I poured a large cup of chamomile from the porcelain teapot for myself, then poured a smaller cup for Henrietta. Otis was sat beside us that morning as well, but he loathed chamomile. He preferred green tea or the strong and bitter taste of black coffee. Into my own cup where the sides were carved with intricate floral designs and painted with pigments of pink, green, and red, I drizzled honey and placed a lemon wedge on top. It sank below the surface, bobbing its yellow head.
My cup was of the same set as the teapot. What great things you can find at a thrift store. Henrietta preferred the plain white cup from my mother's wedding china set. She wasn't one for details so much as functionality. She slept tucked beneath solid-colored sheets. Her bedroom was simplistic, with not a single poster, photo, or painting on the wall. Her carpet had no designs, only warmth and gentleness. She claimed it kept her focus.
She and Otis complemented each other well. A lengthy, joyous union where each room was clean, plain, and smelled of faint lavender and vanilla. Maxwell, however, kept to himself downstairs. His corner of the basement smelled of cold meats and was dark aside from the dimly lit television that hadn't been turned off since the day we took him in.
I seldom bothered him aside from bringing meals down three times a day and occasionally helping him to switch the television channel. He watched historical documentaries mostly, but occasionally I'd put on an old telenovela for him. The kind where the screen was grainy, the colors were dull, and there were enough seasons to keep him entertained for weeks, months even. His guilty pleasure. He watched with the absence of English subtitles, though Maxwell knew not a word of Spanish.
"Oh you know Max, he's always like this."
She looked at me, still not convinced of the normalcy in his behavior.
"No, dear. Three days isn't unusual. Remember when he stayed downstairs the entire week after Carmella moved out?"
She began to venture in the direction of the thick, wooden basement door that concealed him. I pulled it tightly shut before she could reach the sliver of an opening that she set her gaze on previously.
"He enjoys it down there. He likes the television, the comfort of his own space. He isn't like us, he's not social. He's a… what do you call it again? An introvert."
It took ample persuasion for Henrietta to follow me to the garden. We sat with one another in the vast greenery, tending to the basil, the tomatoes, and the peppers. I'd cut each plump, juicy vegetable and placed it into a large white basket. My grandmother weaved it herself many years ago. As a child, I'd wake up to it filled with Easter goodies. For the rest of the year, it collected eggs from the coop my father built.
Henrietta and I kept a beautiful backyard. Hydrangeas in varying colors, ferns, and coneflowers. In the spring we'd get a cluster of pink bleeding hearts. Large trees stretched above the little yellow house and provided a patch of cool shade where we sat in the grass.
Otis stayed back while we gardened. He'd washed the dishes that were left at the table following a grand breakfast for the three of us. Avocado smeared along the edges of the plates and some remnants of egg yolk spilled into the center. I always cook them over medium. He made sure to scrub the bottom of my teacup each day, the honey had a tendency to stick in the crevices.
"You, my dear, are a worrier. I'll check on him in the afternoon, when I bring him his lunch and fluff his pillows."
The conversation drifted to Carmella's nearing visit. It was the first time in months. Henrietta and I were both exhausted with preparations for Carmella's arrival.
"Please tell me Otis remembered the pesto. It is her favorite." I sighed. "I've got laundry to fold and carpets to vacuum. I will not have the time. Tell him it is his responsibility, I'm tired of picking up slack."
I continued to pull a few persistent weeds, dirt sticking to the fingers of my floral pink gloves. Henrietta's were a solid plum color, just so her. The dandelions piled up between us.
"The poor thing called Tuesday just to complain about the cafeteria. 'Everything's cold,' she said. 'Even the soup.'"
She told me she'd learned to cook just a few things. Spaghetti, with meatballs of course. She had begun to make a garlic butter. She told us it tasted nice smeared along bread with the right amount of crisp. I found myself salivating at the sound of her lemon loaf, which was topped with a thin layer of lemon-flavored frosting. I'd secretly hoped she'd bring some with her when she arrived.
"I couldn't believe it either. She's grown so independent."
I held the filthy glove to my chest and smiled. Henrietta smiled too. Carmella had made this family proud, we both knew it.
"Don't say that about Otis, I'm sure he just forgot. He is a very loving husband, he's done so much for you, Henrietta. I suppose the pesto isn't so big a deal, I'll pick some up on the way home from Maxwell's doctor appointment."
Maxwell said nothing when I brought his dinner down the creaky basement steps. Only a half smile, knowing Carmella's return was close at hand.
The jingle of a few bells followed as he approached me, slowly. He dragged his meal with him back to the corner where he lurked ahead of his television shows about the World Wars or the mysterious ways in which the pyramids may have been built.
"I'm sure she's missed you very much, Max. We miss you upstairs. Henrietta would agree if you'd only allow her down here to tell you."
A soft light from the television illuminated his small, tired face. He scarfed down his meal as though it had been days, or weeks since he'd eaten. Though I'd brought him breakfast just this morning, and then lunch in the afternoon, as I always had.
Upstairs Henrietta rested her sleepy head on Otis' sturdy, comforting shoulder. Her vibrant auburn hair against his white-silver streaks in a sea of black. Salt and pepper.
"He seemed hungrier today than he was yesterday."
Concern grew across her face.
"I'm sure he's alright. He has an appointment later this week. All will be well, we'll hear it from the doctor."
The office looked the way it had years and years ago when Maxwell attended his first appointment here. Reluctantly, he allowed me to guide him through the tall glass doors where the two of us sat together in cushioned chairs that were a speckled blue color. He moved frequently, shifting his weight in his seat. His narrowed eyes scanned the room from ceiling to floor.
"Don't worry so much, Max." I'd reassured him each visit.
Noises echoed from each exam room. Voices drifted from behind each closed door. Max shuddered beside me. I stroked his back. Don't be afraid, all will be well. Max was never one for physical affection, only when he was deeply afraid would he allow anyone to touch him. He'd never allowed Henrietta or Otis to touch him, though, not even in his greatest moments of fear.
His nervous system seemed to calm only slightly in response to my reassuring whispers, but I continued with my gentle strokes.
"He's been hungrier than usual you say?" The doctor cocked his head to the side and ran a cold, wrinkly hand along Max's stomach. Max jerked away from his chilled fingers.
"Yes. He keeps to himself mostly as well, but that's typical of Maxwell."
"Any vomiting?"
"Oh no, no vomiting."
"What about water? Has he been drinking lots of water?"
"Oh, yes. He'll sit there just drinking and drinking and drinking. Sometimes it seems that he may never stop."
The doctor nodded thoughtfully and scribbled something at the end of Maxwell's chart.
"I'd like to run a few tests."
The drive home was quiet. Maxwell, who was always quiet, still had nothing to say. I, though, was processing the news. Quiet from me was a rarity, Henrietta and Otis would tell you that much.
"It's not so bad. It's manageable. Maybe with time you'll even begin to feel better."
He remained silent. I let it linger in the air which grew thick with unspoken feelings and worries. I could see in his expression, which infrequently changed from his tired stare, that he was processing it all even more than I was. With all of the commotion and stomach-dropping news, I'd forgotten to stop for Carmella's pesto on our journey home.
"Oh goodness, the pesto!" I looked down at my feet as I stood on the front porch step. "Carmella will be so disappointed."
Henrietta scolded me for forgetting, the same way she had scolded Otis earlier that week. She grew calmer after much comforting from Otis and myself. Maxwell quickly retreated to the basement without greeting either of the two of them.
"It wasn't good news," I heard myself say. I can't bring myself to relay the diagnosis, or Max's look of despair and confusion for the duration of our ride home together.
She shoots me a look, I told you there was something wrong.
Weeks of building nerves and meticulous planning for Carmella's visit came to a halt on Sunday morning. Her flight was soon due to land. It would be followed by a short bus ride, and a brisk walk. She'd arrive some time in the early afternoon.
The four of us had spent all morning shivering with anticipation. Otis requested information about her arrival time on multiple occasions. Enough to cause Henrietta some worry about his memory. She'd begun to voice her concerns of dementia, and other illnesses that occasionally follow with age.
He was quick to reassure her that it was only his excitement to see Carmella that caused his lapse in remembrance.
Neither Henrietta nor I were certain this was true. Otis habitually forgot things, his anniversary to Henrietta, where he placed his tools such as springs or wires, even his own birthday. He was taken aback upon seeing his birthday cake this past year.
Time passed slowly. Each hour ticked by the same way it had felt to stand in front of a pot of water, waiting and waiting for it to boil. The water would struggle to move, apprehensive to bubble. It was only until the water could feel each set of eyes shift their focus elsewhere would it begin its subtle boil.
My mother taught me to cook pasta as an adolescent. I'd stand before the large metal pot, which I'd always filled with a surplus of water. The box of Cavatappi, my favorite, held closely to my chest. I'd wait, and wait, and wait.
My mother told me after the first few times, "A watch pot never boils, Lucille."
Minutes kept passing, though there was no sign of Carmella. She called to report a missed bus, then a delay, then she called to report difficulty arriving at all. Disappointment flooded each of our faces.
"I know, I know. It has been so very long since we've seen her."
With days passing and no sight of Carmella things had begun to follow a dark curvature in our home. Henrietta and Otis sat on opposite sides of the couch. My tea was always a touch colder than it once had been, though nothing changed regarding my process of making it. Henrietta and Otis continued to sit for chamomile and black coffee. Only a few sips were gone from their mugs by the time they'd leave the table.
Maxwell stayed in his basement corner for over a week and a half now. Twice a day I'd carefully step down each creaky, uneven stair. I'd clench my fist around the sleek metal railings, tight. Maxwell would be in the same spot I left him and regretfully, I'd provide him with his injection. I always followed the injections with a nice, warm meal. I rationalized it as some sort of incentive, or reward. I wasn't sure what for, staying alive maybe, or doing so well with his new medication.
"It's been hard for him, I really think so."
I started down the unstable basement stairs without the realization that Henrietta was following steadily behind me. I slid Max his heaping plate of supper and a tall, cold glass of water.
"I'm sorry, it's that time of day."
He scowled at me. He detested each tiny prick beneath his skin. Some days he'd cry and scream. Other days he'd attempt to flee. He was hardly ever successful. I'd hold him still until the entire syringe had been emptied beneath the spot of skin where I'd pinched him.
With swiftness Henrietta approached him. She had a soft, loving expression as though to say, Maxwell! I've missed you, and I've been so worried. Max fiercely hissed at her to go away. A high-pitched screech released from behind his rough tongue. He swatted strong, forceful fists at her as she drew near.
"Henrietta! I told you, he wasn't ready to see you!"
Her frail body moved from the corner, back up the steps, and to the table where Otis sat patiently.
When I noticed her there I placed a tender hand on her back.
"He doesn't hate you, don't think such things. He's just going through so much right now. It's a difficult time for him, and you know how he gets."
Distantly, bells jingled downstairs. He was approaching the steps, then receding to the corner. We'd all listened intently as he encroached and withdrew, repeated the cycle, then repeated it once more.
"Oh goodness, he's grown so anxious down there." I rubbed my temple with two wrinkly fingers topped with chipping burgundy nails, my most cherished polish. "Henrietta, you should've listened to me."
She was huddled beneath the old wooden table. The same table that concealed her during games of hide-and-seek with Otis as mere babies.
"I'm sorry, dear. I know you mean well."
She cautiously crawled from underneath the thin wooden legs and pushed her auburn-haired head into my chest. I guided her to the couch where Otis crept over earlier and lay with his head on his favorite sage green pillow. It was embroidered with tiny fuchsia and magenta florals around the edges. He enjoyed the soft, warm down feathers that filled it rather than its elaborate design.
With my help she was curled up beside him, resting her head on his lap. I could never bear the sound of them unraveling each other, or the sight of quiet nights on opposite sides of the house. They belonged hand in hand.
"I love the way you two love each other. It warms my heart, truly."
A ring of the doorbell resulted in both of their little heads lifted from the comfort of the couch where they lay together.
"Good afternoon, Marjorie. Is there something you need?" My door was only open a crack.
"Hello, Lucille. I hadn't seen you in a while. Not at church, not at the senior center, not even at the bookstore. Are you well?"
"Oh, yes. Thank you for checking in. The family has kept me awfully busy."
"It would be nice to get lunch sometime, to catch up."
"We'll see." I slowly closed the door, she appeared to be unfinished speaking.
Henrietta and Otis were still peering towards the door, and the windows.
Marjorie stopped by occasionally requesting my presence somewhere I frankly hadn't the time to be. She'd dropped off muffins here and there, or that month's read at book club. I figured she must be lonely after her husband passed and her children no longer bothered to catch flights to New England from South Dakota and Washington.
Weeks had passed with more promised visits from Carmella, yet not a single arrival. We'd all begun to mourn her presence, hope and anticipation fading with each fabricated excuse.
"I'm sure she'll visit soon. She loves us, you know how things get so busy in that transition to adulthood."
The three of us glanced towards the basement door, which was only slightly ajar. We'd all heard bells distantly jingle. The jingling grew nearer and nearer until the thick, heavy door was nudged open. At the top of the stairs stood Maxwell.
Henrietta and Otis froze, still tangled comfortably together. Maxwell trotted from the steps to the beige recliner in the corner of the room. Only then did I realize my hand had been covering my open mouth.
He took a seat in the center of the reclining chair and set his gaze on the three of us. He didn't dare come closer, but he observed.
"Maxwell, is everything alright?"
The entire room seemed to hold its breath.
"You miss her, don't you?" I reached my hand out towards him, too far to touch him, but close enough for him to feel the sorrow we shared.
"We all miss her, Max. We all miss her so much."
He laid his head down and closed his eyes. Henrietta and Otis slowly crept towards him, I hadn't stopped them this time. Henrietta hovered her nose above Maxwell's closed eyes. She inched closer and closer until he blinked them open. He lifted his head and touched the tip of his little pink nose to hers. Everything was unmoving for a short moment before Maxwell jumped to his feet and slipped through the open crack of the basement door.