Family

The knuckles on her right hand, cold without its mitten, creaked as they rummaged through her purse. Old receipts, a foggy mirror, two pennies and a dime, and at last her grocery list on a piece of crumpled paper. Margaret, owner of the hands and the purse and paper, eyed the list once again before stuffing it back into the purse and hurriedly pulling her mitten back on. For some 40 years of adulthood, a Sunday grocery list had been her steady companion at the grocery store. Except that today wasn’t Sunday it was Tuesday.

Margaret shuffled past the cake mix on Aisle 6 but her gaze lingered. Dad seemed to really like the chocolate cake last year she remembered. Margaret’s father was 96 years old and the eldest living member of the Miller family. His condition had worsened over the last year and tomorrow would likely be his last birthday. Nobody had openly stated as much but everyone knew and so tomorrow, for the first time six years, the family was all coming together for his birthday dinner at Margaret’s house. Dad would love that cake, she thought, eyeing the box. The secret wasn’t just the box, though. Margaret’s own secret was, for chocolate cake mixes in particular, to use only the egg yolks and to add just a touch of coffee to the mix. She had been doing it for years and had told everyone who asked about her recipe but she still considered it her secret touch. But Grace wouldn’t eat that, she sighed.

Margaret fumbled for her phone in her purse and dialed 2. Her family was in order; her first son Marcus Jr. was set to speed dial #1, her daughter Grace was #2, #3 sat empty, and her youngest son George was #4. Her husband, Marcus Sr, was #5. Margaret and Marcus had met in high school, and even before they had married, they had shared the same family name: Miller.

Grace answered on the fourth ring “Hey Mom.”

“Hi honey, I’m in the supermarket. I’m thinking of you.”

“Didn’t you just go to the store the other day?”

“Well, yes but I still have a couple things to pick up for dinner tomorrow. Do you remember your Grandaddy’s birthday last year? Do you remember the cake?”

“No I wasn’t there.”

“Oh that’s right. Well, he just loved it. It was my chocolate cake. Well you know it’s just a touch of coffee that goes into the mix, it’s really not much, would-“

“No Mom, I can’t have caffeine. You know that.”

“I know, I know. I was just calling because, you know, I think it was his favorite thing last year. I guess you weren’t there but he ate the whole piece last year, it was a big piece, and-”

“Mom, I got it. Are you trying to guilt trip me?”

“No! I just know how much he loved it, but then I don’t want to leave you out so-”

“Mom cut it out! It’s just a cake, make it if you want but I told you I won’t eat it, so quit pushing it on me, why are you always pushing yourself onto people…” Grace paused awkwardly. “Let me call you later,” she finally added, and then hung up.

I don’t push myself onto people Margaret defended herself internally. She really has been difficult the past few months. But I know why it is, I know it’s all the worry. On her way to the produce section, on the left, a shelf of Rice Krispies caught her eye. Oh Michael she thought.

Margaret’s mind wandered back to when her adult children were young, before The Incident had happened. Dinner was particular then too. The outside eye would have raised its brow at the cutoff crusts, the plain white rice, the buttered noodles, the macaroni that simply could not touch any neighboring vegetables. But to Margaret it was just the way things were. In fact, if she had not cutoff the crusts she would have fiddled with her napkin all through dinner just knowing she had forgotten something. Even in her old age, although unaware of it herself, she still kept to a few of their childhood preferences when she fixed plates at dinner. It had always been Michael that had been the pickiest, he would always-

“Margaret!”

“Margaret!” the friendly voice called again, and a woman in her mid-thirties approached. She was balancing a struggling toddler on one hip and in her cart was another big-eyed, messy haired child. She was an acquaintance of the Miller’s from their daycare, a regular waver-helloer on the Mondays and Wednesdays when Margaret picked up the grandkids.

“Fancy seeing you here” she joked. “Daycare and the grocery store, sounds about right” she said jostling the toddler on her hip for emphasis. Truthfully she felt a bit silly after saying this. If she had been talking to another woman her age, or especially to Margaret’s daughter-in-law Emily, she would never have said that. Emily, though cordial, was always busy, always on the phone with someone about something important. The only person more curt than Emily at daycare pickup was Marcus, Emily’s husband. If he was picking up the kids it meant something had not gone right and small talk would be rarer than a smile.

“Oh hello, and I see your sweet girls, hello there...” and Margaret began telling her about her list. Deceptively short, the list had only a few words like “Saran wrap” or “cornstarch” but what spilled through Margaret were the invisible words on the list, the “anticipation” she felt for having her children together again and the “desire” she had that dinner would be memorable for her father and for those that would remember him as present maybe for the last time.

Margaret’s love often sounded like worry. It had not always been that way, but The Incident had made it that way for the whole family. They all had become busier and more serious. The unspoken mantra would have been something like All Work and No Play Makes Jack a Safe Boy or If It’s All Fun and Games Someone Will Poke an Eye Out. Maybe in the past someone had been lax about the rules and maybe that’s how fate could’ve allowed The Incident to happen.

Margaret knew that this was behind Grace’s impatience. Grace was five months pregnant and there likely wasn’t a pregnancy book left unread in the state. From the minute she had suspected her body was hosting its first precious guest, she had been making list upon list of To-Dos, To-Don’ts, To-Eats, and To-Not-Eats. To Grace, her mother’s question of the cake was a question of her judgement and an affront to the rules. Worry was something that kept Grace up at night. As much as Grace loved her mother she knew she would do things differently. Not that The Incident had been her mother’s fault, nor had it been anybody’s fault, but that was almost worse. If it had been nobody’s fault then how do you make sure it doesn’t happen again, to your own children? Grace’s mind craved an answer, a solution, but in its absence she compensated by creating order and structure everywhere else in her life.

Grace remembered her little brother well; they had only been 13 months apart. When they played make-believe, Grace would act the leader, she would be strong and fearless and Michael was happy to play along in whatever role she cast him. He was playful, like his younger brother George had been at that age, though their lives never overlapped. Playful and sweet, Michael was distinctly his own person as well. At four, he decided that, tired of wading through the family box of mismatched Legos, the yellow ones would be his and they would be in their own box. When it came to picking his clothes, he preferred to pick them out himself. He was particular about his food and almost never finished his plate – unless of course, there was a Rice Krispy treat as reward for a clean plate. Rice Krispy treats had been a common, and usually successful, bribe for Michael.

When he got sick, Grace remembered scribbling cards to give to him in the hospital. She drew pictures of the characters they’d play when could play again and a list of names to choose from. Grace would think hard about new games for them to play for when he would be back. But then he didn’t come back. And it didn’t matter if she changed the games or promised her mom that, no, Michael can play the Cop, I’ll be the Robber, or I’ll even be his sidekick…

And so like that, make believe faded away and in place rules were stood up. Pills were counted, sleep was measured, rest was mandated. There was Too Much stress on his body and Not Enough strength within it. Doctors vacillated between treatments but the existence of strict rules to follow was constant. And so it was until The Incident finally happened: with Margaret and Marcus Sr at the side of his hospital bed and his two older siblings in the waiting area, both sets nervously holding each other’s hands, Michael died. If the family had been like an ocean wave on the beach before, big and warm and splashing and bubbling, they became like a frozen pond afterwards, still and frigid.

Margaret’s phone rang in her purse. “Hi, Grace” Margaret answered.

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, I know,” said Margaret. “Are you feeling well? How’re you feeling?”

“Fat,” sighed Grace. “Fat and tired. So did you get the cake?”

“No, no I decided to stick with pie. You know I’ve always thought pie goes better with ice cream anyways.”

“Ok well do you need any help? Actually I think I still have a tub of vanilla in the freezer, let me check…Yeah I do. We can use this don’t worry about picking any up I can bring this.”

“Ok thanks honey.”

“Are you getting candles? Maybe candles in pie is weird, I don’t know. Not that we could fit 97 candles anyways. Are you even still in the grocery store?”

“I’m just about to get in the checkout line, so I’m about done. No candles, but I got a card for us to sign. Thanks for calling back.”

“Yeah. Ok, well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

“I love you too.” Margaret pushed her cart back through the store to the check out lanes. She passed the Rice Krispy treats again, this time on her right side. She paused. You know, I bet the grandkids would love them she thought, and she grabbed a box and memories of sticky smiles kept her warm as she stepped outside.