Nurse the Hate: The Christmas Card

He had become somewhat estranged from his family after his impulsive move to the Azore Islands.  He had moved there anticipating adventure and sweeping change by accepting the position as the Vice President of Marketing and Tourism for the remote islands.  Instead he spent two years eating fish and lamb while trying to rig up ways of watching American sports in real time on unreliable internet connections.  His job was simple.  Trick people into coming to the islands for a visit.  The windswept Atlantic Islands offered almost none of the typical charms of most island vacation destinations, so he came up with the only slogan he could think of at the time.  The Azores: Because You Have Been Everywhere Else.  

The result of that was a steady trickle of retirees who had indeed been everywhere else.  They could be spotted walking the sleepy streets paging through flimsy travel guides praying to find something of interest.  He always felt a sense of guilt when he saw couples with a bewildered look on their faces as they wandered aimlessly.  These people had arrived looking for a week of adventure but had instead found a day trip where they had been marooned for six extra days with nothing to do.  Still, it was no worse than any other sales job he supposed.  He liked to nod at the blank faced travelers nursing beers at cafe tables when he walked past.

He was never much to keep in touch with his family, so after an initial flurry of calls after his move their communication had slowed to almost nothing.  He really had nothing to report as each day could essentially be summed up as follows.  “Went to the office where I attended two pointless meetings.  Ate some fish stew at lunch.  Used the work internet to watch the beginning of the Mets game.  Went home and drank a few Sagres beers and tried to connect back on the Mets game.  Fell asleep listening to the wind rattle the cottage.  Repeat.”  His life was now essentially the same as his father’s with the exception of swapping out “fish stew” with “meatloaf”.  Hence, there just wasn't much news to report on either side.

He received the news of his mother’s illness via a small Christmas card that she sent out to everyone on her list she had carefully cultivated since 1971.  The message was in her shaky handwriting.  “Not much to report here.  My cancer came back and moved to my stomach.  I am on some new pills now so that is better than it was.  We might go visit your Uncle in the Spring down in Sarasota.  It depends if we can get the bathroom remodel done in time.  We got the cheese you sent.  Very thoughtful.  Merry Christmas.  Mom.”  He had no idea his mother had cancer.  He also had not sent any cheese.  He looked again at the envelope to make sure he had opened mail addressed to him.  The battered envelope confirmed he was indeed the intended recipent.

His mother was pathologically cheerful.  Her greatest fear was to impose upon others or make a fuss of any kind whatsoever.  He could already hear her answer when he would demand to know why she hadn’t told him about her illness.  “I didn’t want to trouble you dear.  You’re so busy with your new career.  I’m feeling much better anyway.”  Only his mother could make stomach cancer sound as serious as a head cold.  She was just like her mother, who had planned her own funeral down to the most minute detail so as to not trouble any of the family members.  In fact, his grandmother had arranged with staff at the hospice for a platter of Lorna Doone cookies to be delivered with a thoughtful selection of hot Starbucks drinks within moments of her passing.  She was, if nothing else, an excellent entertainer. 

He folded the card up into his book and left the cottage to walk.  He walked to the Igreja do Santo Cristo and lit a candle for his mother and grandmother.  The small flame flickered in the breeze.  The great church smelled like hundreds of years of incense and the sea.  He stared at it for a minute and dropped a two Euro coin in the collection box.  It landed with a satisfying thud.  He walked outside and sat on the church steps holding his used copy of “The Powerl and the Glory” like a prop and watched people walk past.  He sat at his crossroad.  He could be who he was, who he had been, or who he wanted to be.  Anything could happen.