Karen Bender - Refund - Stories

This was all I had hoped for, all I thought I would be denied.

Afterward, I lay in bed and wondered how long any of us had to live.

THE NEXT MORNING, I SLID DOWN THE CHUTE OF OUR NORMAL activities — dropping the children off at school, washing the breakfast dishes. I took the day off from work and went to check in on my parents. My breath paused as their hotel room door opened. There they were, in their bright tourist garb, ready for their tour.

— Show us around, my father said.

I drove them around to the important sights in town. This was the museum where I was employed. This was the hospital where the children were born. This was the soccer field where our daughter won an award for best goalie. Here was the elementary school track where our son was first in a race in third grade. Here was the house of Benny Rosenthal, who had the birthday party everyone talked about for weeks, the party to which both children got an invitation. Here was the bar where my husband and I went the first night both our children were off on sleepovers. I went through sites of hope and triumph. Then I wanted to keep going. Here was the Olive Garden where my husband and I ate numerous garlic knots and had a stupid fight over the amount of time each was able to get to the gym. Here was the spot where our son, racing to keep up with Tony Orillo, tripped over a tree root and broke his leg. Here was the spot when that devil girl, Marie Swanson, said to our daughter, “Don’t wear that headband. You copied me.” Here was the corner where I learned the news that the Iraq war had started, the gas station where I got the call that my best friend had died in Tallahassee, the street where I realized that my hip was forever screwed, the field in which we lost our cat. Here was the place where I got the phone call in which you said you were going to visit me.

When we got through that, I just showed them foliage I liked. Here was an important bush. In the winter, it was dotted with pink camellias like knotted satin bows. Here was a sewage drain where orange leaves got clogged but looked pretty in the fall. Here was a stretch of pine trees that had not been knocked down for a housing development.

I kept driving and driving. I had pretty much covered the city, the joys, the defeats, the memorable foliage, and I wondered what was next.

— I think that’s enough, my father said.

— What do you mean, that’s enough? I asked.

— I’ve had it. We should go home.

— What do you mean, you’ve had it? Are you bored?

— What else are we supposed to see?

I didn’t know how to answer that. Everything. I wanted them to see everything they had missed, the events, the recitals, the graduations, all. If they could turn back decades, why couldn’t any of us? But they were not asking to turn back decades. They had probably digested the meal I had made for them, perhaps the last one I would make for them on this soil.

— I want you to want to see more, I said, softly.

I could not help this; I just said it. There was a lot I wanted to say. My father coughed, annoyed.

— I can’t, my father said.

I looked back, and they were themselves again; my father, white hair wispy on his head, beige patches on his forehead, my mother, shoulders stooped, steel hair curled in a perm. They were old, and I was too, frankly, and I was ashamed because I had wanted this — just to see something different.

I drove the car, my palms damp, tight on the wheel. I wanted to apologize, for something — the crooked stubbornness of my existence — but I didn’t.

— Take us back to the hotel, my father said. I drove them back to their hotel, taking the long way, and walked them up to their room. They would be here for about fourteen more hours.

— What else can I do? I asked; I felt like I was begging. — Do you want coffee, mints, magazines, what?

Now they were getting older before my eyes. I thought I could see the translucent white hair of eighty, the slow wither of ninety. I closed my eyes.

— Stop, I said, in a panic. I stepped forward and gripped his shoulder; I could feel the bone.

— Stop what? my father said. — What’s wrong? I have to lie down now. Let go.

He reached forward and carefully peeled my hand from his shoulder.

I began, ridiculously, to cry.

— What’s wrong? my mother said. — It’s nothing new. He’s resting. You know how it is.

— Yes, I said. — But.

— But what? Honey.

They stood, staring at me, somewhat bewildered. I pretended I was sneezing and started to edge my way out.

— Just pick us up at 9:00 AM for the airport, my father said. — Bye.

AT NINE, THEY WERE READY, WAITING WITH THEIR SUITCASES OUTSIDE the hotel, and I picked them up and drove them, slowly, to the airport. I tried to dawdle, go down unnecessary streets, engage them in conversation, but they were already melting from the visit, talking about the movies on the plane and how my father could best nap on the coach seats.

— Just drop us off, my mother said. — So we can go.

I dropped them off by the curb and spent twenty minutes trying to find a place to park. After I found a spot, I hurtled through the airport, looking for them. It felt important to say goodbye, this last minute they would be in this place where I lived. The flatly polite announcer shouted out gate changes. I was the obnoxious linebacker of the airport, knocking past suitcases, tripping over rolling baggage, bumping shoulders with the other passengers. My parents were standing in the security line, clutching their shoes.

— Here you are! I said, breathing hard.

— What are you doing here? my father asked.

— I just wanted — I don’t know. To make sure you were okay.

— We’re okay.

In their trim navy uniforms, the Homeland Security guys glared at me.

— Goodbye, honey, my mother said.

— Well, thank you for everything, my father said.

There was remoteness to their voices; they were moving on. We put our arms around each other, and I could feel their hands gripping my sweater. I stepped back, lifted my sweater off my shoulders, and handed it to them.

— Can you hold this a sec? I asked.

My mother took the sweater. My father grasped a sleeve. I looked at them, standing, holding my sweater. How small they looked, and, simultaneously, looming. Why had I moved away? Why had they not tried to come to see me earlier? Why had my father become ill? Why had I not been good enough to stay, and why had they not found a way to come? How long would we have, on earth, together?

My parents and I stood by the security gate in a sort of polite standoff. Around us was the anxious, determined roar of the airport, the passengers standing on escalators, their faces composed into travel faces, distant and with a sort of grandeur. To my surprise, my parents were assuming this expression too, and suddenly I could recognize it; it was a form of hopefulness.

The Homeland Security crew flanked the entrance to the metal detector.

— Come on through, one announced.

— We have to get going, my mother said. — My feet are getting cold.

They stood, barefoot, each clutching a boarding pass. And my sweater.

— Spit on it, I said.

— What! Your nice sweater? my mother said.

— I have to wash it anyway. Just do it, please.

They looked at each other, bewildered. Who was this weird child they had spawned? Then my mother, slowly, daintily, spit into my sweater. She passed it to my father, who leaned forward and spit, too.

— Okay, I said, somehow relieved. — Thank you.

We kissed again, lips touching cheeks, softly; then we released each other, and they walked through the metal detector, heading toward their gate.

The sweater smelled like them, their peculiar salt, their sweet fragrance. I did not know how long the sweater would smell like them, how long I would remember the way they gingerly walked inside the airport terminal, how long it would take me to drive home, holding onto the wheel, turning through street after street, how long it would take me to go visit them again, how long it would be before they died, and then how long I would own this sweater, how long I would recognize it as a sweater, how long my children would keep it after I was gone. I held onto the steering wheel, and I wondered how long before the tracks from the tires would disappear and it would be as though none of this, none of it, had ever really happened.