Cracking the Whip

My husband finally has his dream job. After years of traditional work and wishing, he finally took the plunge and now does his art full-time. He loves it. Really, really loves it. Sometimes I have to tear him away from his drawing to eat. If I didn’t come home from work and remind him that it’s evening, I think he would draw all night. He always looks a bit surprised that the day is gone already.

             

            Believe me, this has a point.

             

            It was maybe a month or so after this transition occurred that the subject came up with Nellie. I’d been hesitant to mention it because she tends to overreact and jump immediately to disastrous conclusions; I was afraid she’d panic for our financial future, seeing only the caricature of the “starving artist.” But the subject couldn’t be avoided forever, and finally I mentioned something about my husband’s working at home now. Happily, she took it all in stride.

            “So what is his schedule like?” Nellie was curious. She loves to hear the details of everything--the minutiae that sounds to me like a very boring recitation holds a strange fascination for her. So I told her: we wake up at such and such a time, have breakfast, read Bible, I leave for work and he draws all day long. Walks the dog, maybe, but mostly draws.

            Lines of deep thought creased her forehead, and she was quiet for a moment. Then she turned to me and said reproachfully, “Doesn’t he get tired of that? Don’t you ever let him rest?”  

Pumpkin Pie

Nellie went to her nephew’s house for Thanksgiving, so when I arrived the next Tuesday afternoon I asked her how she enjoyed her visit. “Oh, it was nice,” she answered. “We ate, and then we watched a movie…I don’t know what it was called, but it wasn’t very interesting. Something about a girl who worked in the subway selling tickets. My nephew said they had watched it about twenty times already, but I wasn’t interested.”

            I had the feeling I knew the movie. It sounded very much like the beginning of While You Were Sleeping, which I have to admit I’ve thoroughly enjoyed ever since I watched it for the first time years ago with my college roommates. “Was it uninteresting because it was in English, or because you didn’t like the story itself?” I queried.

            “The story was alright, I guess. I just wasn’t interested because I was so sleepy. But then when the movie was over, we had dessert. Diana made two pies. One pie was red and the other one…oh, I don’t remember what it’s called. You know what it is. I’m sure you do. It’s traditional for Thanksgiving.”

            “Pumpkin?” I offered.    

            “Yes, yes, that’s it. Anyway, I told Karik I didn’t want that one; I said, ‘I don’t like it—they give it to us at the nursing home all the time and it’s nasty.’ And he told me, ‘But this one is homemade! You have to try it. Just a little piece.’ And he cut me just a little tiny piece…and it was so tasty! I couldn’t believe it.”

            I laughed. “I know what you mean! I don’t like store-bought pumpkin pie at all, but homemade…it’s one of my favorites.”

            She smiled and nodded, and said, in English, “Delish.”

You Should Have Told Me

           On the rare occasion when I can’t make a Tuesday visit, I usually try to call Nellie and let her know. This is much easier since she got her own phone; I remember spending long hold times while nurses tried to take my messages when I had to call the nursing home line. At any rate, I was sick—sicker than I’d been in a long time, and had no strength at all for a Nellie visit. So I called.

            “I can’t come today, Nellie. I’m sick.”

            “What? Talk a little softer. Don’t talk so loud.”

            I have never been asked to speak more softly. Most of the time people can’t hear me. But I guessed I had raised my voice a little to make sure she could understand me over the phone, so I chalked it up to a Nellie quirk and obligingly lowered my volume. “I’m sick, Nellie. I can’t come.”

            “But what about the fruit? Can you come tomorrow and get the apples?”

            “No,” I tried to keep my voice low. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

            “What? I can’t hear you. Well, I guess you can’t come. Okay. Goodbye.”

           

            The next day she called me to see if maybe I could come pick up the fruit after all. I was a little better by then, but still weak, and told her no.

            “But it’s such a pity to let them go!” she protested. I was very sorry, but I just wasn’t up to making the trip. Nellie was terribly disappointed. “I guess I’ll have to put them back on the cart,” she concluded.

            The following Tuesday I felt fine, and went as usual to see my little grandmother. It wasn’t until nearly time for me to go that she asked, “Oh, what did your mother call about last week?”

            “My mother?” I was confused.

            “Yes, your mother. You remember, you phoned and told me she called and you had to do something so you couldn’t come on Tuesday.”

            “No, no, I phoned and told you I was sick and couldn’t come!” To be fair, the Russian for “called” is zvonilas and the Russian for “sick” is bolilas. I can see how the two words might be mixed up.

            “You were sick? If I had known that, I wouldn’t have called you the next day and asked about the apples! You should have told me!”

            I shook my head in exasperation. “Nellie, I did tell you! And you told me to speak softer!”

Twirling

            I was a little afraid that the wig would go the way of the eyeglasses and never be seen again; when I arrived the next week and saw that it was still in the bag where I’d left it, my heart sank. “Have you worn it at all?” I asked, fearing for the answer.

            “No,” she admitted. “I was afraid of it.”

            I laughed at her. “Why?”

            “Because…I don’t know. It sits there on that head thing...it’s scary. And I’m not sure how to put it on. You take it out and put it on me.”

            “Have you shown it to any of the nurses? I’ll bet they would help you if I’m not here.”

            Nellie looked sheepish. “I didn’t tell anyone yet.”

            So we took out the wig and brushed it gently, trying to part it down the side instead of the center and place the barrette so that the hair wouldn’t fall across her forehead at all. Then we adjusted it on her head, tucking her own multi-colored hair back underneath the edges. Nellie looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. “Let’s go out in the hall and show someone,” she said excitedly.

            Several nurses and aides were roaming the hall, and Nellie made me wheel her over. She said nothing, but looked expectantly at them, turning her head this way and that—for all the world like a little girl in a new dress, twirling to show the world how beautiful she is. They rose to the occasion, exclaiming over her new hair. “You look so pretty!” they told her…and it was true.

A Critical Point

            Nellie was in an irritable mood. “Look at me!” she commanded. Obediently, I looked. She seemed fine to the untrained eye. “Look at my hair!” her voice was rising, with that note of frantic agitation I’ve come to recognize. Well, her hair is rather thin…and rarely washed…and dyed jet black only on the top layer, leaving a fair quantity of sparse white showing underneath.

            She tugged and fluffed her hair impatiently, trying to make it miraculously thicker or cover her head a little more. “I look terrible!” she lamented. “I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror.” I tried vainly to think of something comforting to say, but Nellie wasn’t done. “And in a few weeks my nephew will be giving a concert, and he has invited me…and my birthday is coming up in May, and I will be eighty-six years old, and there will be a party—and what am I supposed to do? Go looking like this? I can’t go looking like this! It has come to a critical point for me—I have to get a wig.”

            The suddenness rather took my breath away, but I had to admit the idea had promise. A wig: that might be just the thing.

            Nellie went on in a rush. “So, you have a good hairdresser, right? You have to talk to her and see about making me a wig.” Oh, no. I was practically positive that my little grandmother had no idea how much a custom-made wig would cost. Truth be told, I really didn’t know myself, but I assumed the price would be astronomical. I attempted to head her off with an estimate of lots of hundreds of dollars, and her shoulders slumped.

            Quickly I proposed an alternative. “But there are wig shops, I’m pretty sure, where you can buy wigs already made for a lot less,” I reassured her.

            Her face brightened again. “Really? Where? How much do they cost?” Well, now, that was the problem. I’d never personally sought out a wig supplier before, and wasn’t certain of anything except that such places existed. “But then I would have to go there, wouldn’t I? And somebody would have to take me. Would you take me?” Somehow I had seen this coming. Of course I would. How could I refuse?

            Nellie was ready, I think, to resolve the issue that very day, but she had to content herself with my pledge to find out more information (like the location of a store). She reminded me as I left that afternoon that it was absolutely essential that she get a wig soon.

            So I found a nearby wig shop in the phone book and called to find out hours of operation, average prices, things like that. Hesitantly I asked the pleasant lady on the other end of the phone line if she were…how should I put it?...fairly patient with difficult customers. She laughed gently and assured me that she “loved her elderly ladies.” Ahh—I was relieved. She did understand.

            Nellie’s fire had somewhat cooled by the time I arrived the next Tuesday, and so my announcement that I had found a shop, very close, and we should go now was met with more hesitation than I’d expected. After all, wasn’t this an urgent matter that needed immediate attention? My enthusiasm encouraged her, and she finally agreed to go. It wasn’t too difficult to persuade her; after all, this was a critical matter.

            More difficult, however, was our task when we entered the tiny shop and began the process of trying on wigs. Wigs are usually made with some sort of bangs, the better to cover the woven cap that holds the hair—and Nellie is extremely opposed to having hair on her forehead. On top of that, she has a slightly larger head than I suppose is common for wig-buyers, because every single one she tried pinched. She thought maybe she wanted black; I tried to dissuade her from such a stark color, since black never seems quite natural to me unless it is…well, natural. None of the browns looked very good on her, and she wasn’t impressed with the curly short hairdoes that the sweet proprietor offered. She wanted one long enough to cover a lump on her neck. Maybe, the wig lady suggested, we could order one in a larger size and see how it fit?

             We were close to calling it a day and looking a little more some other time when I saw a pretty silvery grey wig, almost shoulder-length, with no bangs. Hesitantly I pointed it out to Nellie. “Grey?” she asked dubiously. “Would that look good? Won’t that make me look like an old lady?” I shrugged my shoulders; we wouldn’t know until we tried it out.

            The silver wig did look good—surprisingly natural, meeting almost all Nellie’s qualifications. We could even hold the hair back from her face if we got some pretty barrettes. And the day was late, and Nellie was tired…and so she bought it. Or rather, I bought it and she promised to pay me back later. The owner of the shop gave us a styrofoam stand and a brush, out of sheer niceness. When we got back to her room, I asked Nellie if she wanted to wear it for awhile.

            “Oh, no. I’m too tired. Just leave it in the bag so I won’t have to see it. We’ll look at it again next week.”

Someone stole my jacket!

One day I arrived to find Nellie waiting for me at the front door of the nursing home. “Hello! How are you?” I said brightly.

            “Bad,” was her terse reply.

            “Why bad? What’s wrong?” I asked.

            “Somebody stole my jacket!” Nellie was nearly bursting with indignation.

            Oh, dear. “Which jacket?” I tried to think of what might have happened. “Where was it?”

            “It was my white one—the knit sweater jacket that I always wear. It was hanging in the closet and now it’s not there. That new girl must have taken it. I know she took it.”

            Ahh. That jacket. I knew it well—and I’m sorry to say that I am quite certain no one else would have wanted it. It’s old and yellowed, stained from years of wear, not at all pretty. But the fact remained that it seemed to be missing. “You say it was in your closet? Did you look all through, on the floor and everything?”

            “Yes, yes, I looked and everybody else came and looked and the director looked and nobody can find it. You can look again if you want to, but it isn’t there. It was that new girl. I asked her about it and she just acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about!”

            That poor attendant. I could imagine the hullabaloo Nellie had raised when she noticed her loss. She is extremely vocal when she is upset, and even though her rantings are all in Russian I am certain that everyone within earshot must have been fully aware of her displeasure. Hoping to miraculously see the missing article of clothing, I looked in the closet, and found no jacket. I looked on the floor, and found…no jacket. She continued to fume as I tried to calm her. “Everybody keeps saying to me, ‘Maybe it’s in the laundry, maybe it’s in the laundry.’ But I don’t use the laundry!” Her voice rose again to a near-yell. “The director came and looked earlier, and he said that if we don’t find it, they will buy me a new jacket.”

            “Well,” I ventured, “that’s good, right?”

            “But I bought that jacket myself!” She was almost wailing. “It was a good one, and I liked it. It had a little crocodile right here on the front…I liked it.”

          I'm afraid I haven't seen the jacket yet, though weeks have passed now. Happily, Nellie hasn't brought it up again. I am forced to the conclusion that either she has forgotten it, or she's ashamed to tell me that the same thing happened as the last time "someone stole her jacket." Last time it turned out that she had simply left it at her nephew's house.