Everything is wonderful now

Today was Father's Day.

Today was the day I delivered on my promised Father's Day gift, by taking my parents out to lunch at one of the more high-end restaurants in the area. The offer was a last-minute decision I reached those few Sundays ago, having tried and failed to come up with a better idea, a more relevant offer, a more tangible, wrap-ready gift concept to serve as an adequate and appropriate "thanks, dad" gift.

It's becoming so difficult.

I picked them up, drove them into town, and parked less than a hundred yards away from the restaurant's front entrance. Leapt from my seat, ran around to the other side, and helped my father from the car. Waited until my mother could emerge, and help him maintain his balance while I fed the meter. Then we began our walk — a blink-of-an-eye stroll that usually took just a few seconds, but today stretched into a prolonged, awkward expedition to the limits of endurance. My mother held one arm, I held the other, and he would shuffle forward (feet never leaving the ground) four, five, six feet. Then stop. Rest. Regain his balance. Then again. Four, five, six feet forward. Stop. Rest. Balance. The late morning quiet, but for the steady flow of suburban traffic and the scratching of his soft and battered shoes against the sidewalk. His breath quickening with effort, with unfamiliar exertion.

He almost fell as we entered. The hostess, seeing us from inside, kindly stepped to the front door and held it for us, and as he shuffled past her he lunged to grab hold of the doorframe — only to be betrayed by his unsteady aim; only to be failed by his weak hands; only to be rescued by the sudden grip of my own hand beneath his arm, lifting, redirecting, providing him with the buoyance to remain aloft, to retain his dignity, to walk inside on his own two feet.

We came to our table, and guided him to his chair as one might navigate a freighter to dock. Even in the unexpected coolness of this early July - mid-60s? how is that possible? - his freckled forehead shone bright with perspiration. But his smile was broad, and his hands raised in tandem to grasp the menu as a supplicant might reach for an unseen diety: with reverence and great care.

My mother and I made light conversation. About my kids, about my work, about my problems with my kids and my work. We talked over the menu, and what TheWife and I had ordered here at her birthday dinner back in the spring. My father watched and smiled, and gently asked my mother what she was having. She told him, and reminded him of what he'd decided to order when he'd looked at the menu online that morning. I told them about family on my wife's side — spreading idle gossip and supposition, broadening the stories for comic effect, trying to provide a steady patter of content. My mother laughed, asked questions, made sarcastic asides. My father smiled. Sat quietly, and held tightly to his menu. The wine list sat idle next to his plate, thick with vintages and varietals the likes of which he would once have studied and devoured, his curiosity and intellectual appetite vast and varied and insatiable. He asked my mother again what she was having.

We ordered, An appetizer arrived, and the waitress explained how to put it together in order to experience all the flavors the chef had designed for us to experience. She left, and then I repeated her explanation and demonstrated the exercise: tearing off a piece of lettuce, then wrapping it around the roll. Dipping it into the swirling, exotic oils and spices. They watched, and then I handed my sample to my father. He tasted it, then smiled and said, "Wonderful."

We ate, and my mother and I talked. And then the entrees arrived — fish for him, sandwiches for my mother and I. "I hope you like it," I told my father. "That's what TheWife had when we were here for dinner. She said it was the best fish she'd ever had."

He picked up his fork in one hand, then used it to cut a corner off the fish. Guided his other hand toward the plate, and used it to push the piece onto the fork. Then he lifted the fork to his mouth, slowly and unsurely, like a man with thick winter gloves pulling a paper clip from a wooden floor. Opened his mouth, his eyes invisible behind the refraction of his thick lenses, and tasted this gift from the sea. "Wonderful," he said.

We worked our way through the lunch. I spoke throughout, far more than I usually speak. My wife would have been astonished. My mother weighed in with questions and comments, catty remarks and cutting observations. My father sat quietly. He did not ask any questions, or add any comments. I asked him if he'd like to try my pickled vegetables, which he did. "Those are great!" he said. I asked if the restaurant had lived up to my boasts or if they were disappointed. "It's wonderful," he said. "We should come here every week." I laughed, because it was a funny thing to say, and he smiled graciously. He turned to my mother, "We should come here every..." and trailed off. She smiled and replied, "Maybe once in a while."

"Yes," he said.

Then, desserts. I insisted: this was a special occasion, and refused to allow them to leave without being stuffed to the gills. My mother refused, "I'm too full. Can't eat a thing." I pointed out the presence of petit fours, her ancient enemy and greatest weakness. She shook her head. Then my father said, "I will get the petit fours." And then he looked at her, with a gleam in his eye and an edge to his smile. And she looked back at him and smiled. "He can deny me nothing." And my father and I laughed together, because it was funny and because, after all these years, it was still true.

The petit fours arrived; two rows of four. My father ate three. My mother ate five, but pretended to be a bystander throughout. Then we were done.

I helped my father up, then took his arm and led him back outside. Carefully; slowly. The hostess, with great kindness, again opened the door for us. We stepped out into the cool sunshine, and began our hundred yard dash. This time, there were people seated outside. They watched us, as I took one arm and my mother took the other. Stood by his side as he took tiny, shuffling steps. Three, four, stop. Rest. Balance. Two. Three. Four. Stop. Rest. Again.

"This was wonderful," he said when we finally reached the car. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," I said, because it was true, and because I knew he was really pleased. Then I opened the door, and helped him into the passenger seat. Lifted and placed his feet inside the compartment. Carefully closed the door, and  walked around to the other side.

I took my place in the driver's seat. And then I brought him home.