Barbara Isn't Dying, page 11
“I live here. You don’t need to get me anything.”
Herr Schmidt continued to protest, a bit more quietly at first, then in complete silence, in his head. He didn’t know himself how it happened, but at some point there was suddenly a second chaise. And he was lying on it, his feet unnaturally elevated. He had a glass of tap water in his hand. He didn’t drink tap water. Herr Schmidt looked around. Karin and Mai had disappeared. Helmut, too. Barbara lay next to him on her chaise, she was squinting, her mouth twitched.
“Are you laughing at me,” he asked.
She stretched her hand out and put it on his. Her fingers were light, their touch tickled. Her skin was dry again, and even thinner than before. Herr Schmidt covered them with his free hand, it was easy—she had long fingers but palms the size of a child’s. A bulky wedding ring sat atop her finger, though not on his, not even for a day: he hadn’t been able to stand the pressure of the metal.
Together they looked at the fence line and the neighbor’s arborvitae shrubs. At Barbara’s flowerbeds in front of the fence, the yellow and violet pom-pom-like flowers the name of which Herr Schmidt didn’t know, but which he watered anyway. The pear tree stood in full bloom, teeming with bees.
“Tired?” asked Barbara.
For her, of all people, to ask that. Did he look tired? Probably because he was lying on this old chaise which had only been hastily freed of cobwebs. It was uncomfortable, your backside went through. And Barbara had spent days, no, weeks lying on hers. No wonder she wasn’t getting better.
“I’ll buy you another chaise,” said Herr Schmidt. “A better one, new. Do you want something to eat?”
“Maybe later.”
Karin and Mai had taken over the kitchen. Nobody had asked them to. In fact, Herr Schmidt had repeatedly asked them to let it be.
“But Papa, let us clean it up for once.”
“It is clean.”
“Of course, that’s true, I’m not saying it isn’t clean. It’s just that you can’t get at everything, and the floor . . .”
“What about the floor?”
“Nothing. It’s all good. Just accept some help for once.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He could say it as many times as he wanted: they turned a deaf ear, pulled things out of the cabinets, stacked them on the counters, wiped out the insides of drawers.
“I’ll never find anything again! I have a system,” Herr Schmidt heard himself say.
“We’ll put everything right back where we found it.”
He doubted that, but gave up. Not because he was weak: if he had wanted to, he could have thrown them bodily from the kitchen, from the house even. It was still his house. But he didn’t want to unnecessarily agitate Barbara. She was wrong when she accused him of always picking fights with the children, saying they wouldn’t want to visit anymore as a result. They obviously still wanted to come, in fact these days they visited more often and for longer periods of time than ever before. Besides, Herr Schmidt had a feeling that Karin somehow needed to do all that fussing. She could go ahead and crawl around the kitchen with a dishrag if it made her happy.
For dinner there was rice and finely-chopped, hard-to-identify vegetables, the red tint of which suggested the inclusion of tomatoes.
“What is this?” asked Herr Schmidt. The consistency didn’t inspire much confidence. He could have dealt with a puree, or with large chunks that were recognizable as pieces of specific types of vegetables. But this in between thing seemed a bit off to him.
“Mostly eggplant and peppers,” said Karin.
Herr Schmidt detested eggplant. He took just rice, without a word, so as not to offend anyone.
“Papa, don’t be so childish. Of course you like eggplant.”
“I’ve never eaten one in my entire life.”
“That’s simply not true. Ask Mama.”
As if Herr Schmidt would do that.
“Is the eggplant from the garden?” he asked Karin instead.
“Too early. And besides, you never have eggplant in the garden.”
“But we have peppers. Are these our peppers?”
Her silence betrayed her.
He added salt to the rice and spooned it into his mouth. Barbara had taken a thimble of eggplant and chewed it for a long time. Bet it didn’t taste good to her, either. Still, he really wanted to avoid a fight. There were worse things than going to bed hungry for one night.
Mai shoveled up the goop in fine spirits. Karin was anxious again. “You know what, Papa, you can cook for us tomorrow.”
“What?” Rice fell from his fork.
“Whatever you like.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard so much about your cooking, and I’d like to finally have a taste of it myself for once.”
“Don’t poke fun!”
“I’m not.” Tears welled up in Karin’s eyes and Herr Schmidt felt a wave of guilt cresting inside him, despite the fact that he hadn’t said anything wrong.
“Are you still going to be here tomorrow?”
“Papa!”
“It’s okay, stop crying. I’ll cook.”
“We’ll help you.”
“God forbid. It’s hard enough by myself.”
* * *
He wanted something good but easy, nothing over the top. How had old Medinski put it in that one video? “People want to feel satisfied. But anyone looking for fussy frills should look elsewhere.” Mashed potatoes, bratwurst, peas. The good thing about peas: you didn’t need to shell them or cut them, naturally perfect, and particularly so if they came out of the freezer. This sentiment, too, came from Medinski. If Herr Schmidt hurried with his planting, he’d have his own peas from the garden in two months. And they’d be bigger than the ones from the freezer aisle at the supermarket.
Herr Schmidt looked for the cheapest ones, then for the sausages, though this time he went to the meat counter rather than heading for the prepackaged meats, as he usually did. He realized that he no longer pointed silently to the items or, as in the past, handed the butcher his shopping list written in Barbara’s rounded, girlish script. Now Herr Schmidt asked questions, what was the difference between the thick sausages and the thin ones, as neither the one nor the other looked like the bratwurst Barbara usually bought. “The long ones are lamb,” explained the woman, and Herr Schmidt decided instead for leberkäse, one slice per person and one for the pan. Barbara made the stuff once a year, although it was the best food of all. He also bought eggs.
Out at the bicycle stand, someone called his name. He packed his groceries into Barbara’s basket and secured it to the bike rack, and only then did he look up. In front of him stood a woman in a blouse the color of vanilla ice cream, the only thing missing were the tiny black dots. The woman had shiny, deep-brown, nearly doll-like hair and wore a kerchief around her neck. Herr Schmidt was just about to snap at her in annoyance. Barbara’s countless acquaintances were slowly beginning to get on his nerves.
“I’m Lydia.”
“Who?”
He had, of course, understood immediately who she was, but wanted to gain some time.
“Lydia,” she repeated, unperturbed. “Do you remember me?”
“Lydia from the computer,” he said with numb lips.
“The very one.” She looked him so intently in the eyes that he felt the need to take a step to the side, but the bicycle was in his way.
“You must be thinking, what is this woman doing here.” Lydia trembled slightly.
“I’m thinking, how does this woman even know what I look like.”
“But Walter. All the photos. On Barbara’s profile page. Almost all the pictures are of you.”
“I haven’t seen them.”
“Really? It’s full of photos of you. Riding a bike, in the garden.”
His cheeks felt hot. Barbara had constantly taken pictures of trees and flowers, this must have been her revenge for his getting in the way sometimes. His head began to buzz. It wasn’t good that Lydia was here. The next thing you knew, somebody would see him with this strange woman. After all, everyone came here to go shopping, and everyone knew Barbara.
“Go home, Lydia,” said Herr Schmidt. “Your husband must be expecting you.”
“But Walter. I already told you, my husband died three years ago. Cancer.” Her lipstick-red lips smiled. “The bastard,” she added tenderly.
“Well, I’m leaving now. Have cooking to do.”
“My husband never did any cooking.”
“I never used to cook, either.”
“I came all this way because of you.”
Did I ask you to, thought Herr Schmidt. The conversation had reached a dead end. How could he get out of it without seeming rude?
“Buy me a cup of coffee? Please?”
Her expression reminded him of Helmut five minutes before feeding time. Herr Schmidt relented. “Fine by me. But a quick one.”
The supermarket had an adjoining bakery, and in front of it stood a couple of café tables. Herr Schmidt sat with his back facing the registers at the supermarket, that way he wouldn’t make it all too easy for any gawkers in line, and at the same time it allowed him to keep the parking lot and, most importantly, his bicycle in view. There was no table service. You had to order at the counter.
“Why is something like this even called a café?” Herr Schmidt pulled out his wallet and pressed a tenner into Lydia’s hand. “Get yourself a coffee.”
“And for you?”
“I already had one today. Get yourself a piece of cake to go with it.”
Lydia headed off, the note in her hand. A few moments later she returned with two cups and two pieces of cake and placed everything on the little round table.
“Was that enough money?” Herr Schmidt reached for his wallet, but she was already handing him back a few coins in change. She sat down, painstakingly arranging the plates and cups. “I got you a piece of strawberry tart.”
Herr Schmidt didn’t plan to touch it. He gave Lydia exactly ten minutes. She could talk for that long about whatever she wanted to, he’d look over her shoulder and nod a few times. Then he’d go. The bill was already paid.
“How is Barbara?” asked Lydia.
“Better.”
“You’re such a brave, valiant man.”
“You have no way of knowing that.”
“I can smell it.” She smiled, and he shuddered.
“Nonsense. What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. We’re just chatting.”
“Chatting’s not my thing,” came spilling out of him. His patience was wearing out more quickly than he had hoped. “I don’t ask you about your husband. Why he died, and what you do with your time now that he’s gone.”
“I’d be happy to tell you.” His outburst didn’t seem to bother Lydia at all. Maybe she was accustomed to worse from her husband. “Like I said, it was cancer. So I know what you’re going through. I was his caregiver to the very end.”
“You don’t know anything. I’m nobody’s caregiver.”
“Barbara is a very beautiful woman.”
“That’s true. But I’m not her caregiver!” Apparently she’d also looked at photos of Barbara. Herr Schmidt was overwhelmed by a terrible itch right between his shoulder blades, the exact place he was no longer able to reach.
“Do your children come over often? Take all the help you can get, Walter. Men aren’t so good at that. I can stop by, too. I was my husband’s caregiver, I know what you need. I can . . .”
But Herr Schmidt couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up, mumbled a goodbye and rushed to the grocery laden bicycle.
Dinner was served late, after the TV news, like in Mediterranean countries. But as far as the array of foods, Herr Schmidt had no reason to be ashamed: it was simply perfect. He mashed the potatoes with half a pound of butter and worked them until his wrist hurt. He let the slices of leberkäse sizzle in the pan and then placed them on the plates, then perfectly fried surprisingly round sunny-side-up eggs, added salt, and adorned each slice of leberkäse with one of the little works of art. Karin and Mai had already set the table. Like a waiter, he served each plate individually. The three women sat there and waited to be served. But nearly as soon as the plates had been set down, Karin and Mai looked at each other and leaned almost imperceptibly closer to each other.
“It’s fine.” Mai’s deep whisper pervaded the room.
“No, I have to address it.”
“Just let it go.”
“What’s going on?” Herr Schmidt served himself mashed potatoes from the pot and dabbed a child’s size portion onto Barbara’s plate. Why did she look so embarrassed, what had he missed?
“What’s up with you girls?”
“Papa, I’m sorry to have to tell you this again, especially after you’ve put in so much effort, but you know that we don’t eat meat.”
“Who is we?”
“Mai and I.”
“Since when?”
“At least ten years.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
“Because I tell you every time you try to foist sausages on us.”
“Nobody told me. You’re adults, you can put on brave faces and eat what someone else has cooked for you.”
“We don’t force you to eat eggplant! It’s just not . . . ,” Karin paused. Mai had put her arm around her shoulders and squeezed her briefly.
“It’s fine, we’ll just eat the eggs and potatoes,” she grumbled. “These are the most delicious mashed potatoes I’ve ever had, Walter! You sure didn’t skimp on the butter.”
“But the egg smells like leberkäse,” sputtered Karin like a spoiled child.
“Give me your egg, bunnykins. Take mine. It doesn’t smell at all.”
They actually traded fried eggs. Karin ate in silence, her face resembling Sebastian’s. Mai winked at Herr Schmidt. They were really good friends, Karin and Mai. When Mai was with her, there was less drama than usual. Karin was a pale, not particularly pretty girl, but she had a knack for making friends. Herr Schmidt recalled a time she was rolling around with somebody on a picnic blanket in the garden, nothing but ponytails and long legs, and they were giggling so much that he had to yell at them to be quiet, as he had just laid down for a nap. Who was that again? One of the girls from the neighborhood? A school friend? He could have asked Karin, but who knew whether she’d act insulted again. It was stressful the way the children were so thin-skinned of late. Normally Sebastian was the sensitive one and Karin, by comparison, the good-natured one, the tough one.
“Berlin has ruined you,” said Herr Schmidt to his daughter, but she didn’t listen to him and didn’t look at him, either. Instead she had turned to Barbara. “Mama!” she screamed as Herr Schmidt strained to turn toward Barbara. “Mama, what is it? Papa, hold onto her!”
Barbara came to a few minutes later; for Herr Schmidt, however, it seemed like an eternity, during which he felt divided into three different Herr Schmidts. One was frozen, a man made of stone, who felt nothing. The second cried like a little baby, while the third kept Mai from calling an ambulance. The third one asserted himself in the end.
“It’ll be O.K.,” Herr Schmidt repeated with numb lips. “Don’t call. It’ll be O.K.” They’d already gotten out their mobile phones with trembling hands when he finally shouted: “Quiet!”
When it came down to it, he was still the man of the house.
Barbara lay on the TV couch, where the three of them together had carried her.
“You didn’t eat any leberkäse,” said Herr Schmidt once he felt she could hear him again. “No wonder your strength is flagging. Have you stopped eating meat, too?”
“I did eat, Walter. We should have that more often.”
“You nibbled on a corner at most.”
“It was very nourishing.”
Mai pushed her way to Barbara and held a glass of water up to her while bracing her head with her free hand. Karin took Herr Schmidt by the elbow and led him away, away from Barbara and out of the room.
“What?”
They were standing in the hallway. Mai stayed with Barbara. The deep hum of her voice, still audible at this distance, calmed Herr Schmidt’s nerves like the buzz of a bumblebee.
“Papa. I understand that it’s difficult.”
“Nothing is difficult. Let me be.”
“Papa. Your reactions are unsettling. It has to stop. We can’t always be here.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“In all seriousness. I spoke with Sebastian, we’re going to try to alternate for the next few weeks, but we do have jobs.”
“What is it you want?”
“I respect the fact that Mama wishes to stay at home, come what may. I don’t want to impose my will on you as far as that goes. Sebastian doesn’t agree, but I understand you guys. Still, you need help if you want to see it through. There needs to be someone home at all times.”
“Do you take us for little children?”
He pushed her aside, and wanted to go to Barbara. She was still on the couch, two pillows propped behind her back, her dainty hand back once again in Mai’s clutches.
“Can I get to my wife?”
Mai made room. At least she wasn’t debating him.
“Go out, the both of you,” said Herr Schmidt.
He made sure the two of them had really left the room and called after them: “Close the door!”
Then they were finally alone, finally had some peace and quiet. He tried to lie down next to Barbara on the couch, but as petite as she was, the edge of the couch wasn’t enough for him. He kneeled down next to the couch with a groan. Barbara regarded his every move with the same stoicism she showed while watching Helmut cavort in the garden. He put his hand on hers.
