Happy Birthday

    My phone rang, and I sighed when I saw Nellie's name. Usually when she calls it's for some emergency, such as running out of face cream or being afraid that I'll cut myself on a hypothetical mirror in my purse. Because of this, I always answer her calls with a little trepidation...but I answer, because otherwise she'll work herself into a tizzy and assume that I'm dead.
    There was a sort of confused silence on the other end of the line. I tried again. "Hello, Nellie? Are you there? How are you?"
    Finally she responded. "Oh, yes, ummmm..." I waited, wondering if she had forgotten what she wanted to say.
    "Yes? What do you need?" I prompted.
    And she began to speak, slowly, as if she were reading or reciting. "My dear Jessica, I want to congratulate you on your birthday! I wish you love and health and success and all the best."
    If smiles were audible, she could have heard mine through the phone. It was a traditional Russian birthday wish, such as I hadn't heard in...well, far too many years. "Oh, thank you!" I told her.
    I could almost hear her own smile in reply. "Did I say it right?" she asked happily. Oh, yes. Perfectly right.

The Rabbit

    My sister is expecting a baby. Since Nellie always asks me to tell her something interesting, I relayed the happy news to her. True to form, her first response was rather pessimistic. "I guess you feel sad, then," she said.
    I didn't follow. "Huh? Why would I be sad?"
    "Because you don't have a baby," she replied, as if it were only logical.
    "Oh, no, no, no. I'm not sad at all!" I don't think she believed me at first. Finally I convinced her that really I was very happy for my sister--and even more, I would be an aunt again!
    When I came back the next week, Nellie presented me with a stuffed rabbit--the kind with a carrot, the kind one always sees at Easter, even though it was nearer Thanksgiving than spring. I raised my eyebrows at her. "What's this for? Is it for me?"
    "No, it's for the baby," she answered.
    "The baby?" The connection wasn't immediately obvious, since my sister's baby wasn't due for at least seven months.
    "Yes, yes, your sister's baby. You must save it for two years and then give it to her."
    I chuckled. "Ohhh. I see. Well, alright." I started to poke it into the bag with the tea things.
    "Don't do that!" she commanded. "It'll make him dirty." I rolled my eyes at her and started to put him in my purse instead.
    "No, not there either. That will mess him up."
     So I carried the rabbit under my arm out to the car, where I carefully stuffed him into my purse. What Nellie doesn't know can't hurt her!

Fresh Air

    It was a bright, beautiful day and several of the occupants whose faces I knew were out on the "porch" enjoying the sunshine. One sweet old gentleman waved at me and declared, "She's not here today."
    I thought for sure he was joking, and laughed. "Well, I'd better check," I told him, and started in through the front doors. On the other side of the glass, hidden by the corner of the entrance, I saw Nellie peeking at me--delighted at her own prank. Unable to help laughing again, I shook my finger at her and hurried back outside where all the conspirators were giggling like mad for the fun of playing a trick on me. We sat happily in the sun for a few minutes and then retired to Nellie's room for tea.
    "Did you notice I'm in a much better mood today than I was last week?" she asked me toward the end of my visit. As a matter of fact, I had noticed. The previous week she had been a mess, so I nodded and asked her what was different.
    "Well, I was feeling so sad and depressed that I thought to myself, 'Maybe this is the end. Maybe I'll just die pretty soon.' I told my nephew, and he said to me, 'No, no, you're not going to die. You just need some fresh air!' And so every day I've been sitting outside for a little while, and see what a difference it makes!"

Sing Me a Song

    As I filled the teakettle and sat on the side of her bed, Nellie suddenly demanded, "Sing something."
   
     I wasn't sure I had heard correctly. "What?"
   
     "Sing me a song," she repeated.
   
     "What kind of song? A Christmas song? Any particular song? Do you want me to sing in English or Russian?" If she chose Russian, my repertoire would be severely limited.
   
     "It doesn't matter," she said. "Just any song."
   
     So I sang. It was December, and the songs most on my mind were Christmas carols, so I began with one of my favorites--What Child Is This? I love to sing, but I do NOT love to sing when I know people are listening. It took me a few bars to overcome my shyness, but, after all, I love to sing. Nellie listened quietly, keeping time with her good hand and humming along rather tunelessly.
   
     "I like that song. I remember singing it in church before my stroke. Sing me another," she commanded. And so I sang on. Silent Night, It Came Upon a Midnight Clear, Away In a Manger, We Three Kings...all the verses I could recall. When I finished We Three Kings, she asked what it was about. "That's a pretty song. I've never heard it before. Sing it again."
   
     "Again? The same song?" I was getting a little tired, but Nellie was insistent.
   
     "Yes, yes, again."
   
     I sang We Three Kings one more time, and finally Nellie was satisfied. As my one-woman-caroling session came to an end, I wondered how I would feel if I were suddenly cut off from the songs I love so much--if I could no longer sing because I couldn't remember any words.

Homesick

I brought a book for Nellie to read--a well-loved Russian poet telling a well-loved Russian fairytale, in Russian (of course) with beautiful illustrations. Having handed it to her, I proceeded to fill and turn on my electric kettle so we could have tea. By the time I sat down on the bed beside her, my little babushka was practically sobbing.

Alarmed, for she'd been perfectly fine when I entered the room, I asked, "What's wrong? What happened?" She only shook her head and continued to cry. I was really worried by this time, and tried again. "What is the matter? Are you alright?" Finally she calmed enough to gasp through her tears, "My heart--"

Oh, dear. What had I done? I rubbed her back and soothed her until she was able to talk a little, and the words trickled out. "When I saw the book, and the pictures, and the story, my heart was so sad...and I cried." She was still crying, though at least now she could control it a bit. She kept turning her head away to keep me from seeing the tears.

"It's okay," I comforted her. "Sometimes it's good to cry a little."

"I think I need to go back to Russia," she said. "I should go back and die there, in my homeland."

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.”