angel of the pines

We met up at the Palace Diner and drove east, drinking coffee from big paper cups. She and I hadn't talked just the two of us in a while so we kept the conversation light: family, the future, mortality. That with new kids and aging parents neither of us has wills set up or knows where anyone's are.

We kept passing flower shops for Gerda on the way, but I kept waiting for the perfect one. Then for a long time there weren't any, just pines, and pines, and thick fog.

My sister had to study for an exam. I was feeling talky and expansive, but I put on Beck and shut myself up so she could. It was suicide Beck, the best Beck, Beck at the end of his rope, the stuff where Scientology couldn't help. Sorry man, we were looking for thetans, this is some other shit entirely. You could picture Beck stuck on the side of the road with a flat, cursing his fate among the pines. And people just driving past, ignoring him, not to be mean or crass, just to urge him on to his best stuff.

We found flowers at the last possible moment at a garden center, pink impatients in a big hanging basket. Then we were on the bridge to Long Beach Island, suspended now only in the fog, dark gray water implied on all sides. My sister closed her book and said she missed the pines. I knew what she meant: As if instead of holding demons and witches, those pines were home to a protective angel, who kept watch over our families and everyone we loved. You couldn't trust the gods of the sea the same way.

Gerda had been admitted to LBI General on Monday with a heartbeat of minus 14 and complaining of slight fatigue. Technically dead, they said, but walking, talking. They'd put a pacemaker in and today she was better, already bored and ready to get out of there.

The same was true for our grandfather: though relieved, he was also bored and getting punchy in his bedside capacity. Getting to know death is one thing, what are you going to do, but the gradual intrusion of hospitals is another entirely. It's like a preview of hell where the TVs are too small, the meals lack salt entirely, and the best dinner option is probably the barbecue chicken, only they only have that every other day.

The conversation stayed on food. Gerda was talking about a particularly good Reuben sandwich she'd had. What goes in a Reuben, anyway? We started talking about Chinese, which our grandfather likes. Then about his food options at home, cooking for himself before Gerda got out of the hospital. There were frozen shrimp and leftover stuffed shells in the fridge. Hot dogs and canned ravioli. A Phillies game on TV.

When it was time to go my sister and I were both starving. We passed a McDonalds on the way back through Manahawkin, but I wasn't sure. Then we stopped at an Italian place, but the pizza all looked petrified, like something in a museum for display. Finally we settled on McDonald's, and started back.