The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Read Online Free PDF Page A

Lab. And it’s intestinal.”
    â€œ Th is is not as easy as it looks, Janet. Especially not when Jodi is sick, and Piper is home, and—”
    â€œI know how hard you work, Ben. I didn’t mean anything. You’re just being defensive.”
    She’s right. I’ve been defensive for weeks—ever since she found me sleeping on the job a couple of Fridays back. She came home for a surprise lunch and caught me snoozing on the sofa with my fly unzipped, a half gallon of Rocky Road in my clutches, and a Cat Stevens CD skipping. In my own defense, I was exhausted. Jodi hardly slept the night before. It wasn’t a big deal, and anyway, I was only asleep for a minute. Piper was still at school. And Jodi wasn’t farther than four feet away, sequestered in his Pack ’n Play. I’m not even sure Janet saw me sleeping, or if she just thought I was lounging. I think it was more that Jodi was chewing on the nail clippers that got to her. She didn’t say anything about any of it, but I felt her disapproval. A couple days later, she found my weed pipe in the gardening shed and accused me of being developmentally arrested.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean, you’re sitting around smoking pot and eating ice cream and listening to Cat Stevens, Ben. Isn’t that what you did in college?”
    â€œI didn’t eat ice cream in college. And I’m not sitting around,” I explained.
    â€œDaddy, can I show Grandpa my rat, today?” Piper says, peeling back the seal on her peach yogurt.
    â€œWait until Grandpa and Nanny come over, sweetie,” says Janet.
    â€œBut I asked Daddy, not you,” she pleads.
    â€œYour mom’s right, honey. We can’t bring the cage with us in the car. We need to go to the store afterward.”
    â€œI asked you, not Mommy,” Piper says. “How come Mommy’s always right?”
    â€œShe’s not,” I say.
    â€œWell, whenever she talks first, you always say the same thing as her. Like an echo or something.”
    Janet chuckles.
    Sometimes it feels as though there’s a conspiracy afoot.

crossing the line

    E lsa is made of impressive metal. She is resigned to her grief, breath by breath, day by day. Meanwhile, it is the suddenness of my own that has left me reeling. I crave Elsa’s strength, her resolve, the shelter of her self-assurance. I’m convinced I could love her, with her sad clear eyes, her starched work shirts, and the scent of timothy and manure that trails in her wake.
    Two of her lessons have canceled, so she’s at home this morning, sweeping the kitchen, folding laundry, and emptying wastebaskets while Trev sleeps with the door closed and the baby monitor beside him on the nightstand. When I hear Elsa filling the sink and stacking dishes, I leave my post on the sofa and, without asking, station myself beside her at the sink. Sunlight floods the kitchen from the east, so I can see the downy hair of Elsa’s face, otherwise invisible. In silence, she washes, I dry. I could stand all morning in this square of light. Now and again, I look up from my plate or my dish or my mug to sneak a sidelong glance at Elsa squinting into the sun. It feels good to be standing next to somebody, hip to hip, almost touching. After years of being climbed on, and jostled, tugged at and embraced, I am needy. I ache for human touch, if only the graze of an elbow.
    â€œYou can only push him so far before he starts pushing back,” she says.
    My scalp tightens. She’s caught me totally off guard. I’m not sure if the statement is an observation or a reprimand.
    â€œI learned the hard way,” she explains. “ Th e way I learned everything else. Do yourself a favor, Ben, and use a little finesse.”
    â€œI . . . It’s . . .”
    â€œYou don’t need to explain yourself,” she says. “Just take my advice—it’ll make the job easier. For