After washing our hands, we prepared the mozzarella and tomato salad. When the salad was finished, I removed the chicken from the oven.
With a glass of wine and a plate filled with food, I sat at the table and situated the camera in front of me.
“I was raised in the bible belt,” she said. “When I was a kid, we prayed before we ate. It’s been a while, but do you care if I say a prayer? Before we eat?”
Like most people I knew, I prayed when I saw no other alternative. Not having prayed in nearly a decade, I’d now said a dozen prayers in two days. Allowing Anna to say a prayer wasn’t going to hurt matters one bit.
“Go right ahead,” I said.
“What’s your father’s name?”
“Hap.”
“Bow your head,” she said.
I closed my eyes and lowered my head.
“Heavenly father, we come before you on this day to ask your blessing on this food. We also ask that you consider placing your healing hands on Hap Rourke—and on anyone else that’s been stricken by this awful disease—because recovery, at least for some, has been difficult. Lastly, we’d like to ask that you give us the gifts of understanding and of acceptance, because sometimes, understanding your will is difficult. That leaves accepting it equally as difficult. We humbly ask these things in your name, Amen.”
Amen.
Anna had provided just what I needed at the exact time I needed it. During the preparation of the meal, I had failed to feel guilty, wallow in self-pity, or openly worry about my father’s condition.
I opened my eyes and looked at the phone. A smiling Anna looked back at me. She raised her wine glass.
“To being alone, together,” she said.
I lifted my glass. “To being alone together.”
“Cheers.” She clanked her glass against her phone, knocking it askew in the process. After seeing several different views of her kitchen floor and a few seconds of total darkness, she righted the camera and pointed it in the proper direction.
“Sorry,” she said. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
“Yes,” I said in complete agreement. “It sure is.”
Anna
Day 4
Braxton received word from the hospital that he was, in fact, positive for COVID-19. Even so, he hadn’t shown any signs of infection, whatsoever. He had no fever, no difficulty breathing, nor did he have a headache or sore throat. According to him, he felt no differently than he did on any given other day.
He may not have felt differently, but there was no doubt that things had changed. Life was different. The new normal was worlds apart from what either of us was accustomed to.
I had no complaints. My afternoons, from 4:00 until 5:00 were spent with Marge. I could have easily talked to Braxton all day but settled for a couple short video calls. I knew smothering him wasn’t in my—or his—best interest, so I kept our time on the phone low in volume and high in quality.
I was surprised to see that he was wearing a black tee shirt when he answered my late morning call.
“Good morning.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess it’s still morning.”
“For another hour,” I said. “Any word on your father?”
“He’s stable.” He looked away and shook his head. “That’s all I’m getting. It’s frustrating, but it’s going to have to be enough. Everything I’ve read says 10-14 days to rid yourself of the disease. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”
There was no assurance that the infected recovered over the course of a 10-14-day timeframe. Some took longer. The 14-day period was the window of time that the disease was contagious. Beyond that, the infected could remain sick, but they could not pass the disease to others.
I kept my opinions to myself and put on a reassuring smile. “I’ll continue to pray.”
“As will I.”
Braxton looked remarkably well for having the virus. He stood as proof that the disease affected everyone differently.
“What about you?” I asked. “No fever?”
“No anything,” he replied. “I started coughing last night, but it’s inconsistent. I feel like I have a hair caught in my throat or something.”
“Does that happen often?”
“A dozen times a day.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. After I cough once, it’s over.”
“No, I meant having a hair caught in your throat. Is that a common thing?”
“You’re funny, Anna.”
I smiled. “I try.” I raised my notepad and pen. “I have a notepad and a pen.”
He moved close to the camera in hope of seeing what I had written on it. “Am I supposed to applaud?”
I quickly placed the pad on the table, out of the camera’s view. “You can if you like.”
“What are all the notes?” he asked. “Recipes?”
“If you’ll be quiet for a minute, I’ll explain it.”
He leaned away from the camera. “I’ll let you have the floor. For now.”
“You’re familiar with Jimmy Fallon, and, what’s the other guy, Kimmel? Jimmy Kimmel??”
“I know who they are.”
“You’re aware they have talk shows? That they get guests in front of a studio audience and talk about things?”
He looked at me like I’d offended him. “Do you think I’m an idiot, Anna?”
“I’m just asking a question.”
“Yes, I’m aware that late night talk shows exist. Furthermore, I’m familiar with the show’s architecture.”
“We’re using big words today, are we?”
“Which one threw you off?” he asked. “Aware, familiar, or exist?”
“Architecture,” I replied. “I was surprised to see it used in that context.”
“Architecture.” He raised his index finger. “The complexity of design.”
I flipped the camera the bird. “I know what it means, Mister Rourke. I was setting the stage for a joke.”
He grinned. “And I derailed your train.”
“If you prefer, the train will travel along the tracks of seriousness.”
“I have no preference.”
“If you’re aware of the show’s architecture,” I said in a mocking tone. “This should be an effortless ride for you. Climb aboard.”
His brows raised slightly. He seemed far from excited about matters. “You’re going to ask me questions?”
“You’re smarter than you look.”
He flipped me the bird.
“Are you ready?” I asked.
“I suppose,” he murmured.
I glanced at my notepad and then at the camera. “Excluding any aircraft or motorized automobiles of any sort, if you had to choose one mode of transportation to utilize for the remainder of your life, what would be your choice?”
“Only one?” he asked.
I tapped my pen against my lip. “Yes, only one.”
“A skateboard.”
“A skateboard?!” I arched a brow in opposition to his response. “Mister Rourke, that would make simple tasks like getting groceries nearly impossible. There are no wrong answers here, but I’ve got to ask. Of all the modes available, why a skateboard?”