Lunch Hour

            He stood over her and briefly stroked her long hair with the back of his hand. He remembered it as blonde and radiant for all of those years. It was now brilliant platinum silver, but it had lost none of its silkiness. She breathed steadily and he let his hand continue on to her cheek. The corner of her mouth twitched just a little in her slumber. He reached out with one ragged finger and ran the tip of it down the bridge of her nose searching for the tiny bump that had once been there. She had always hated it and had had it removed at the first opportunity, but he missed it so. With that brief touch, he had communicated a lifetime of love. He thought that he saw her smile.

            The girls, her daughters, stood in the doorway of this warm and comfortable if sparsely furnished room and watched. They knew him, vaguely. He had been to their parent’s home a few times when they were very young and he had been at their father’s funeral. Then, he had waited until the long line of mourners that had come through offering condolences. He had gently led their mother off to a quiet corner of the church to speak privately with her. Their mother had hugged him for a long time after the conversation and the girls had put it down to the culmination of a long, stressful day of grief. They thought that he must have been a friend of their father’s, but now they understood it to be something more.

                      The daughters queried one another as to who this man might be? An ex husband? Their mother had been married once or twice before she had met their father, but they were sure she had not kept in touch with any of her previous spouses. In fact, she had downright toxic feelings about one of them.

The old man seemed comfortable being there as if he was used to taking care of her. His focus was entirely on her, oblivious to the rest of the world.

            The woman stirred a bit and he pulled his hand quickly away, as if he had received a shock. Her nightgown was a whisper of thin, white cotton. Her face would not allow one to determine her age and her skin was still flawlessly smooth where her shoulders peeked through the ties of her gown. Only the tiny wrinkles on her neck and hands betrayed her. Her lips were dry and her breathing slightly irregular. She looked as if she had been sleeping for only a night, waiting only for morning to revive her.

            The old man was dressed casually, but appropriately for a visit. His clothes well worn but well kept. His tailors appeared to be Levi Strauss and JC Penny. His skin was tanned and weathered around his large frame and sagged in all of the usual places for a man his age. His hair was thin and combed straight back, his beard gray and he was a little bent. He moved slowly, carefully, perhaps to avoid some pain or because it was the only mobility he had left to him. When he smiled, it was reflected in his soft brown eyes and the corners of those eyes wrinkled with honest joy.

He stood and stared at her for the better part of an hour, until standing appeared to become difficult. He turned and asked if he could sit and, with the girls’ approval, lowered himself slowly into the vinyl armchair and watched her some more. He sat back, filling the big chair, the top of his head reflecting the late afternoon sunlight that tumbled through the south facing window. She did not stir again and he started to drift off a bit, nodding now and then back into consciousness.

When would the visiting hours be over, he asked. “There are no restrictions here.” the oldest replied. He could come and go any time as long as the family approved. With that, he stood and announced that he would be back. The girls, though curious, didn’t see any harm in letting him visit. In fact, when he had arrived and announced himself as a friend of their mother’s, they welcomed the opportunity to have someone sit with her while they tended to their families and other visiting relatives and there was a nursing staff available should any problems arise.

The old man ambled off to the restroom and then to the nursing station to inquire about the nature of the woman’s illness. A graying, cheerful black woman in an equally cheerful Snoopy print smock informed him simply that time and age had finally caught up with her. “Time and age.” she said. “None of us can outrun time and age.”

“She didn’t just lie there and wait for the reaper, though, no, no.” she observed, “She had better things to do…went on with her life. She was out running errands and collapsed. She didn’t get that beautiful family by just sitting around.” she said, nodding toward the waiting area. “But now, it’s time for her to go home. That’s whey she’s here at hospice, where her journey from this life into the next can be a comfortable one, like riding the parlor car on the train to glory. Are you family?” she asked with some amount of suspicion.

“Just an old friend.” he admitted, emphasizing the word old. “And knowing her, she’ll be riding the club car.” Some people were just born caregivers, he thought of this woman, feeling a little racist for noting that were an abundance of black women who worked in nursing and that they always seemed more caring than the white nurses he had met. Even his ex-wife, who was black and who had a bit of a phobia about sick people had become a home healthcare worker after they split up 30 years ago.

This woman believed every word she spoke about life and death and heaven to be the truth. “Well, as long as it helps her get to where she’s going with love, I suppose it’s alright for you to stay.” With that, she turned her attention to dimming the lights on the floor for the night. By now the sun had long set and the extended families of the patients were beginning to drift off to put their children down for the night and get some long overdue rest. Only a small staff and immediate family members who volunteered for the night watch remained.

He wandered off down the hallway and around the corner and returned briefly with a single rose in a small glass vase from the gift shop. He cautiously entered the darkened hospice room and asked if he could sit with the woman for a while.

            “Will you be alright if we leave for a few minutes?” one of the daughters asked.

            “Sure. We’ll be fine.” he said.

           

He sat in the chair facing the hospital bed. She lay with her torso slightly elevated so he could see her face reflecting the sparse light from the streetlamps that now filtered through the window glass. It reminded him of the brightest moonlit nights he had seen as a young man and it suited her, even tonight. He closed his eyes, remembering bits and pieces of his life with this woman.  There were snapshots of her in high school, at her wedding, at lunch, in the hospital pregnant with her second daughter. He had mourned the loss of so many memories in his lifetime but these were some of his most precious and it seemed as if they had been the first to disappear from his memory. Only the terrible, humiliating, degrading things he had done in his life were clear.

He couldn’t remember the first time they met. He could, however, remember what he was like then, a pudgy cherub of a boy with a smooth face desperately trying to get the attention of other people. He had been the background to those people that mattered, a pariah willing to submerge his personality for the chance to be attached to someone else with a better rap. Pretending to be the rebel without having the courage to rebel against anything.

He did remember that when she spoke to his friends, she included him in the conversation as if he belonged. Girls never did that unless they wanted something and even then they were discreet so as not to be attached to him in any way. From that moment on, he was attracted to her because she gave him the thing he craved most, the feeling that he belonged.

Through the remainder of high school, they were friends, he the confidant, she the confessor. He listened to her talk about her family, her boyfriends and girlfriends. She asked him questions about why boys were the way they were, always disappointing her in the end. He did his best to make up answers he thought would satisfy her and make himself sound sympathetic at the same time.

He was the touchstone to which she could return time and time again for advice, sympathy and love. It was a role he deeply enjoyed. It made him seem less the outcast and she never turned her back on him the way others sometimes did, avoiding him in certain social situations. In fact, she defended her friendship with him and even introduced him to her family. They went out on dates.

            As high school ended and other lives began, both moved on, he more confident in his ability to socialize with the opposite sex and she more equipped to deal with the world on her own. The continued to date, off and on until careers and other considerations pulled them apart. She was way out of his league and he knew it. He could never give her the things she wanted from the material world and he couldn’t stand the thought of losing her to someone else. It was more the losing that bothered him, the fact that he wouldn’t measure up in her eyes if compared to another man. He slithered away.

            They had made a connection, though and kept in touch over the years. He called her, periodically, wherever she lived and no matter what kind of situation she was in, single, married, divorced. They remained attached by this slim thread of need for a friend that would not judge their actions or intentions. They talked to each other without condemnation. He knew her intimately and yet was detached enough to counsel her on the things that concerned her. If he lied about his life, she let it go and if she made some obvious mistake in judgment about someone she loved, he sympathized but never scolded. He always knew when she was feeling bad, even at a distance and she always knew the right thing to say to cheer him.

            Over decades, marriage, families, careers and the details of life kept them busy. They both came home and almost by accident, bumped into each other at a local restaurant. Later, they met for lunch and spent hours catching up and reminiscing about their high school days in a wonderful conversation that re-energized their friendship. They had tried including their respective spouses in the relationship, double dating, as it were, but nothing quite satisfied them as this one on one time. During lunch they could be themselves when talking about family or work, life, love or loss. They could be frank with one another about their personal failings.

            They eventually settled into a small French bistro about once a month. Here, they found a home. The staff knew them and what they preferred. They rarely ran into business associates or friends. It was time that they could spend with each other that would remain uninterrupted until they decided to get on with their day. It was this pause that many people seek but never find.

            Each month, the anticipation would grow in them as they searched for a time when they could meet. He enjoyed being seen with this beautiful woman, never explaining who she was and over time, he rearranged his schedule to coincide with hers so as to not miss an opportunity to have lunch. If conditions warranted, they would meet more often, but never skipped a month. There were no gifts involved, no displays of affection, no future plans made, just conversation. It was splendid. But as with all things, this came to an end.

            What should have happened was some sort of disagreement, some argument that drove them apart. Even more appropriate would have been family concerns like the need to look after an ailing family member, a career change or even a jealous spouse putting an end to these suspiciously delightful lunches. What really happened was much more simple. The bistro closed.

            They found themselves one day in an empty parking lot, staring at a closed sign that should not have been there. Was it a holiday? Had they got their dates mixed up? Had the cook had a death in the family? It was unsettling. Where were they to go? The anticipation of this day was replaced with frustration and longing. No Earl Grey in white china cups, no quiche of the day, no fresh rolls. Who was responsible? Someone would hear from them.

            That afternoon, they settled on a café down the street. It was wholly unsatisfying and cut short their conversation as they mulled over a menu that seemed to offer nothing appealing. They left lunch unrequited and disappointed with their situation. He would get to the bottom of this and all would be put right. They would re-schedule as soon as he had some answers.

            Unfortunately, the answers were unpleasant. The bistro had gone bankrupt. Chef had married a woman who had spent all of his money and charged even more to the bistro’s accounts. There was no digging out of a hole like that. There was talk of staff buying the place and re-opening, but that never happened. The bistro would not return.

            Spoiled by service and a menu that suited their conversation, they went searching for another place to hold their lunches. They began with other small, elegant places near where she worked, desperately trying to find someplace that suited them, but there was always something that was not right. It was often the smallest of things like a wobbly table, flies in the window or the wrong brand of tea. They expanded their search to include Italian and Greek cuisine and finally diners to no avail. It was like trying to have a conversation in a shopping mall.

            Finally, it happened. They skipped a month. The excuse was something that seemed legitimate at the time, a family vacation. From then on, it became smaller things, work conflicts and birthdays and money. Neither cared to try and make yet another uncomfortable atmosphere work. Neither wanted to take the blame for not being able to find someplace where they could be together as they once were, as friends in intimate conversation.

 

 

            It took about a year, but the lunches finally stopped altogether. And now, here he was sitting next to her and missing all of those years they could have had together. How could he make that up? How could he ever be redeemed?

            He stood up and again he touched her hand. The oldest daughter sidled up beside him. He hadn’t noticed before that she looked remarkably like her mother in middle age, youthful and stunningly beautiful.

            “Do I know you?” she asked.

            “Sort of.” he said. “We had lunch together, you, your mother and I, when you were about eleven.” She searched her mind for the occasion. “I brought you tickets for a concert and your mother insisted you come along to lunch so that you could thank me properly.” There was a hint of recognition.

            “Did I?”

            “No. You played with your food. Your mother was annoyed, but she let it go. What happened to her?” he asked, switching gears.

            “It’s her heart.” she said somewhat wearily, the youthful beauty vanishing from her face for a moment, replaced by sorrow. “She was out shopping and she got dizzy and couldn’t catch her breath. They thought it was a stroke, but by the time they got her to the hospital, she was unconscious. It’s something I don’t understand. She was always so energetic. I got on a plane and came right home, but she was already like this.”

            “So, she’s not going home…you know, for her last days?” he asked, knowing the answer.

            “I’m afraid not. How did you find out? Who told you?”

            “I just knew. Your mom and I…we always had this thing…this connection. I knew something was going on, but I didn’t know what. I called your uncle and asked if anything was wrong and he told me she was here.”

He reached out with his index finger again and touched the back of the mother’s hand. Her eyelids fluttered and the daughter let out a barely audible gasp. Her eyes opened dreamily and she smiled to see her old friend standing there with her. She slowly took in her surroundings. Her daughter’s eyes began to tear up and she sobbed quietly so as not to break the silence of the moment. A few other family members came into the room trying to discern what the problem was.

The woman in bed directed her smile toward the old man. She tried to speak, but her parched throat made the words inaudible. He took her hand in his, bent forward and put his ear to her lips.

“I knew you’d come.” she whispered. His eyes glistened. “Will you stay for lunch?”