The Nurse Behind The New Wing
Kristin Turns Sixty
My mother’s sixtieth birthday fell on a Saturday in September, and Scott, predictably, took over the planning completely. He rented the private banquet room at the Wagon Wheel Supper Club on the edge of town, the kind of place with red vinyl booths, a relish tray on every table, and a laminated menu that has not changed since I was in high school. He hired the same trio that plays weddings at the VFW hall. He ordered a three-tier cake from the bakery on the square and had it decorated with sugar orchids because he remembered, correctly, that orchids are our mother’s favorite flower.
“I’m handling everything,” he told me on the phone the week before. “You don’t need to worry about a thing. Just show up.” Then, because he cannot help himself: “I know weekends are tough with your job.”
I told him I would be there.
The night of the party, forty of us crowded into that back room, aunts and uncles and cousins from three sides of the family, half the Lutheran church choir, and two of my mother’s oldest friends from her bowling league. Somebody had strung white Christmas lights along the ceiling beams even though it was September, and the relish tray made its rounds twice before anyone had even ordered a main course. My mother wore a soft blue dress and pearl earrings Scott had bought her, and she looked completely happy, glowing under the low light in a way that made the whole evening feel worth it regardless of what happened next.
The gifts came out after the cake. Scott gave her a cruise for two, already booked, already paid for, complete with a printed itinerary in a leather folder. My father gave her a new recliner delivered that same week to replace the one that had been squeaking for two years. My gift sat near the bottom of the pile, a plain card with a handwritten letter inside and a small donation receipt made out in her name to the hospital’s family assistance fund, the kind of fund that helps rural families cover gas money and hotel rooms when a child needs specialized care two hours from home.
“Still saving the world one blood pressure cuff at a time?” Scott said, refilling his wine and glancing at my envelope with the particular smile he uses when he thinks he is being charming instead of small. The table laughed the easy laugh of people who have laughed at that joke before and will laugh at it again.
I laughed too. I have had a lot of practice laughing at that joke.