Handle With Care

When I was Four

I sat with my brothers in the bathtub. I was the middle child, both genealogically and geographically. Mark, the oldest, on my right, David, the baby, at my left. Looking back, I realize that seating arrangement was just part of her constant attention to organization. 

The faint fizzle of bubbles tickled my ears as we wallowed in the warm, soapy water. Milk Bath was her secret ingredient. Its slender plastic bottle with swirly golden letters exuded warmth as it stood on the corner of the tub against a cool backdrop of pink and gray ceramic tile.  She knelt beside the tub on a pink chenille rug and poured a puddle of cold shampoo into her cupped left hand. With magical motion, her hands circled my scalp like a genie caressing a crystal ball, and transformed it into a tingling mound of rose-scented foam. Then, shielding my eyes from the cascading suds, she rinsed my hair clean with clear water from yet another milk bath bottle which had seen better days. 

Nothing went to waste in Grandma’s house. A few practical snips with the scissors had removed the bottle’s top, sparing it from the trash bin and giving it new life as a carafe. But countless bath nights had taken their toll on the swirly golden letters, its slender shape remained its only recognizable trait. 

Once we were clean, she told us “what good boys we were,” and began the drying portion of the evening—first Mark; then she reached her hands out to me, as if inviting me onto a dance floor. Steadying me as I stood on the slippery bottom of the tub, she dried me with brisk, efficient motion. The giant towel wafted a blur of pink rose petals throughout the tiny bathroom of her bungalow. With a loving pat on my freshly scrubbed butt, she sent me to the bed, where my pajamas and clean underwear awaited in a crisp folded stack—smack dab between Mark’s and David’s. 

That night, as she tucked me beneath the mounds of sheets, quilts and blankets, I never dreamed that I was not in my own home. I didn’t wonder where my mom and dad were. I didn’t listen to the hum of the refrigerator motor as I did in my own home, and still do. I just basked in Grandma’s squeaky clean affection, and drifted to sleep. 

The next morning my brothers and I sat at her kitchen table with voracious appetites as she scurried about in her blue and white polka dot dress, her lipstick perfect, not a hair out of place. The woodsy smell of homemade maple syrup bubbled from the stovetop as we eyed the steaming plate of French toast. She dusted each piece with cinnamon sugar—pre-mixed and shaken from what once was as a jelly jar. “How are you kids this morning,” she asked with sparkling eyes, then poured our orange juice into tiny glasses from the remains of an old milk bath bottle.

Grandma at Eighty

It was a surprise date. First of all because she didn’t know where I was taking her for her eightieth birthday. Secondly, because the man approaching her car door was a valet, not a carjacker. He opened her door and reached out his hand to take hers, she let out a nervous sigh of relief. This was going to be a great night. We treaded along icy the brick walkway to the front doors of La Caille. I found myself holding my breath as the valet walked with her arm in his. I felt I was entrusting a priceless antique to a moving crew.  A product of sturdy farmer stock, Grandma is very capable of taking care of herself. Maybe too capable. But despite her best efforts, the past couple of years had started to show. I announced our arrival to the maitre’d and gazed around the foyer at the glassy stares of taxidermied animal heads. Grandma’s eyes darted from the flower arrangements to the paintings of fruit and dead game. “Look over your head,” I told her, pointing to the stuffed walrus head above. “Oh my gosh,” she giggled as if that wasn’t the silliest thing she’d ever laid eyes on.

I offered her my arm as though leading her to a dance floor. We carefully walked up the dark, stone stairway. Cautiously feeling for every step, she whispered, “you are so nice.” 

We were seated at a linen-covered table for two. From our window we could see the gleaming lights of a gazebo shimmering in the orchard. The day’s newly fallen snow clinged to the evergreens as a mist rose from the freezing ponds. “I know you’ve always wanted to go back to Europe—but this is all I can afford.” A white peacock strutted his way past the gazebo. She smiled and said “Maybe next year.” 

Our waiter brought the appetizer menu, told us of his favorites and left us to ponder. “The French onion soup looks really good,” she said. “I think I’ll just have that.” I warned her that these were just the appetizers, and to save room for the entrée. She glanced back down at the menu. “Eleven dollars?” she mouthed in disbelief. I nodded. She shook her head and smiled. Her eyes sparkled. The gazebo paled in comparison. She ordered the soup.

We feasted for two hours. She had salmon, I had the prime rib—rare. She chided me about eating meat that was barely cooked. We talked of her trip to Sweden (how she hated the raw fish but didn’t dare spit it into her linen napkin), her cruise with Aunt LaVon (nice, but LaVon never wanted to do anything), her cousin Gladys’ stroke (she still hadn’t been up to visit her) and her own ambulance ride to the hospital (embarrassed that all of the neighbors were watching). She asked about my job and how my brothers were doing. Then she told me what good kids we all were. I’d heard all of it before, but this time it seemed new. 

After our dessert of swan-shaped pastries, the waiter brought our check and a box of chocolates tied up with a gold ribbon “for the lady.” “How did they know it was my birthday?” she kidded. From the way she was beaming, I think everyone in the restaurant knew. She saved the chocolates for our drive home. 

•••

The freeway was empty, except for Grandma and me as the lights of the city twinkled before us. Chewing on chocolates, we delved again into the topic of doctors and heart attacks, she confided to me that she had found a lump in her breast and was going to have it checked in the morning. “Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you this.” she said, as though covering herself from a surprise bathtub intrusion. I took her hand and tried to think of something to say. We’d gone over everything from bad fish to brands of aspirin, but this topic was new. Personal. Serious. For the first time that night we were quiet, the good kind of quiet—the kind that says more than any conversation. 

At her bungalow on Hollywood Avenue,  I walked her to the door. We hugged and she thanked me again. “Here. You have this,” she said, and with a tender squeeze placed the empty chocolate box with gold ribbon in my hand. I gave her a peck on the cheek—her eighty-year-old hand still in mine—and wished her a happy birthday.

She waved goodnight from her doorway as she always did. On any other night, I doubt she would have seen much more than the shadow of my car and two red tail lights in the darkness. But that night, all of Hollywood Avenue seemed to glisten from the sparkle in her eyes.

I drove home and drew a hot bath.