The Cause for Concern

She would always click-a light, yet irritating sound caused by the movement of an ageing tongue against a tough upper mouth roof-when she was anxious. Her and her husband both clicked. But the Grandmother would always click, would always give away her inner feelings through her expressions or thin lips that seemed to be shriveled with time. If you looked at the photo behind her head, you could see a young woman with full, supple lips in a white gown, smiling happily. Her face did not change as much over time as one would have thought. The signs of ageing would not lead you to believe the woman was in her mid 70s, for she had no incredibly outstanding creases or lines or bitter sagging.
She stood next to the marble counter, her expression one of confusion and sadness and joy-a sullen heartbreak gave way to simple she could not enjoy guiltily spoiling herself with in the house of another, even if it was her daughter's. She did not wish to displease her daughter now, did not want to suck the independence out of her, did not want her to feel like an inadequate mother like she so thought-but on the contrary, she was quite the opposite.
The modest, conservative, aging woman spoke softly and offered to help put the food into the plates. Her unsteady but skilled hands quickly poured a ladle full of broth into an awaiting bowl. "Mom." The other woman said softly, "You're a guest here, you sit down." The older woman just looked at her and sighed.
"Piera, you know what I do, I just, do this, it's the only thing." she trailed off. Somewhere along the line I began to notice that about her. She became anxious when she talked, and her words would fall off her tongue so quickly it seemed, that she had no other words to dispense to the listener, giving way to a vague understanding of what she was saying, and an unfinished sentence. For once I think I would have liked her-would have rooted for her-to finish one of her statements. Somehow it didn't deem itself a necessity. Her expression always gave it away, anyway.
And then it was my turn to kick in, as I should have done from the start as the weary woman, unable to spoil her daughter and make her feel comfortable, returned to her seat. I quickly jumped to my feet with a start, and rushed into the kitchen with as much enthusiasm and strength as a teenager could have. Sometimes I did wonder about my Grandparents, how they managed to live day after day at that age, with so little they could do. They were feeling extremely helpless right now. One thing I can recognize in people-if it had to be any one emotion-it would be the feeling of being helpless. I've seen the face so many times. People wanting to help but not knowing how; getting frustrated over it, getting sad over it, or angry, and then taking that anger out on their own family-just because they feel so helpless.
I looked back at the old dinning room table to check up on Ema; to make sure she was sitting and not getting up to help again or looking back at me. I turned around and slapped on a silly grin, and swished my arms around menacingly, pausing just in time for them to settle on my hips. "Step away from the counter!" I said in that oh-so-cool 'Imacop' voice. My mother looked at me. Her face held no interest in my witty remarks, or my wild hand gestures. I didn't really mind, I knew what I was there to do. I made her sit down; she put up no fight. I watched her go back to her chair, watching as she nearly collapsed into her chair, weariness setting in above all else.
I ladled out two bowls worth of soup and placed it in front of our guests first, although my first intention was to give it to my mother. I think Ema and Grandpa were thinking the same thing. I returned to the kitchen counter and ladled out more bowls, being as quick and as careful as possible. I brought the rest over, and after, the bread was cut by Domenic, using those big bread-slicing knives that I am always too afraid to use.
I floated in my own little world, hearing a conversation but not acting along until I was questioned. They were talking more about the conditions, the medical advantages to having this new system in place after the surgery, the surgery they would have to have in order for the new technology to be used. The current "port" as I called it had seemed, from my simple-minded understanding, to be accessed more than the necessary amount of times for that model. My fear of needles, which was a small fear when it started, has seemed to grow increasingly smaller now that I have seen my mother use them every day.
I am not a doctor. I am not them; I couldn't bring in my feedback at all. I am an artist, all I understand are feelings, are gestures, are I saw was the light, the dark and the gray. In this situation in particular, all I saw was the gray. What was complete darkness when we all had the light of hope? Where was the blinding light-our guide to happiness- when our doubts had tripped us along the way? Nothing was certain, but I still had this undying hope that everything would come out alright in the end..because it would. No one had a doubt in their mind that someday, somehow everything would turn out differently than what it looked like now. However, for now, we all lingered in a sort of gray zone, unknowing but hopeful.
It was one of the 'good days' as much as 'good days' can be synonymous with an actual 'good day' for anyone. We left the hospital late, an unknowing blood transfusion seemed necessary, although it did not have to be done that day. Mom said she could kill two birds with one stone so she and Anthony wouldn't have to go to the Center on Tuesday to get it done then. We had just gotten home, and already we were scrambling to get things in order before my grandparents got there, even though mother originally told the elderly Italian couple that she just came home and that she was too weary to clean.
I never blamed her. She was the saint of the house. Understanding, forgiving when she wanted to be-although her temper was much similar to Domenic's, sometimes making it impossible to live in a house without yelling. However today, most of the day was spent in smiles. The frail boy had agreed to eat a pop tart.
It seemed as if God tore open the sky to smile upon us, it had been the second thing he ate since the slice of pizza in the hospital in months. There were rumors that the 21 lbs 7 year old had put on more weight, but that remained to be seen. He seemed much jollier, even though you couldn't see a smile; you knew it was there, hidden beneath the muscles that could no longer shape his face.

After dinner, Domenic, Anthony, and I went for a walk around the block. A walk around the block. Was such a thing even feasible? I wished my sister was here to see him better, but she would have been back in a few days time, so I didn't mind being greedy. I wanted to push him in the wheelchair. I wanted to point out the overgrown shrubbery and the house party in a fellow neighbor's backyard, and the tall trees that formed a canopy over our side of the street, giving ample amounts of lush green shade and comfort. Domenic and I took turns pushing him around.
He seemed tired but interested in the things I was pointing to: the flowers, the unique twigs, the ant carrying a dead one on its back, a squirrel, a ladybug, a fence with the wood in the process of being knocked out. At the end, I felt better after the walk than I had been all day. Somehow I forgot how small he was.

Maybe one day we won't have a need for concern. One day things will be like they have always been. Nini and I would tease the boy about watching "little kid" shows, taunting him like older siblings would, mom would continue to be a workaholic, Dom would be as criticizing as ever, my father would go back to not caring, and Joe, my eldest brother, would visit less. Ema and Grandpa would have less strain on their hearts, and more time to cook and clean and worry about light fixtures, or their fruit trees in their back yard.
For one day there was a straining happiness. For one day in a life, there was peace. Who knows what tomorrow will be like? One day there will be no chemo-therapy, there would be no nupagen shots, there would be no IVS, there would be no medications, there would be no hospital visits, at least not for those reasons, and one day, there'll be no cancer. All there would be is a dysfunctional, ordinary family, now ready for anything. One day there will be no cause for concern.