Dream Cafe

If we walk today, Celeste will get cold when we get closer to the beach. I must remember to bring a scarf for her. I learned that the blue scarf is a must. Celeste will want the royal blue plush scarf made by her best friend Stella. Little things like this are important to her.

I’m sitting on a narrow piano bench next to her recliner as she dozes. It's not a comfortable seat but I must stay alert.

Sipping my tea and half listening to the repetitive news on the television that is never off, volume lowered to barely audible, I check my phone for the weather.

I thought it was going to snow all morning and make our walk impossible but the fluffy light flakes barely covered the sidewalks. Last I checked, from the sliver of a view from the fifth story window, it seemed our walk was still a possibility.

Celeste is fully dressed, as am I. If she stays dressed for the day, wakes up soon and the snow doesn’t start for real this time, we will be out of the cramped apartment and slowly meandering the city streets. I’m fully packed for our walk. My string backpack is expertly stocked with hand wipes, tissues, Celeste’s favorite plum passion lipstick, a tiny pink faux pearl compact mirror, the apartment keys, soft chewy granola bars and a small bottle of water. Celeste’s eldest daughter taught me well. A daily walk is a must. Fresh air, sunlight, physical activity and mental stimulation. A daily walk is Celeste's superpower.

Celeste doesn’t want to bring her walking cane so I gently coax her, reminding her that I assured her daughter that I would not forget the cane. She calmly complies and picks up her pace heading out to the tiny porch and down the little step to the sidewalk.

As we cross at the stop sign, she holds my arm tightly, pressing down with such force. I lose my balance a little bit.

As soon as we get across the street, she stops in front of the boarded up storefront and looks up trying to read the damaged sign. She tries to read it just to get a laugh out of me. Mar It Ris. She smiles and winks at me. Always the entertainer. Maria’s Italian Restaurant is no more but Celeste recounts fond memories of the many delicious entrees of filet of sole baked in a bit of light lemon and white wine with a side of firm asparagus.

She laughs at how her husband always ordered dessert with two spoons. Two spoons! She would tease him that two spoons made the dessert course an eating contest! She laughs at this and I laugh as well, even though I hear this story each time we walk.

Celeste begins her “Dream Cafe” monologue. That is what I have dubbed it. I can almost recite it by heart although she at times throws in a new detail or digs out an old detail that she hasn't mentioned in a while.

She tells me that this is where her cafe will be. Or it can be a teahouse. She is not sure yet. Poetry readings on Tuesdays and half-price scones on Thursdays. That will keep ‘em coming. She starts to list the pastries that she will sell. The tarts, the cupcakes and the small petit fours. No raisins. Ever! Her husband never liked raisins hidden in baked goods.

It will be a garden themed hydrangea inspired space. She will hire high school students and stay-at-home moms. She will hire people she likes. She will even hire me!

We walk and talk about various topics interrupted every time Celeste reads a sign on the side of a city bus enclosure or a small billboard on the outer wall of a store. She reads about local dance classes, accident attorneys, and local businesses, She reads quickly and accurately, and then returns to our topics. Sometimes she will reminisce. Sometimes she will talk about her mother and father and suggest visiting them. A moment later, she will sadly remind herself that her parents are long gone.

We walk until Celeste selects the perfect bench only a few yards from the beachfront. She knows the perfect spot, away from the wind and with a view of the narrow bay and the bike path by the phragmites. She can also watch babies in strollers strolling by reminding her of all her grandchildren who are all grown and far away.

As we sit, I notice a stir in the air. I see mothers packing up their playing children and heading briskly to the gravel parking lots. I see joggers jogging away from the bike path and fewer and fewer bicycles cycling by. The wind starts to pick up and I am surprised Celeste hasn't noticed or said anything.

My cell phone rings. Celeste’s daughter is very concerned. A sudden snow squall has changed the trajectory of her day. She is settling her father into a cozy spot in her living room. She had picked him up early when the nursing home alerted her to a power outage at Horizon Home and the surrounding businesses. Her voice was shaky as she mentioned the harrowing short drive home with traffic lights out and cars daringly inching out into intersections trepidatiously.

She starts to cry. She had planned the day perfectly and kept her eye on the weather updates and alerts. She apologizes for crying and lets out a trembling laugh as she tells me she did the same thing when she spoke to the Horizon Home staff. They were compassionate and patient despite her emotional outburst. I am half listening. I am taken aback realizing Celeste's husband is still alive. I am starting to feel choked up. My heart has been steadily and quietly breaking when I think of Celeste and her dreams. Her memories are all so lovely and they mingle in a swirl of past, present and future. My job, when I am with her, is to take care of her and meet her every need. I know she needs to be listened to but I never felt pressed to comprehend or decipher between what is current, real, or imagined. I force a smile. I am now crying inaudibly with joy that her husband is still with us and that her daughter is so consciously expertly caring for Celeste with love and adoration. But mingled in with the joy is this deep pain that the cafe Celeste describes will never be. I feel tormented by this. I learned long ago to not want what I would never have and to love what I have been given even if it takes great effort. I think for a moment that I could sell my dilapidated house and live in the back of a cafe or above a cafe. I knew an artist once who lived behind her art supply store in the coziest little apartment space.

Celeste and I start our walk back to the apartment. She doesn't want to go home yet. She had her heart set on going to get coffee and a cinnamon roll at the little Algerian place. I tell her we don't have time. Her daughter does not want Celeste alone in the apartment tonight and so she will come pick up Celeste shortly. She asked if I could pack an overnight bag for Celeste. Toothbrush, favorite blanket, pajamas, medications and reading glasses.

As we walk, the wind picks up and slows us down. Celeste leans heavily on my arm and I try to stay balanced as we walk. The snow starts to fall in big fluffy wet flakes.

Celeste tries to sit at the bus stop bench in the enclosure. This is her usual resting spot. I ask her if she can keep walking and she looks at me a bit startled. It's always been Celeste's way or the highway and she isn't used to me being noncompliant with her wishes.

Celeste's daughter arrives just as we reach the apartment front door. She gives me a tight hug and starts to thank me for all my help.

She remembers I live a short distance from her home. She sheepishly asks me if I can stay over at her house. She can't handle both parents with no caregivers during the snowstorm.

I am happy to help. She insists she will pay me what she can. We drive to my little semi-attached home and I race in and pack a quick overnight tote. As I pack, I feel embarrassed. My home is in need of so much TLC. I don’t like that my tenant has a caved in deck box in the driveway by the overflowing trash cans. I don't like that my front steps have crumbled a bit and tattered caution tape blows in the gusty wind. I wish for a moment that the snow would quicken and cover all of that blight with a clean fresh white blanket. But then again, that would make our drive even more treacherous.

The snow has now begun to fully fall and the fluffy flakes are now heavy, fast falling and coating every surface at record speed.

We inch forward at stop signs and darkened traffic lights which makes this short drive seem endless. All the while, my heart is in my throat and I am nodding and listening as Celeste continues to talk about her cafe and the handcrafted napkin rings they will make at the senior center.

The aroma of lavender and eucalyptus wafts through the air as I slowly lead Celeste along the checkerboard tile floor of the foyer leading into the narrow hallway.

Celeste tells me that she can live here if she wants to. Her daughter asks her repeatedly but there is no room for her collections. Celeste collects miniatures, hats, thimbles and dust. The dust collection is a deprecating joke. I am amazed at her wit that is often sharp and timely.

As we enter the living room, four guests are seated near an elderly man in a wheelchair. He is reading to the guests and they are chuckling and nodding as the man’s voice changes with each character in his story.

Celeste silently scurries over to the man and sits as close to him as possible. She catches my eye and mouths out that this is her husband, Joseph.

She silently listens with rapt attention as Joseph glances at his audience and winks at Celeste while not missing a beat as he shares his writings.

I have never seen Celeste so quiet before. Her subtle smile is bright and her eyes sparkle as she keeps her eyes fixed on Joseph.

Celeste’s daughter is setting a large oval table with shallow bowls and a tureen. She whispered that her weekly stew contains vegetables from the local farmers market. She asks if I have any food allergies or diet restrictions. I assure her I do not as I gently take the flatware and napkins from her and help with preparing the table.

The small kitchen has the most amazing granite countertop with a large butcher block cutting board and beautiful copper pots hanging on a large pegboard.

I marvel at the beautiful simplicity of the table and the decor. So lovely, so homey and somehow the space is invitingly cozy yet ironically spacious all at once.

Joseph calmly says a prayer before we eat as we all sit around the oval table. I am introduced to the guests by Joseph who shows himself to be a man with deep faith, fascinating philosophical musings and an insatiable sense of humor. The Pastor and his wife, a neighbor who writes poetry named Ben, who is also a member of the same church and Stella, Celeste’s best friend who lives two houses away and has brought her crochet hook in a crocheted bag filled with incomplete crochet projects and yarn.

Celeste’s daughter warns me that Celeste gets restless at the dinner table but Joseph eats slowly and refuses to be rushed through his meal. She suggests that I accompany Celeste if and when she decides to leave the table. I, of course, am ready, having finished eating the delicious stew and crusty sourdough bread. I learned a long time ago that when Celeste is finished eating, my opportunity to eat is over.

Celeste heads towards a door close to the restroom and I follow and hand her the “indoor” cane her daughter pointed out to me that rests against a baby grand piano that miraculously fits into the small “great room” living space.

The door is locked and as I turn towards the kitchen, I see Celeste’s daughter hurrying towards us, wiping her wet hands on her apron and rummaging in her slacks pocket to produce a key.

She opens the door and tells her mom to take it slow down the little ramp. I walk beside Celeste who seems to be pulling away from me in her haste.

She scurries over to a rattan sofa with overstuffed cushions and pats the spot next to her and looks up smiling at me excitedly. I sit next to her and inhale deeply as I take in the space.

I look out at the snow through a wall of floor to ceiling windows. Mounds of snow seem to hide a garden with raised flower beds and rows of hedges. I make out the shape of a cafe table and a small cottage style shed.

And then it all comes back to me. Celeste’s description of hydrangea themed fabrics and a place for hot tea and warm beloved company.

She tells me how her daughter is a great cook but an even more amazing baker. She is proud that her daughter is a trained pastry chef and taught cooking classes for many years. Celeste reaches over to the occasional table and dips her fingers into a little woven basket with a stack of pamphlets. She hands a pamphlet to me and warmly smiles.

I struggle to read as tears begin to form and fall. Poetry readings on Tuesdays. Book Club on Wednesdays. Half-Priced Scones on Thursdays. Pastry and Cooking Classes on alternating weekends.

Celeste is so proud of her daughter and tells me that the ivory painted upright piano is not just for show. Her daughter often plays songs when guests are settled with their tea sandwiches and flowery linen napkins upon their laps.

The garden hidden under the growing mounds of snow is a culinary garden and often the events spill out into the garden space in the spring and summer.

I regain composure as I close the pamphlet and look around the beautiful room. Celeste begins to snore as she leans back with a throw pillow behind her head. I spot a lovely crocheted throw and retrieve it to cover Celeste as she dozes.

The room fills with the dinner guests followed by Joseph who is using his walker to find a seat next to Celeste. I spot their daughter as she walks through the door with a tray of tea cups and saucers. The Pastor’s wife is carrying a basket of baked goods. Ben is clutching his legal pad of scrawled half written poems. Stella is on the arm of the pastor who is carrying the crocheted crochet bag of crochet.

Celeste continues to nap and thus the guests speak in soft voices. Joseph is making them laugh as he muses about cat naps and how humans have adopted the practice from cats and perhaps cats think of cat naps as just naps.

Once everyone is nibbling and sipping, Celeste’s daughter takes me by the hand. She leads me upstairs to a lovely little guest room. She gives me a big hug and profusely thanks me again for all my help during this whirlwind of a day.

Celeste will stay next door in a small bedroom as well. A small bed is decorated with a lovely lavender hydrangea-adorned print. An automatic recliner is by the bed so Celeste can sleep there if she chooses. A monitor is set up in our adjacent rooms so we can hear each other. Celeste knows how to use the monitor to reach me if she needs anything. The television is on and old movies play continuously. I am told to never change the channel.

I return to my room and see fresh white towels on the edge of the bed. As I sit on the soft white comforter, I can hear the guests in the garden room, chatting and laughing. Then I hear someone at the piano playing a jaunty old-timey sounding song softly.

Celeste’s daughter will take care of the bedtime routine so I am in a sense off the clock. It has been a long day.

I settle into a small chair by the window, take a deep calming breath and watch as the relentless snow blankets the night in peace.