Belle's Story

Chapter Twelve

There was a knock at the door and a large African American woman came in with a tray of food. Belle asked if I wanted to join her for lunch. I very much did. I wanted to see what she ate. I grabbed a tuna salad sandwich from the cafeteria and watched as Belle picked through the contents on her tray. She seemed to like the applesauce and almost finished the container. She ate a small corner of toast and left the rest untouched. After nibbling at the toast, she took a few sips of tea and dabbed her mouth with the napkin. She was done. It wasn't much, but it was something, more than I thought she would have. I was glad to see it.

Belle was tired after lunch. I gave her a kiss goodbye and left so she could sleep. That night I called Will. I told him about Belle's travels, that she was almost raped, almost killed and almost converted to Christianity. That last point was a bit of a stretch, but she did eat communion wafers. Will howled at the thought of our grandmother fueling herself with the holy sacrament. We shared disbelief at Belle's travels, which were far more complex and action packed than we ever imagined. How many people had grandmothers who literally walked through a war? I promised to keep Will posted on updates to the story. It was a good distraction from his work, kind of like hearing installments to a novel. I called Will every other day or so and came to look forward to our chats. Retelling the tale gave me a little respite too. It allowed me to kind of process things. Will didn't ask about Mom or Lawrence or anything about family matters or managing Belle's health. We just talked about stuff. He gave me updates on his dissertation, something about oligarchical impact on emerging economies. I tried to follow him, but he was so brilliant, I just couldn't keep up. Hearing him talk about winter in Charlottesville was far more entertaining. The Virginia town was southern enough to not handle snow, but northern enough to get a few inches every year. He had some hilarious stories about old men in baseball caps driving beat up pick-up trucks ten miles an hour on slippery winding roads.

The next morning brought a slight warm up, giving Joanie and me an opportunity to take a quick run down Riverside Parkway. She had been to visit Belle yesterday after I left. Joanie was encouraged by Belle's spirit. Apparently my presence was good medicine. Still, we both worried about her complexion. The growing yellowing of her skin could only mean one thing; her liver was slowly failing.

After our jog, we stopped at Columbia Hot Bagels. If the giant lox and cream cheese stuffed baked good didn't completely wiped out any benefit I got from exercise, the cappuccino Joanie brewed with whole milk, certainly did. Being with Joanie was so relaxing and natural that I lost track of time. All of the sudden it was 10:30. I called Belle to let her know I was on my way and then hustled to get to Columbia Pres before lunch.

Shortly after I arrived, a young man with thick black curly hair, matching beard and a yarmulke peeked into the room. He was slightly built and wore an off-the-rack charcoal suit that hung loosely off his shoulders. Although his suit was ill fitting, he wore a freshly pressed silk paisley tie that was knotted in a perfect half Windsor.

"Mrs. Kimmelfield?"

"Yes?"  

"Hello. My name is Rabbi Bensinger. I am one of the hospital chaplains. I thought you might like to talk for a while."

"Nice to meet you Rabbi. This is my granddaughter, Deborah. She is visiting me from Chicago."

"Hello," I said as Rabbi Bensinger walked over to shake my hand. He clasped my hand firmly and gave his wrist a quick flick. I could tell he'd had a good deal of practice meeting people.

"Grandma, would you like some time alone with Rabbi Bensinger?"

"No, darling. Stay with me. Sit."

I carried the room's only other chair, the stiff wood one, closer to the bed and Rabbi Bensinger took a seat. I sat down as well and slouched in the reclining chair, attempting to present a pleasant, yet politely distant demeanor.