“When grace is joined with wrinkles, it is adorable. There is
an unspeakable dawn in
happy old age.” – Victor
Hugo
“Don’t worry,
Hon, I’ll give her a healthy lunch!” I call to Bon. Jess and I wave goodbye
while pulling out of the driveway.
“See that you do!” she retorts
with a smile. We both know it’s a promise I won’t keep, but we also know she’ll
come home with a full belly and a full heart.
“OK, little lady, no unstrapping
yourself today,” I warn Jess while settling her into her car seat. I toss her
“big girl bag” – which, unbeknownst to Jess, contains an extra pair of undies
and even a few Pull-Ups©, just in case – onto the seat next to her. "We need to
keep you all buckled in, safe and sound, so we can get to see Aunt Mary real
fast.”
As soon as the words are out, I
know I’ve blown it. Jess figured out how to unbuckle her car seat awhile back,
and I’m much better off if I pretend it never happened. Sure enough, I hear the
telltale sound, followed by a mischievous giggle, seconds after the words leave
my lips.
Pulling over, I practice my
serious face. Part of the problem, as Bon frequently reminds me, is that the
kid knows I think her hijinks are hilarious. Oh, I always win in the end, but I
can’t help laughing when she gives me those dimples and tries to look innocent.
Bon says I’m “reinforcing unacceptable behavior,” but I’m only human. What guy
could resist that angel face?
“Alright, Jessica Rose,” I begin,
using her full name as Bon does when she means business, “we are going to turn
right around and go home if you’re gonna pull this stuff. Do you understand
me?”
“OK, Daddy!” she giggles, then
attempts to refasten herself. Funny thing: she’s got the unbuckling down pat,
but don’t ask her to redo the thing. Then she’s all thumbs.
“Never mind, Baby. Daddy’ll get
it. Your job is to leave it alone. Got it?”
“Got it!” she squeals, then
proceeds to undo it several more times before we take off. Each time, I try to
assume the look Bonny gives her that always stops her dead in her tracks, but
whatever it is, I clearly don’t have it. I finally have to do a 180 with the
car and pretend we’re going back home.
“No, Daddy, please, I’ll stop!”
she begs.
“No, it’s too late,” I tease,
trying to maintain my poker face. “Guess Aunt Mary and Molly will just have to
miss out this week. That piano will just have to stay silent and miss your
little fingers playing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ It’s so, so sad, but –”
Her screams of heartbreak prove I
have her where I need her. Not that I like to play that card, but I have to get
this to go my way somehow. God knows, I can’t have the cops pull me over and
find out I have an unstrapped toddler in the backseat. I could have her
watching an X-rated movie on the iPad, no problem, but heaven forbid I bend a
safety rule that the government in all its wisdom imposed on parents. What’s
the law now, kids have to be in booster seats till they go to the prom,
something like that?
“Alright then. No more unbuckling,
or home we go. Got it?”
“Got it, Dad!” she chirps in that
way she has.
When we push open the glass door,
the stench bowls us over as it always does. Jess asks her usual question.
“Daddy, how come Aunt Mary’s house
smells like diapers?”
“I know, Jess, it’s kinda stinky.
That’s because she lives in a nursing home, remember? Sometimes old people have
to wear diapers, too.”
“But why, Dad? Aren’t they potty
trained? Maybe I could teach ’em.”
I will myself not to laugh.
Looking down at her questioning eyes and the solemn look on her face, I know
that even cracking a smile would deflate her. As I gaze at her creamy, perfect
skin, the contrasting image of Tanya’s acne-ridden face involuntarily enters my
mind. Before I can catch myself, I grimace.
“It’s not that, Sweetie. They do
use the potty if they can. But some of them can’t always make it in time, and
they have accidents like you did that time, remember? So it helps if they have
a grownup diaper on.”
I should’ve known that wouldn’t be
the end of it. Lately, Jess has been taking more in, remembering conversations
we had previously. It blows me away how her mind is expanding. The first thing
she says when she hops onto my aunt’s lap is, “Aunt Mary, do you wear diapers?”
I try to do damage control.
“Jess, that’s not polite! We don’t
ask Aunt Mary questions like that!”
My aunt grew up during the
Depression, so I guess she knows a thing or two about not taking life too
seriously. A boisterous bellow escapes her lips, causing the crepe-y folds of
her neck to jiggle like an accordion. That gives Jess permission to laugh, too,
and the two of them sit there howling like idiots for a good 30 seconds.
“Well, I’ll tell you a little
secret, Honey Bunch,” my 80-something aunt begins, “I have been known to wear a
Depend© when I go on a trip!”
“Daddy, Aunt Mary wears Depends©
when her goes on trips!” Jess blurts out. I make a mental note, once I stop cackling,
to tell Bon when we get home. She’ll be relieved to know the rule we taught
Jess about not keeping secrets from Mom and Dad has sunk in. Don’t waste your time
with Jess Gullickson, child molesters. The news will be out before you can say
“registered sex offender.”
“Aunt Mary, what are Depends©?”
This produces more snorts and
snickers from the wheelchair, and I give up hope then and there of having any
sort of adult conversation.
The thing I love best about Aunt
Mary is her outlook on life. She doesn’t waste time wondering why senseless
things happen; she just absorbs them, comes to a place of acceptance, and
shares whatever perspective she’s gained with those who are still struggling.
For instance, when my brother, Lenny, died way too young, she called to console
me. By that time, Al was gone too, as well as my mother. That left only my
brother, Jack, and me to represent our family. Aunt Mary must’ve known how
unfair it all felt to me. She didn’t say much except she was sorry and she
loved me, but at the end of the call, she made herself available in no
uncertain terms.
“Davey,” she said, “You have my
phone number. Use it. I’m always here for you. Sometimes you just need to talk
to somebody with white hair.”
I’ve never forgotten those four
sentences. I guess that’s why, when she broke a hip and had to move to this
God-forsaken place, I made it a point to come visit her regularly. It’s good
for Jess and for me. Somehow I feel closer to my parents when I look into that
beautiful, wrinkled face.
“Aunt Mary,” Jess says with
excitement, “wanna see what’s in my big girl bag?”
“I sure do, Honey Bunch. You got
any secrets in there?”
“No, no secrets,” Jess replies
solemnly. “We don’t keep secrets, right, Daddy?”!
“That’s right, little lady!” I
affirm, then remember the aforementioned items Bon snuck into the bag right
before we left. They’ll do more than give lie to what I just said; they’ll hurt
Jess’s “big girl” pride.
“Hey, Jess, can I see what’s in
your bag first?” I say, knowing it’s a dumb ruse and probably won’t work
anyway. But it’s all I can think of on the fly.
To my surprise, she agrees and
hands it over. When I peer inside, I see the soft toy that’s lived on Tanya’s
bed ever since I moved in. It’s a floppy yellow thing that seems to mean almost
as much to her as Ralph did. I think Bon said she’s had it since she was a
little kid.
“Hey, Jess,” I begin, “what are
you doing with Fluffy? Does Tanya know you have this?”
“No, Daddy, it’s Puffy!” Jess counters.
“Oh, OK, I stand corrected. Does
she know you have Puffy? Your sister will be pretty upset when she sees it’s
missing.”
“No, Daddy, her gave it to me.”
“Now, Jess, what did Mommy and I
tell you about making up stories? That’s called ‘lying,’ and Jesus doesn’t want
you to do that.”
“No, Daddy, her did give it to me.
’Member when I cutted my finger? Tonna gave it to me so me would stop crying.
Puffy’s mine!”
With that, she snatches up the item in question and proceeds to brag on all its wonderful features to my
long-suffering aunt.
At this point, Aunt Mary’s friend,
Molly (they refer to themselves as fellow inmates), pulls her wheelchair (they
call them their chariots) alongside Aunt Mary’s in the solarium. I decide to
table the Puffy discussion, and make a mental note to discuss it with Tanya
when we get home.
“Well, how’s my little punkin’
today?” Molly asks my daughter.
Jess isn’t crazy about Molly, she
tells me, because the 300-pound woman has long, wiry whiskers sprouting out
from her double chin. Still, I’ve taught her to be polite, so she answers
earnestly, “I’m fine, Molly, and so is Daddy.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that,
Punkin’, and would you like to play a song today? Would you like to learn a
song about a star?”
That’s the one thing Molly has going
for her in Jess’s eyes: she taught piano for years, and gives my daughter an
addled coaching session every week. I’m not sure who’s more to blame for the
ramshackle-ness of the lesson – Jess with her wiggles and giggles, or Molly repeating the
same thing 400 times. Each week she re-teaches her “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little
Star,” and each week Jess reminds her that she’s already learned it. Molly
apologizes, then starts all over again with the same song. The memory section
of Molly’s brain is caught in a spin cycle that the neurons simply can’t
overcome.
Jess has a kiddie keyboard at
home, and she dutifully fools around on it after the lesson. I’m no help,
having the musical aptitude of a turnip, but I always tell her she’s wonderful
and that Molly will be proud next time we see her.
As usual, Aunt Mary smiles and
squeezes my hand as we watch Jess pound the ivories. That old upright has
definitely seen better days, but it serves the purpose for the hymn sings St.
Philomena’s sponsors at the home every third Sunday. The way Jess talks about
it, you’d think it was a baby grand; I guess, compared to her mini-Casio©, it
is.
When Aunt Mary starts to nod off,
I know it’s time to go. I scoop up Jess, cue her to say goodbye, and cart her off
towards the exit with my usual promise of chicken nuggets and fries. In
minutes, we find ourselves out in the sunshine, away from repetitive piano
lessons and the pungent but well-earned smells of humanity.
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