam and share them with the wonderful neighbors and absolutely anyone else who might be passing by. Ten quarts of berries, for two people!

She put on a pot of water to boil and get the coffee into the French press. She remembered when she was briefly a barista, and at the time, her car was broken. He would come to pick her up as she was closing, and he would jokingly, irascibly, demand a cup of coffee. By then, she’d turned the big fancy cappuccino machine off, all cleaned and ready for the next morning. So the French press was the only way to satisfy her customer. Freshly ground coffee, twice the amount you would normally use. Boiling water. Let it rest, then gently squeeze down the plunger. It was the best cup of coffee one could buy. And he claimed to be too awake just to go to sleep when they got home, so that was delicious, too. They bought their own French press and made that coffee whenever they wanted to.

It was time to set the table--two plates, two napkins, two knives, two spoons, two cups, two glasses of water, two of everything, two by two the way it had been for years since the children were grown. They would say grace. Then they would sit in companionable silence, sharing tidbits from the news as they ate. They would go their separate ways, working, gardening, cleaning, visiting, exercising, holding meetings, until supper. Kahlil Gibran, the poet, wrote “let there be spaces in your togetherness,” and so they did, and looked forward to the next togetherness.

She set out a small pitcher and filled it with the Amber Brown syrup they’d bought at their friend’s farm last month. So nice, to have a friend who actually made this stuff, right in his own backyard. They’d visit the farm during sugaring season in the spring, and the air itself smelled of maple syrup for a mile around. They’d look at each other and smile, chewing Maple Sugar Popcorn, and jointly remembering the years of visiting the sugar houses, with Girl Scouts, then with Boy Scouts and then just because they liked to do it. One house they went to served pancakes made on the spot, with their own syrup and maple sausage links. That house was always packed.

“What do people do who don’t have someone to share these things with?” she mused as she licked a drop off her fingers before returning to the kitchen counter to finish cooking breakfast. She decided to cheat on the bacon, cooking it in the microwave instead of the oven, and then, taking the bowl of dry ingredients, and making a well in the center, she poured in the bowl of eggs and milk and vanilla and butter, and whisked the two together, until they couldn’t be seen as separate, exactly, but there were still some lumps.

 “That’s how a marriage is…bumpy and lumpy but seamless at the same time.” She added, stirring in the blueberries, “and with lots of sweet little miracles,” 

She set the batter aside to begin bubbling as the baking powder worked its magic, and placed a skillet on the burner of their old gas stove, set to medium heat. In just a short while, she flicked some water in the pan, and it danced and disappeared—more magic. What a process this was, and a gift. Like life, dancing…and disappearing.

           She melted some butter in the microwave, and spread it on the frying pan with an old pastry brush, and all was ready. She picked up an old metal quarter-cup measure--she’d used this cup since the children were babies—and poured a perfectly round cake, about four inches across, and another, and another. Bubbles covered the surface of the cakes as they cooked, and reminded her of the moon. They had seen the lunar landing, both of them had been glued to their television sets, but in separate houses. Years before they met. They met much later. At the right time.

           She flipped the pancakes and watched them rise and crisp at the edges. Four pancakes done. Repeat, four more pancakes. Repeat with two. She set the plate of ten perfect cakes on the table.

           The doorbell rang.

           She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath. She wasn’t ready, she wasn’t ready.

           She walked to the door and opened it. Her daughter, tender-hearted and blinking at tears, stood there.

           “Hi, Momma,” she said soft and slow. “I just thought I would stop in and see how you were doing on my way to work. I’m so surprised—and glad-- you’re up!”

           “Hello, sweetheart.” The woman sighed, and hunched her shoulders, losing her luster, aging before her daughter’s eyes.

           “Gosh, Mom, that wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.” Her daughter glanced around the kitchen, focused on the table and the two place settings there, and her eyes smiled with sudden happiness.

           “What’s going on here? Oh, how nice, Momma, you’re having company! Good for you, that is a great idea; you need this. Who’s coming for breakfast? Is it Anne, or Margrette?” The woman stood perfectly still, unable to say anything, unable to admit anything, unable to admit her foolishness, her longing, her despair, her need. The light which had filled her face just minutes ago was extinguished and a vague greyness hung about her, knowledge terrible and honest, when she would have preferred to stay deluded.

           “I…no one, dear. No one.”

           Her daughter turned the woman to face her, looking into her eyes. “Momma, are you all right? What are you doing with all this? What is all of this? It’s lovely, but what? For who?” She paused for several moments, and her mother said nothing. Suspecting, the daughter looked again carefully at the items on the table, two by two as it had been for years. She had a hunch, and went to the trash can. Stepped on the pedal, flipped open the lid.

           Pancakes. Many, many pancakes, maybe even a hundred, smelling sticky sweet, lay on the bottom of the trash can. Several days’ worth at least.

           “Momma, are you all right? Do you know who I am?”

           The woman sat down, picked up the French press, poured a cup of coffee, dressed it with cream and sugar, and took a deep long pull, to fortify herself.

           “Schrodinger’s Cat,” she said.

           “What? Momma, you are scaring me. Are you all right, do you know who I am? I think maybe I should call 911…” The young woman grabbed up her phone from her purse and began to press, but her mother took the phone out of her hands. She pointed to the chair where her daughter usually sat.

“Sit. SIT.” Her daughter sat, and quietly, evenly, she began.

           “I am not senile, I know who you are, daughter; I am not mad. It’s just Schrodinger’s Cat. That’s all.”

           “What?”

           “As I go about my day, I know. It’s obvious. Dad is gone. Love of my life, and heart of my soul, he is gone. But when I wake up…and the guestroom door is closed…in that moment, he could be just sleeping. I can make us breakfast, I can remember what we did and what we’re going to do, right up until the time I go to wake him…and then I see. I know.

           “This comforts me, that’s all I know. It may be stupid and wasteful. But it comforts me.”

           The daughter was quiet, taking it all in. The father, dead a month. The mother, wrapped in loneliness.

           “And now that I know, Momma, will you do it tomorrow?” she said.

           “Possibly. Probably.” The woman sighed a deep, sad sigh. “Why don’t you sit down and eat some pancakes. The coffee’s delicious. I’m going to go to the guestroom now. I’ll be back in a little while.”

           The woman, drained and sorrowful, walked softly toward the hallway. The daughter shakily picked up her father’s plate, set it down in front of her and began to eat. The pancakes were delicious.