THE LAST MEAL, by Robyn Eastman -

Flash Fiction Winner, Story Week Reader, Columbia College 2009

     The thump from his oxygen tank was the only sound I heard when I came in the door that morning. It was my turn to sit with Dad for the day. It took him a while to open the door and when he did, his gruff voice boomed at me, “Seems like every time I sit down in the bathroom, I get interrupted!”
     Still in his robe, he shuffled to the chair by the window. His thinning white-gray hair was sticking up in three directions. He looked withered, so far from the athletic jock who was a champion on the first Michigan State NCAA national track team or the man who traveled all over northern Africa during WWII.
     It was an uneventful day. I did my homework; my son and his wife came to visit, then I helped dad to the bedroom, and tucked him in for his afternoon nap. When he woke up, he sat on the edge of the bed, struggling with his sock ‘putter-onner’. His hands were so stiff, he couldn’t get his fingers to maneuver it.
     “You want to go to the dining room for dinner, dad?”
     “Yeah, I thought that might be OK.”
     I brought his pants from the back of the chair and knelt down so that his feet went in each leg. He stood up so I could pull them to his waist. He had been wearing diapers since he had his kidney out. When I pulled the pants up they sagged all around the diaper, so that all I could do was grab both sides of the waistband and count, “one-two-three,” and tug them up, as he imperceptibly stood a little straighter. Though his fingers shook and were bulky with knots of arthritis, I walked away to let him zip his pants and fasten his belt himself. The sound of the zipper and the clang of the belt reminded me of the secrets that always kept a wall between us.
     Since he was on oxygen all the time, I switched him from the machine in his room to the large, portable tank that clanked as it rolled with us down the stretch of red, carpeted hall to the dining room.
     The dining room was long and wide with a low ceiling and looked like an ancient hotel with gold brocade material cascaded around windows, and gaudy chandeliers hanging at intervals above the white linen covered tables. The sign by the front desk said “Room Capacity: 300”
     As we were seated, there was a steady stream of old people like cows going back and forth to the barn. They had gray, white and purple hair, some conspicuously dyed brown or black, some dressed elegantly, others in jeans, some with walkers, wheelchairs and canes. Most of them nodded a smile, with a few commenting on the dinner, the day or their health; a cloud of oppression shrouded them as they followed each other.
     “So, what are you going to have, dad?”
With dirty glasses, he scrunched his nose into wrinkles, his mouth pooched out like a fish, as he moved his head closer to the menu. Like a haggard old duck, he craned his neck as his head bobbed up and down, carefully searching both sides of the small menu. “Stuffed pork chops. Had ‘em last time, they were kind of dry…but I don’t want the fish…had it for lunch.”
     I don’t know if it would have made any difference if I’d known it was his last meal. Over the years I waited in vain for him to call me his ‘princess’, or give me some words of wisdom I could hang onto when he was gone, something that would erase the ugly past, but none came. We sat in silence as we did most of the time, ate slowly and talked little.
     He ate more of the ice cream than he did his dinner and then he sat there for a while as his eyes searched through the room like he was looking for something, though he said nothing.
     We knew his days were numbered though I did not know he would be gone the next night. I took sips of my water until it was down to the ice, then sucked on an ice cube, quietly crunching it with my teeth. He folded his pink napkin over and over, wiping the edges with each turn of the cloth until it was back in a neat rectangle next to his empty ice cream dish.
     Finally, he said, “I guess we can go.”