Hanukkah's Gifts

"I'm sorry, babe. She's had a good life, the old girl..."

"Yea, she has had that," I answered, thinking, What an inappropriate thing to say just now.

"Listen, why don't I call later when I have something to report. I just wanted to let you know I'm doing OK."

"Thanks, honey. I know it's hard. Let me know what I can do. I'd offer to come join you, but I just can't right now. This committee's got me snowed under with..."

"No, no, Pete, I'm fine really. Thanks for offering."

"OK, honey. Talk to you later."

She clicked off and realized she really didn't want him with her. He'd just be antsy and preoccupied, and she'd feel guilty to have taken him away from his work.

She couldn't maintain her concentration without knowing what was up with her mother's health, so she got in touch with the hospital. Twenty frustrating minutes later, she gave up and decided to go in - it would be faster, and perhaps less frustrating, than getting bounced around from one automated message service to another.

She knew that the Information desk would have the room number where they'd put her mom, so she headed there straight away. A very efficient, grandmotherly woman with "Martha" on her name tag did a thorough search for Simone's mother, and finally found her.

"She was moved there about 1 am this morning," Martha said. "Just take the first elevators to the 8th floor and follow the signs."

"Thanks much. By the way, a gentleman named Martin was here last night. When does he usually come in?"

"Yes, Martin often takes the desk late. He's usually here at 4 pm. Let me see... the schedule has him showing up at noon and leaving at 5 pm. That's unusual timing for him. Would you like to leave him a message?"

"Ah, no thanks. It's OK. I'll stop by on my way out."

Upstairs on her mother's floor, Simone checked in with the nurse and inquired of the doctor's whereabouts, conclusions, and orders he'd given regarding her mom. So far he'd left nothing the nurses could pass on to Simone themselves - she'd need to speak to him directly. No, they did not know when he would be coming around again - he'd been to see her mom about 8 am. He was expected back, but without an ETA.

She found her mother, asleep and snoring lightly in one of the beds in her room, the other curtained off from view, though her roommate's TV was on. Simone settled into a chair, took out her book, and began what she knew would turn into several hours' wait. When her mother woke up, they chatted quietly while Simone held her hand.

"I am so tired, Mona. Too tired."

There wasn't much Simone could answer except squeeze her hand, try to give her some of her own warmth and reassurance.

"I'm so glad you're here. You must be missing work - I'm very sorry."

"No worries, mom. I was able to arrange things so I wouldn't be missed. Between a couple of guest lectures and some assignments for the students, everything is set. No one cares that I'm not there."

"Somehow I doubt it, but you know best. How's Pete? Is he here too?"

"No, mom, he couldn't make it - too much going on."

"Ah, I'm sorry he's so busy. Have you two been doing well?"

Simone was only half surprised her mother had brought up her relationship with Pete - she always asked, still half hoping they might get married and have kids. But she never pushed.

"Mona," her mother continued, after a while, "I'd like to go home as soon as they'll let me. There's really nothing they can do for me here, and it's so noisy..."

"I haven't talked to the doctor yet, mom. I have no idea what they can or can't do for you here. And I'm a bit worried about leaving you to fend for yourself in the house at the moment."

Her mother was quiet, and Simone finally realized that, despite her complaints about noise, she'd fallen back asleep. She breathed regularly, though not easily, and her chest emitted a labored rasp with every outbreath.

Simone stayed with her a bit longer, then went in search of some food. Instead, she was derailed by the smell of coffee. The small coffee stand next to the Information desk had a line long enough to wind its way down the main hospital lobby, but she joined it anyway - she had nothing better to do at the moment.

Lost in thought, she was startled by the light tap on her arm as she neared the counter.

"Hey. Oh no, sorry to startle you! That's twice. I really need to be more careful," Martin smiled near her elbow.

"And I need to be more aware of my surroundings," Simone replied, a bit embarrassed. "How are you?"

"I was going to ask you the same question. Recovered from last night?"

"Yes, thank you again - you saved me. I could have been in real trouble."

"I doubt it, but I am very glad I happened by. How's your mother?"

"Sleeping at the moment. I'm waiting to speak to a doctor to find out what the test results show."

"I was hoping to see you here. If things are not too bad with her, I hoped to convince you to come by the Motor City Pub, grab some dinner and listen to some blues. My band is playing tonight."

"What time will you be playing?"

"Six to nine, I think. You know, school night and all," he said, a remarkably boyish smile spreading on his face, a contrast to his gray hair.

"Thanks for the invitation, Martin - I'll try. I can certainly use some diversion, and that sounds just the ticket," and she chuckled at her own corniness.

"I'll be here until about 5 pm, then head over to set up. If you want to go together, we can meet here at 5 pm, but I need to leave promptly. If not, here's the card of the place - it's just a few blocks down, and I doubt anyone will bother you at that time."

"K," she nodded, looking at the pub's logo on the card. Motor City presumably was invoking the Motown sounds and atmosphere.

He put a hand lightly on her shoulder. "I hope things are not too bad with your mom. You didn't tell me how old she is."

"Almost 75. She had me late," she explained. She didn't know why she'd said that, feeling the need to stress her youth. "It's probably fine - just an adjustment of her pacemaker, or something like that. We'll see. Anyway, I don't know if I can make it on time at 5 pm, Martin, so don't wait for me if I'm not here on the dot. I'll see you there as soon as I can make it."

At 5 pm, Simone was still waiting for the doctor to show up. Still waiting at 5:15 pm, still waiting at 6:15 pm. She had paced between her mother's room and the nurses' station umpteen times, read every announcement, poster and card posted on the walls and counters. Noted the small menorah on one of the nurse's desks, plugged in to the wall. Two candles lit up on the right in addition to the one in the middle. She wondered about the need of the helper candle, the one used to light the others, when the special Hanukkah candle holder, the hanukkiah, was electric and needed no more than a switch.

Finally, shortly after 6:30 pm, the bedraggled doctor walked in the door, staring at his watch and locating the computer terminal and the blue loose-leaf notebook labeled with Simone's mother's name. He looked so harried, Simone lost all her desire to reproach him. She simply stood and offered her hand, explaining she was the patient's daughter.

"I'll be very frank with you, Miss...?

"Ms. Rosen, Simone Rosen. Please call me Simone."

"I'm Dr. Hillberg. To be perfectly honest, I am not exactly sure what is going on with your mother, and I've asked for more tests after the initial ones. Mostly, she's in good health, but her heart is failing her. Because of that she's having trouble getting enough oxygen, and she's probably really tired much of the time."

Simone nodded. "Yes, she's complained about that."

"Does she have a living will? An end-of-life directive? Have you discussed that issue with her?"

Simone drew in a sharp breath - she had prepared herself in principle for something like this, but now that she was talking about it with her mother's doctor, no - definitely not ready.

"Yes, we have discussed it. She has a living will, and it's in her file. Are things that bad?"

"I don't know. There is a spot on her left lung on her X-rays. It could be a tumor, it could be a cyst or a fat deposit, or it could be nothing. She'll have another, more extensive set of X-rays tomorrow. But here's the thing - if the spot is real, the question of course is whether we're talking about a tumor, or something benign. The only way to find that out is a lung biopsy. But to biopsy the left lung is already a bit difficult, and in her case, the spot is very near the heart. That means there's a high risk of puncturing the heart, something we would not want, especially for her."

"I see," Simone said, a bit overwrought because of it all.

"It's not clear how fast the tumor, if it is a tumor, will grow. And at her age, it's possible that it will grow slowly enough that it would not seriously affect her lifespan. Why don't we wait until the results of the next set of X-rays. We'll talk again then. I would not mention it to her yet, just in case, Miss Rose."

"Rosen. Simone."

"I'm so sorry. It's been a horribly long day."

"No offense taken," she assured him. Her correction had been automatic - she was still thinking about what he'd said. A tumor? Lifespan?

"Do you mind if I check whether I understood what you said - you think it may be too early do decide whether to do a biopsy, and that maybe it's not worth doing one at all?"

"Yes. If the spot is not a tumor, or is a benign fat deposit, or a small cyst, we'd be more or less torturing her for no reason. Even if it is a tumor, it may be slow-growing, so it's worth watching and waiting for a while. And to be frank, Ms. Rosen, at your mother's age, the operation may do her more harm than good."

She nodded. "Thank you for your frankness, doctor. When do you expect to get the second set of results? She's been wanting to go home... will she be done soon?"

"We should see more tomorrow. I'll be here in the afternoon, or leave a message with the nurse in charge of your mother. I hope to see nothing worrying tomorrow, Ms. Rosen."

"Thanks, Dr. Hillberg. I hope so too."

It was already 7:30 pm as she walked, deflated, out of the hospital. She was always deflated walking of this damned hospital. She nearly headed towards her hotel when, at the last moment, she veered towards the Motor City Pub.

She almost backed out when she entered, immediately hist by the wall of sound in the lively pub, but she resisted her urge to back out. She needed the distraction, if nothing else. She saw people sidling up to the bar to order their food and drink, so she did the same. As she waited her turn to order, she took in the place. The pub was deep, several rooms in a row opening into each other, the walls between them cut away in such a manner that she could see all the way in. A small stage was at the very back, filled with instruments and sound gear and electrical wiring criss-crossing everywhere between the music and microphone stands. A small wooden dance floor skirted the front of the stage, and a number of couples and even a few single women were already grooving to the music. She put in her order, paid, and walked away with a pint of Boddington's and a number for the table.

She walked into the next room in and found an unoccupied table, small and round, one in a row arranged in front of the bench lining the wall. Slowly, she took off her coat and folded it next to her, then sat down, turning to sipping her beer and taking in the pub atmosphere.

It was aptly named - the walls were painted black and festooned with an eclectic mix of automotive artifacts and Detroit memorabilia, and photographs of Motown "nobility," most of them signed. The steering wheel of a '77 Mustang next to Billie Holiday singing her heart out next to a smoky club with a big band playing on stage. A 'Vette next to photos of Miles Davis, Art Blakey, and Chet Baker, conversing across the corner with Marvin Gaye, Martha and the Vandellas, Stevie Wonder, and the Supremes. Shiny chrome spoke wheel covers next to a photo of Albert King and Muddy Waters. Simone wondered if she'd stepped back in time or was in the wrong city. When the food arrived, a hearty bowl of chili and a chunk of corn bread on the side, she dug in, the hunger winning over the need to over-analyze her surroundings.

The band ran through a number of blues, jazz and soul standards she knew, Aretha and Billie and Miles interspersed with more modern stuff, Gladys Knight and the Pips, Stevie Wonder, and others. She'd finished her chili by the time the band launched into a Jimi Hendrix cover, and she leaned back and let herself float, awash in the music and the beat. And as she did so, she found herself concentrating on Martin, long fingers stroking and plucking his guitar's strings, his body tilting and swaying into the licks. He often seemed to concentrate on his own playing, but not infrequently he looked up and exchanged nods with his bandmates, the behatted drummer and the bass player whose face changed from serious, almost morose, to near-beatific as he played. The vocalist, center stage, was clearly enjoying himself, dancing as he sang but looking back at the others, especially Martin, wordlessly communicating with his fellow musicians.

Simone found herself admiring Martin's form - tall, slim, his body moving fluidly and with no self-consciousness in his black jeans and a charcoal long-sleeved shirt, sleeves folded up to reveal his arms. His silver-gray curls snuck out from his hat at the sides, the brim pointing backwards and helping keep his hair off his forehead. Once in a while he stepped up to the mike in front of him and joined in the chorus, but for the most part he concentrated on his guitar. She was pretty sure he hadn't seen her and would have a hard time finding her, so she felt no shyness about examining him and forgot not to stare at the band.

When the vocalist announced they would take a break, she was surprised to see Martin turn and immediately hone in on her. He had known exactly where she was. He propped his guitar up on its stand, shared a few words with the band, scooped up a beer bottle from the floor, and walked towards her. His gait was relaxed, a slight extra long swing in one of his legs. She watched him approach, stopping here and there to greet people along the way but looking up to make sure she wasn't leaving. She assumed they were regulars he recognized or friends he knew. She noticed a couple of women among them sitting at a table fairly close to the stage and touching him familiarly as he passed. After he'd finished weaving through the closely-spaced tables, he pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.

"I'm glad you made it, Simone. I was worried you wouldn't - caught up at the hospital or tired or..."

"I admit to having second thoughts. But I needed to eat, and I need the distraction." She noticed him frown slightly after she said that, and kicked herself for having been rude.

"Sorry, that's not what I meant." Flustered, she stopped. No good way out of it now.

"What do you think of the place?" he asked, tipping his beer bottle as he did.

"I like it. And I like your sound. You're very good! You sound like you've played together for a long time."

He nodded, pleased. "Yes, it sure seems that way. It's like a family, really. At least I feel that way. You like jazz? And blues?"

Simone nodded. "My father was a big fan. He introduced me to the greats," she said, pointing her chin towards the walls. "They've got them all up there..."

"This is a good place - the owner's a good guy. Wish there were more clubs like this to play in."

"Is it hard to find...?"

"Gigs? Yes, it can be a lot of work."

"Do you all do it or does one of you do most of that?"

"The booking of the band? It's mostly me, but the others sometimes get a call for a festival or a party." He drew another long sip of his beer. "How's your mother doing?"

Simone shrugged. "The same, really. The doctor is worried about something, doing more tests. Not sure what it will mean."

"Something? I'm sorry, may I ask? You don't have to tell me, though I know sometimes it feels good to unload."

"He suspects she may have a tumor. He isn't sure yet. More tests...," Simone shrugged.

"It must be hard for you. Where do you live?"

"Tucson. Just moved there not so long ago. Used to live in Ann Arbor, Michigan."

"Ah, the Big Ten. I spent some time in Madison, long time ago."

"College?"

Martin laughed. "Let's just say I got my college education by osmosis from people who actually did go."

He had a warm, pleasant laugh, and his cheeks sported two long dimples whenever he smiled.

"I rather frittered away my youth, truth be told, with a variety of... enthusiasms. None of them were very conducive to responsible living."

"A bad boy, eh?" Simone sipped from her own glass, wiggling her eyebrows at him. It seemed the right thing to do.

She realized somewhere along the line she'd relaxed and begun to feel comfortable with him. Maybe it was OK to relax for a bit, not think about her mother. About Pete. She's tried to get in touch with him, just to let him know how things were going, but he hadn't returned her call yet. He must be busy. She put Pete out of her mind... he seemed miles and ages away right now.

She leaned forward and touched Martin's cap.

"What's the story here? What kind of hat is this?"

"My motoring cap? Nothing special. Found it at some flea market way back when I started playing again. It's a tradition - jazz musicians wearing some sort of hat."

"And you always wear yours turned around? Your signature?"

The dimples came out with the slyly self-deprecating smile. "Yea. Mostly it keeps the hair out of my eyes when I'm playing. It must be hard being away from home, not knowing how long and how your mother's doing."

"I'm pretty lucky. My job is flexible enough I can arrange to do it while I'm away. The real problem is it's hard to concentrate on it while things are so up in the air with my mother."

"What do you do?"

"Sort of a computer geek. Actually, I trained as a biologist, but I work with computers mostly these days. And you? What do you do when you don't play here or volunteer at the hospital?"

He looked away from her slightly, over her ear and to the wall behind her. "Ummm, I'm between jobs right now but doing some freelance editing. And looking for the right next thang, so to speak."

With no hesitation, she put her hand on his where it lay, fingers splayed on the table between them. Then, realizing what she'd done, drew it back after giving his fingers a small squeeze.

"Ah. So this, the music, isn't full time, I take it?"

"I wish it were. No, it isn't. I'd love to have more gigs like this."

He perked up, listening to the house music playing in the background.

"We'll be going back on soon. Listen, will you stay longer? Can you?"

She looked at her beer, the glass still over half full. "Yes, I could use another. I'm a slow drinker."

He rose and gave her a small pat on her shoulder, then wound his way back to the stage, and she followed him with her eyes. Well, followed his ass, nicely shaped despite his age. Again, she noticed that small lopsidedness in his gait, one of those slight imperfections that made people uniquely attractive rather than detracting from them. She thought he was very well put together, and only lightly touched by the years hinted at by his gray hair. She wondered briefly how old he was, and shrugged off the question as entirely irrelevant. She dwelt instead on his winning smile, the warmth in his eyes when he spoke to her, and his comfortable ways of putting her at ease.

When he reached the stage, he took the guitar off the stand, picked and strummed a few chords to check his tuning, and moved a smallish pedal slightly with his foot, so he could easily reach it. The other band members were adjusting themselves and checking their instruments as well, while the singer walked up to the central mike and adjusted its position in ways that it didn't need adjusting. She realized they were like baseball players, going through ritual motions before starting to play to help them get into their groove.