Chapter 1: If Life is a Gift, It’s a Fruitcake

Powerful gusts of wind buffeted our flimsy single-wide trailer. Sheets of rain assaulted the windows with a sound like distant machine-gun fire. Thunder, in hot pursuit of the lightning that leapt from cloud to cloud, roared across the sky. Fierce as it was, the fury of the storm without was as nothing compared with the battle within.

 My son Jack bawled like a newly-branded calf and thrashed back and forth, struggling to yank feet from leggings and arms from sleeves before I could pull up the zipper on his snowsuit. He braced his heels against the matted brown carpet, and flung himself backwards with utter disregard for the concussion he’d give himself if I let go.

“There must be easier jobs than mine,” I told my squalling toddler, as I pushed his kicking legs back inside the suit. “Deep-sea fishing, smoke jumping…crocodile hunting…”

At last the zipper slid to his chin. As if the zipper were a toggle switch, his howls stopped and he went boneless in my arms. His glare was eloquent; I could force him to wear the snowsuit, but I could never imprison his spirit.

I tucked my hair into the hood of my jacket with one hand and scooped up my limp son with the other. “We have to get moving, Bud. We are so late.”

A blast of wind yanked the screen door out of my hands and slammed it into the deck railing, like a bratty big brother. Typical Tuesday in Wyoming.

 “You’re going to be thankful for that coat in a minute, Jack,” I said, and hustled down the rickety wooden steps toward our Dodge Caravan, ducking my head against the rain sleeting sideways into my eyes.

 The snowsuit was too puffy to fit in the car seat, so I readjusted and retightened the straps. “This is taking forever,” I muttered. “It must be noon by now.”

Trapped and annoyed, Jack started fussing.

“Don’t worry, baby, you’re safe and warm,” I told him, and patted his fluffy leg.

The windshield wipers thumped a rhythmic beat as the van pulled out of the driveway. I recited a poem in time to the wipers’ percussion as I drove; “The splendor FALLS on castle WALLS and snowy SUMmits old in STOry...”

 In no time at all, we pulled into a parking space. I turned off the van, reached for my purse, and then stopped, confused. Instead of the Meals on Wheels parking lot, we were parked in front of the Albertson’s grocery store. How in the world did we end up here?

Bewildered, I started up the engine again and looked at my watch. My little detour had cost fifteen minutes. Odd, I would have sworn we’d just left…whatever. To stay grounded and prevent my brain from switching to autopilot again, I threaded my fingertips into the leather laces that wrapped the steering wheel.  “We wulnae be fooled again!” whispered an inner voice in a thick Scots accent, and I chuckled.

The aroma of tuna casserole greeted us as we entered the Meals on Wheels kitchen; the digital clock on the wall showed less than an hour of delivery time left. “I’d almost given up on you,” the volunteer coordinator said as she handed me a stack of strapped-together trays and a bag of milk cartons. “Would you like me to help you carry this out to your car?”

“No, I’ve got it.” My armload shifted, and I bounced my son higher up on my hip. His hood fell back to reveal brown curls drenched with sweat.

“He looks hot,” the coordinator said. “You could probably take that off him in the car.”

“Yeah, good idea.” In a pig’s eye I could. He’s all sweaty. He could get a chill.

At each stop on my route, I followed the same ritual. Go around to the side of the van. Unbuckle the baby and pick him up. Loop the milk bag over my arm and carry the tray by the strap to the client’s doorstep. Knock on the door. Bring in the food. Grab the old trays, balance them and the baby in the same arm, and reload son and trays in the van. Each stop, we grew wetter and Jack’s protests grew louder.

A silver-haired lady remarked, over the sound of my son’s angry squawks, “Maybe it would be easier for him if he stayed in the car while you did the deliveries?”

“Oh, good idea, thanks.” Leave my baby alone in the car? Not in this lifetime.

At last we reached the final stop, a dilapidated house trailer. Pink insulation oozed from gaps in the peeling siding, giving the place the look of a mortally wounded animal.

The instructions on the client print-out told me to knock, walk in, and put the food in the refrigerator. Few things feel more awkward than entering a stranger’s home uninvited. I masked my apprehension with a cheery shout, “Hello! Meals on Wheels!” No one answered, so I knocked and crept inside.

Stacks of newspapers, boxes of junk and old magazines framed a single corridor from the front door to the refrigerator. The place stank of fossilized spaghetti. As I cringed my way along, angling my body away from the mess to prevent my son’s eager hands from grabbing anything disgusting, I mentally cataloged items I could use as weapons if we were threatened (old wrench, screwdriver, thick glass bottle). The fridge was stuffed with the remains of former meals, and I had to turn the tray sideways and shove to make it fit. But where was the old tray? I scanned the room again, and spotted the corner peeping out from behind a hill of old TV Guides. I leaned over to grab it, balancing the baby on the opposite hip, and then behind me the door slammed shut--BANG. I shrieked, leapt backwards, and brandished the tray in front of me like the deadly weapon it wasn’t.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” said a smiling, wizened little man. 

My voice unsteady, I said, “It’s ok. You must be Mr. Lewis.”

“Must I?” he said, and his eyes twinkled. “Thanks for bringing my lunch. What’s for dessert today?”

“I think it’s Jell-O, the green stuff.”

He sighed. “Since my heart surgery, eatin’s no fun. My doctor, he says, he says to me, ‘You’re on the tasting diet, Bob. If it tastes good, spit it right out.’”

I laughed dutifully. “I’m sorry you had to have surgery.”

“That bypass’s the best thing ever happened to me.” His faded-denim eyes locked on mine, and after the manner of the older and wiser, who know from a lifetime of experience that long speeches are forgotten but short sound bites may have a chance to stick, he said, with a beatific smile, “It taught me that every day of life is a gift!”

His words hit me like a punch to the throat, and I nearly choked on a sudden upwelling of despair. “That’s—that’s great.  Seriously, so inspiring.” I forced a smile.

“Wave bye-bye to Mr. Lewis!” I urged my son, as I made a totally-not-mad dash out the door. Jack scowled and hung limp, arms akimbo, like an angry sack of potatoes.