Food For the Soul

“Aghh, it burns!”Arms folded tightly against her chest, Vicky clamped her mouth shut.

“No more.” Staring at the offending glass of murky orange liquid, she wished she hadn’t asked to go—at least in front of the doctor. Why is he making me do this? It’s stupid.

“You heard Dr. Adler. If you want to spend the weekend with Grandma and Grandpa, you have to drink it all. If you can do that, you can go.”

“She drank most of it, Nellie. A couple more sips won’t make a difference. I cringe thinking about how painful it must be to have acidic orange juice assault a throat that has just had its tonsils removed, only four days ago. Just let her go.”

“I don’t want my mother to have to worry about what she can and can’t feed her, John. The doctor said, ‘Have her drink a glass of orange juice. If her throat is sufficiently healed, she shouldn’t have a problem.’”

“Your mother never has a problem knowing what to feed people, Nell. It’s her love language.” John said, smiling. “Vicky spends as much time with your folks as she does here. She loves being there, and they love having her. She’ll be fine.”

“Mom gives people what they want, John.”

“She nourishes their soul, Nellie.”

“Alright, you win.” Nellie wandered to the kitchen window overlooking the yard. She watched the white Pekin ducks pecking in the damp grass under the weeping willow as she tried to ignore the familiar knot forming in her stomach.

Coming out of her reverie, Nellie remembered Vicky, still sitting at the table, elbows planted, holding her head up. “Well, go on. Get your backpack and a book, if you want. Daddy will want to leave soon.”

Bolting from her chair, Vicky nearly knocked it over as she ran toward the stairs. Over her shoulder, she yelled, “Can I bring treats for the dogs?”

“I suppose.” Nellie didn’t move from her spot at the window.

John went to her and, turning her gently, said, “Look at me, Nell. You always get this way when Vicky visits your parents. Why?”

“I don’t—.” A loud wail cut her comment short. “Eliot’s awake. I’ll get him.”

Running his hand through his hair, John nodded. By the time Nellie reappeared with their toddler, her mood had changed dramatically. Her face radiated adoration as she nuzzled their now giggling son.

With her backpack in one hand and her newest Bobbsey Twin book in the other, Vicky called, “I’m ready, Mommy!” as she bounded down the steps. She slowed, deliberately moving past her distracted mother to throw herself into her father’s arms.

“Whoa! Vic, you’re way too big to be picked up. You’ll break my back.” Setting her down gently, he tousled her mass of curls and headed for the door. “Don’t forget the treats, sweetie. The pups will never forgive you.” John grabbed Vicky’s backpack. “Come on, squirt. We’ll wait in the car, Nell.”

“You guys go ahead. Eliot’s been a little fussy today—”

“You ok?”

“Yeah. Yes. Victoria, remember, too many sweets will ruin your figure.” Nellie said with a forced laugh. “And don’t run around like a dog chasing its tail, or make too much noise, or—”

“Nellie, stop. She’s seven. I’ll drop Vicky off and be back in a couple of hours. We should talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

***

Vicky was uncharacteristically quiet during the twenty-minute ride to her grandparents’ sprawling colonial-style home. She sat still, staring out the car window, absent-mindedly pulling her hair—a nervous habit she’d had since she’d had hair.

Nellie would be scolding her about that, too.

As he pulled into the driveway, John saw Ruth standing on the front porch, waving like a kid in a school play who had spotted her parents in the audience. He waved back, noticing, not for the first time, how much his wife resembled her mother. All Nellie was missing was a cotton housedress, a white frilly apron, and beige compression stockings. Before the car came to a full stop, Vicky was reaching for the door.

“Hi, Grandma!”

Hugging the slender child into her ample bosom, Ruth replied, “Hello, my little Püppchen. I’ve missed you.”

“She was just here last weekend, Ruth,” John said, chuckling. “Where’s Henry?”

“He’s out back with the dogs.” Ruth craned her neck, trying to see inside the car. “Nellie’s not with you, John?”

“Uh, no. Eliot was fussy and—”

“Oh. Of course.” Muttering to herself, Ruth took Vicky’s hand and led her into the house. She pointed to her husband. “If you have a few minutes, John, Henry is trying to mend the fence. Would you mind giving him a hand?”

“Not at all.” Before he could take two steps, he was assaulted by two massive boxers, twins Briggs and Judy. Barking, jumping, and trying desperately to cover his face with slobbery kisses, they knocked him over. Helpless with laughter, he finally extracted himself from their clutches and made his way to Henry, who was shaking his head in resignation.

“They’re impossible,” Henry said. “No matter what I do, they persist in acting like rambunctious puppies.

Ruth,” he hollered. “Can you call the dogs in, please?”

Ruth opened the screen door and whistled like Roy Rogers calling Trigger. In they bounded, all legs and stubby tails. Spying Vicky, they hurried to her and promptly sat, drooling. Treats! Happily, Vicky doled out the biscuits—only one each—and told them, “You can have more after dinner, if Grandma says it’s okay.” When sad brown eyes and begging neglected to produce more goodies, they trotted into the living room and went to sleep.

“What’s for dinner?” Vicky asked, rooting around in the bottom cabinet drawer for her apron. She dragged the little footstool over to the counter and waited.

“Chicken and spӓtzle soup.”

“With carrots? Can I make the dough?”

“You sure can. Do you remember how?”

“ I need flour, eggs, water, and…I forgot.”

“Salt.” After measuring out the ingredients for Vicky to mix, she cut up the chicken, setting aside the livers to cook for the dogs. When Vicky finished, Ruth pressed the dough into the water boiling in the soup pot, along with the chicken and carrots. Setting it to simmer, she started washing the dishes. Vicky quietly stepped down from her stool and started sneaking toward the living room.

“Victoria, we’re not finished here. When we cook, we must clean up our mess. Grab a towel and start drying, please.”

“Phooey,” Vicky groaned. But she really didn’t mind. Mommy never lets me do anything in the kitchen. She’s always too busy to let me help.

When the last spoon was dried and put away, Ruth sat at the kitchen table watching her young granddaughter bounce into the other room to plop down next to the boxers—so much energy, and such a joy…Nellie needs to—.

“Can I play in the Treasure Room until dinner time? Please?”

“Alright. I’ll bang on the radiator when supper is ready.”

“Thank you. You’re the bestest grandma ever!”

Vicky ran up the stairs to her favorite place in the whole world. She loved everything about this room, even the faint mustiness that tickled her nose when she opened the door. Boxes of old photos, buttons, coins, and greeting cards begged to be examined. There were racks and bags of discarded clothing, perfect for transforming herself into someone her mother might love—a princess, or a nurse, or maybe even a boy. All too soon, Vicky heard the distinctive clang that told her it was time to leave her sanctuary. “Coming,” she hollered.

Hearing her father’s voice, Vicky hurried to reach her grandmother before her dad and grandfather came into the house. She pulled a faded, black-and-white photo out of her pocket and, hoping she wouldn’t get into trouble, thrust it into Ruth’s hand. “Who’s this, Grandma?”

Sighing, Ruth regarded the old picture with sadness, lost in her memories. Handing it back to Vicky, she told her to put it back where she found it.

“Are you mad?”

“No, Püppchen, I’m not mad. Just remembering.”

“But who is this boy?”

“He is Michael, your mother’s brother. He died when he was just a little boy.”

“Oh.” Unsure why Grandma suddenly looked sad, Vicky took the photo and headed back upstairs.

“Ruthie, what’s wrong?” Henry asked, seeing the shadowed look on her face.

“Nothing, dear. I’m fine. Vicky found an old photo of Michael and asked me who he was. That’s all.”

“ John, can you stay for dinner?”

“No thanks. Ruth. I want to get home to Nellie. Thanks for having Vic. I’ll be back Sunday afternoon to collect her.”

***

John spent the short ride home trying to put his thoughts in order. He’d heard Ruth’s explanation to Henry about the boy. We’ve been married ten years, and I never knew Nell had a sibling. I wonder what happened to him? When he walked in the door, he saw Eliot, his fair hair peeking out from under a blanket, cuddled up on the couch next to his mother. Tiptoeing, he approached them and lightly tapped Nellie’s shoulder.

“Nell. Wake up.” Eliot stirred, but slept on. “Wake up, Nellie. We need to talk.”

Nellie’s eyes popped open as she startled awake. “John. What time is it?”

“Past time. I’ll put Eliot in his crib. Nothing’s going to wake this little guy.”

With a small smile, John took the baby to the nursery. Nellie, now fully awake, crossed her arms at her chest and pursed her lips.

When John returned, he raised his eyebrows at his wife’s posture. “She gets it from you, you know—that stubborn streak.” Nellie turned her head away, and he tenderly guided her chin back to face him. “How old was he, Nell?”

“Who?” Nellie tried to stand, to walk away from the memories, but John held her fast.

“Your brother. I know it’s hard, but hell. I didn’t even know you had a brother! How did he die?”

Nellie buried her face in her hands. After several minutes, with a hitch in her voice, she said, “He was four and a half. His hair was so white and fine; it was like silk. He had blue eyes, like my dad’s, only darker—almost violet. He was beautiful. But he was sickly; something was wrong with his lungs. I came down with pneumonia that winter, and despite my folks separating us for the duration of my illness, he caught it too. There were no antibiotics back then. I recovered; he died in his sleep before I could say goodbye.”

Nellie threw her arms around John and sobbed, “My parents never spoke of him again, after the funeral. I grew up thinking it was my fault.”

John rocked her back and forth until her tears subsided. “You know it definitely was not your fault, right?”

“Yes, of course, I know that now.” Minutes passed. “I’m going to make myself some tea.”

John watched her disappear into the kitchen.

***

Sunday mornings meant chocolate chip pancakes, lathered with butter and liberally sprinkled with powdered sugar—Vicky’s favorite part. After breakfast, she played with the dogs for a while and then settled on the screened porch to read. Presently, Ruth joined her with a magazine. Leaning back in the recliner, the shafts of sun warmed her until her eyelids began to droop. She was just about to doze off when Vicky whispered, “Grandma, are you sleeping?”

Chuckling, she said, “I’m not now, Vicky.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

Ruth hesitated. Please don’t ask about Michael. “Yes, what is it?”

“Why doesn’t Mommy love me?”

Of all the things Vicky could have asked, this wasn’t even on Ruth’s radar. Shocked, Ruth struggled to think of an answer that would be truthful, but not devastating for a seven-year-old. She had long suspected that Nellie still, after so many years, had not gotten over her brother’s death. And she wasn’t blind to Nellie’s cool behavior toward herself whenever they were together. In her heart, she understood—but she wasn’t sure Nellie knew how her demeanor was affecting those who loved her.

Pulling Vicky into her lap and taking a deep breath, she said, “Mommy does love you, Vicky, very much. But she knows that you are a big girl now, and she needs to spend more time taking care of Eliot because he can’t take care of himself.”

Apparently satisfied, Vicky jumped down and asked, “Can we make cinnamon rolls today?”

Relieved, Ruth agreed. Thank goodness for the resilience of a child…“If we start now, they’ll be done in time for you to take some home.”

***

Nellie returned with her tea and coffee for John. Avoiding his look, she turned on the TV.

“No.” Taking the remote from her, John switched it off.

“You need to listen to me, Nell. I know you are envious of Vicky’s preference for your parents right now.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s not. The reason is this: you are alienating your daughter. You are so intent on making sure nothing happens to Eliot that you have hardly a minute to spare for Vic. Your parents dote on her. They make her feel cherished and included. If I’m being completely honest, since Eliot’s birth, you’ve done little more than feed her, clothe her, and notice everything she does wrong. She’s a child, but she’s not oblivious. She thinks you don’t love her anymore.”

“Of course, I love her. But Eliot’s a baby—he needs me.”

“He needs you to provide for his basic needs, yes. But Vicky needs you emotionally. I’m not suggesting that you are intentionally withholding affection from her. But, ever since Eliot was born, you’ve been terrified that something will happen to him. I think it’s affecting your relationship with Vicky.

“I just want to keep him safe,” Nellie said, her voice wavering. “Don’t you?”

“You know that I do, Nell. But do you think…maybe your fear is because of Michael?”

“Maybe. I don’t know, but Vicky…and my parents. I…I didn’t realize. How could I have been so blind?”

“You’re too close to the situation to be able to see it clearly. I didn’t notice what was happening either, until I saw that look on your face again this morning.”

“How do I fix this?”

Hugging her tightly, John said, “Come with me to your parents’ tomorrow. The rest will take care of itself.”

***

“Can we have pink frosting on the cinnamon rolls, Grandma?” Vicky put on her best puppy face and looked pointedly at the cooling pastries.

“Just pink?” Ruth teased. We can make blue, green, and purple, too. But remember, for these rolls, we use a glaze, not frosting.”

“Goody! I think Daddy will want a blue one, and Grandpa likes green. Do you think Mommy and Eliot will come with Daddy later?”

“Perhaps.” Ruth laid out four bowls of glaze and handed Vicky the food coloring. “One or two drops will be plenty, sweetie.” She watched her granddaughter contentedly spread a little glaze on the buns and a lot everywhere else. Nellie used to love making colored frosting, too. I hope she realizes—.

“Do I smell cinnamon buns? Look who I found, Ruthie.” Briggs and Judy squeezed past Henry as he came into the house carrying Eliot. Trailing behind him were John and Nellie.

“Mommy! Daddy! Look what I made.” Vicky ran to her father, who gave her a quick hug. Facing her mother, she hesitated. With her eyes watering, Nellie knelt to her daughter’s level and engulfed her in a bear hug.

Confused by her mother’s tears, Vicky said, “What’s wrong, Mommy. Are you okay?”

“Nothing at all, Püppchen. I’m just happy to see you.”

“You are?”

“Yes, I am.” Releasing Vicky, Nellie turned to Ruth. “I’m very happy to see you too, Mom. Thank you for all you do.”

With a Cheshire Cat grin, John reached for a pink pastry. Stopping him, Vicky scolded, “No, Daddy. That one is for Mommy. Yours is the blue one, Grandpa’s is green, and Grandma’s is purple. She chose a pink one for herself.

“Laughing, John lifted his cinnamon bun. As the others raised theirs, he grinned. “FOOD FOR THE SOUL!”