Meals on Wheels

A serving of soup and I went cruising around town last night. We were looking for my elderly neighbor, Mr. Davis, who moved to a nursing home a month ago. My family’s been bringing him hot meals once a week for two years. He loves soup. And that’s virtually all we know about him. As long as we’ve been in this neighborhood, he’s lived alone and kept to himself. We’ve watched him mow his lawn very slowly in the summer. We dug him out of last winter’s blizzards. One day in the spring we noticed someone had brought our trashcans in from the curb. It was Mr. Davis. I thanked him that evening, as I handed him a plate of quiche. “You’re always doing for me,” was his response.

The gatekeeper at the nursing home turned in her chair to greet me, releasing a plume of cinnamon potpourri. On her desk, a sign read “STOP: All Visitors Must Sanitize Hands and Refrain from Cell Phone Use.” Influenza and oxygen, I thought. “Mr. Davis isn’t here,” she said. “They came and got him on Friday. He’s at the hospital.” I thanked her and left. A minute later, I returned. “Can you tell me which hospital?” She flipped open a binder. “Chuck’ll know,” she said, punching an employee’s extension into the phone. “Mr. Davis’ family member wants to know where he is,” she inquired.  I didn’t correct her.

Three minutes later I was headed back home. He was in the hospital just up the road from his old house, and from mine. Out his window he’d be able to see the street he drove down every day for thirty years. But it was dark outside, and turning cold. The soup and I kept each other warm as we walked towards the covered entrance. Flags snapped in the wind.

“Seventh floor,” the receptionist said. I’d told my husband I’d be gone forty minutes. I was closing in on thirty. The nurses told me Mr. Davis was awake but that they needed to ready him for visitors. Waiting in the hall, I watched aides carry bed linens to a service room. His unit was just three levels up from the floor where my children were born, but it was another world.

“He’s ready,” the nurse announced. I asked if he could have the food I’d brought, because I didn’t want him to see it otherwise. “Sure,” she said. I walked in, and was relieved to see he that he looked himself, other than the gown and oxygen line. I set the soup and bread on a wheeled tray. We exchanged the briefest of greetings, just as we’d done at his doorstep many times. I resorted to humor, something I do when I’m nervous. “Mr. Davis, you know you can’t lose me that easily. I’ll always find you.” He laughed a little and said “What?” He’s almost deaf. “I brought you some soup. I’ll bring you more. How about chicken and rice next?”  He heard me this time.  “Any kind’s fine.” I bent down under a monitor and held his hands.  “See you soon, okay?” I looked him squarely in his eyes. They were steely and kind at the same time. His dark irises blended into his pupils.

I passed his old house, then pulled into our driveway. “How’s Mr. Davis?” my daughter whispered when I came to say goodnight. Her light was out, and she was almost asleep. “He’s fine, honey,” I said, getting up. Maybe I was kidding myself. But didn’t he seem okay?  Perhaps I was confusing him with me. A moving truck carried away his belongings on Saturday. Even the items put on the curb labeled “FREE” were gone. Still, for now, Mr. Davis had figured out how to get closer to home.