Sunset Surprise – Henry Zhang
A Cup of Soup
Julia Burnette
I open my eyes to the light of the early morning sun streaming in through the slats of my new wooden blinds. My kids call them “plantation shutters” to sell me on how fancy this place is. I try to sit up, gingerly turning on my side so as not to place too much pressure on my sore shoulder. I attempt to stand up, painfully aware of how fragile I’ve become, resting on the edge of the rumpled bed, waiting for the right moment to gather a little energy to reach for my walker. My urine-soaked pull-up uncomfortably sags between my legs, and so begins the shuffle to the bathroom for the long, humiliating process of trying to clean myself up.
The Occupational Therapist was visiting for a few weeks when I first came out of the hospital. She showed me how to do things that had been second nature for decades. Wash my face with a washcloth and brush whatever teeth I have left. Her name was Lori. She had a big toothy grin and called me sweetheart. I hated that, but I didn’t say anything. It was good just having another body next to mine, breathing in her slightly sour smell mixed with some kind of spicy essential oil. I gaze at myself in the mirror, turning my head this way and that. I put my fingers on my hooded eyelids and pulled them up—a lifelong desired surgery.
I try to remember the plan for the day, no doubt another episode of Wheel of Fortune on the shiny new flat screen my daughter insists I will enjoy. Or maybe a doctor’s appointment. I shake my head, a soft fog clouding the instructions she rattled off on our nightly call yesterday. I feel my way, reaching around the sink for the small blue cup containing my bleached dentures, and slip them unsteadily into my gummy mouth. I glance up at the mirror again. An image of an old, wrinkled woman stares back at me. My thoughts drift back to my youth, to moments long gone but still painfully vivid. Watching my children play, bright with imagination, savoring the sound of laughter as we fished along the banks of rocky rivers and lakes. How I yearn to feel the warm sun on my face and experience the gentle breezes of places I am resigned never to see again.
My daughter insists reminiscing is a sure way to delve into needless depression. I often hold the telephone away from my ear during her monologue. I close my eyes as her sharp voice insists I join the ladies’ bridge club or ride the facility bus to browse at Walmart. I am perpetually reminded of her education, lofty career…her expertise. “Mom, this place is so cute! No need to worry about anything anymore. It’s like a hotel. I’m jealous!” her tone dripping with forced cheerfulness as if to coax a smile from me, to make me grateful for her decisions—anything to have me acknowledge how kind she is for always having my best interest at heart.
Her once tiny pink fingers squeezed around my hands. Her luminous eyes would imploringly search my face for answers. Sometimes, we would wear matching handmade aprons and languish in recreating trusted recipes from scratch, guiding her clumsy measurements. We would sit for pretend tea, pouring make-believe liquid into tiny porcelain teacups. My very existence is encapsulated into this mini replica of my being. I would love to feel her hand in mine and savor the gentle warmth of her fingertips. I settle on the knowledge that she still calls. I am ashamed for resenting her independence and disappointed in my selfishness for not letting go.
My children don’t visit often. Both have their own families and careers and live a plane ride away. I always assumed I would be with them and they would care for me in my old age as generations of my European family had done. My grandmother stayed at my mother’s house when I was growing up. I remember her tiny gray braids tucked under a faded babushka swaying as she deftly stirred pots of fragrant old-world soups and stews. As years passed, her rheumy eyes became vacant. Her threadbare aprons hung limply in the back closet. Her days now spent in the sitting room, humming and stroking her baby doll. How many times now I wish I had dementia. Then I wouldn’t have to think about this, my life. Then and now, now and then, like an old rocking chair. The years seemed to pass slowly. Now, suddenly, it seems like life has happened all at once.
Sinking into the recliner, a sigh escapes. My kids have decorated this new place with knickknacks from home. Most of my furniture was left behind, donated, or sold at a Saturday yard sale. My new place is a sterile one-room studio on the top floor. My family decided after my hospital stay I’d better go to a safer, smaller place with “help” if I needed it. There was always a joke when they were little, “Will you love me enough to change my diaper when I am old?”
I put on my glasses, smudged with fingerprints, and close my eyes. I can almost hear my old rooster crowing at four in the morning and see myself pulling the pillow over my head to muffle the sound. There are memories of the crisp morning air as I let the chickens out, the dew clinging to my boots as I hurry back to the house to start the day’s work. I would breathe in the fresh country breeze and admire the lushness of the trees around me.
Like the generations of my mother before me, I also used to make big pots of brothy soup. Simmering fresh, meaty beef bones from the local butcher for hours before meandering into my little garden to gather root vegetables and snip fresh herbs from large terracotta planters. In my dated but practical kitchen, I’d gingerly wash the damp soil from the folds of dark green leeks, then peel the new potatoes, slipping their tender skins into the compost. The whole house would linger with the aroma of thyme and marjoram long after the soup was put away in the fridge for lunch the next day. The hot sting of tears burns my eyes.
Slowly limping to the sitting area, I stumble and reach for the shiny stainless fridge to catch myself. Tiny magnets hold up an array of sweet handmade letters and photographs of my granddaughter in her pink leotard. She is gracefully captured in one photo doing a split jump on the balance beam. My mind folds back to the days when I, too, was that flexible and cheetah-like. A neck full of first-place medals worn with pride. My brain swirls like a whirlpool of energy and vigor, but my body is weathered and tired. The sands of time leach away bones and muscles. A suffocating feeling swells in my heart.
The blue veins on my hands crawl over my fragile bones through paper skin. The shakiness is worse now. I can no longer hold a pen or even type out a number on my cell phone. Luckily, my children have pre-programmed the needed contacts: a myriad of doctors and long-distance numbers of old friends. The loneliness is overwhelming. My husband has long since died. My sweet marmalade cat was given to a neighbor when they moved me here. I can still imagine her purring beside me at night as I close my eyes.
It is past noon now, and my diabetic sugars are low. I reach for my medications. They shine pearly white from the plastic pill box. I wonder what I will have for lunch. Maybe I’ll open a can of soup.