Mangoes and Incense
This excerpt of a short story is part of a series of posts sharing my adventures in fiction writing. See the original post for context.
I rang the buzzer in front of the sliding doors of the large, unmistakably institutional, residential building. During my first few visits, it felt odd to have a double-layer security system on a building where the average age of the residents was over 85 and the most valuable items in any unit were old family photos. That was of course, until I met Martha.
The security desk buzzed me in, and as per protocol, I made sure both doors were shut behind me so that Martha, a long-term, wheelchair-bound resident of Parkway Home for Seniors, didn’t roll her way out on my account — at least not today. She’d made it out a few times in recent months, owing to her dedication to hovering by the front door at all hours, hoping some unsuspecting visitor would stroll right by, unaware of her glaringly apparent ambitions. I was that visitor the first time I came to see my Nanabapa after he was transferred here from the hospital. The nurses made sure to introduce me to Martha on my way out that day.
“Hi Martha” I said, standing between her wheelchair and the doors as they clicked shut behind me. She’d become a friend since I met her on my first visit to Nanabapa here four months ago. Staring right through me at the doors, she grumbled something to herself under her breath, just loud enough for me to decipher a clear “Fuck” and “go home”.
Once the doors clicked shut, she looked up at me with a smile. “Hello young man. How’s your grandfather?”
I shrugged, holding up the small tupperware container in my hand. “Not so great, but I’m hoping these mangoes will help today. Would you like some?”
She’d tuned out of our conversation mid-sentence and focused back on the front door as another visitor rang the buzzer behind me. “Good luck Martha” I said, as I made my way to the B-Wing.
An aromatic cloud hung in the air by the B-Wing nurse’s station. A mix of hospital-grade muscle balm, gravy and peas from lunch, urine-soaked clothing, and industrial-strength bleach were cycled through the ventilation system and attacked your olfactory senses no matter where you were in the building. I waved a familiar hello to Nurse Susan through the wince on my face and asked how her daughter’s recital went on Friday. Susan didn’t work weekends and I liked seeing her familiar face again on Mondays. I was dumbfounded by how she always smiled as if the room was scented by hundreds of roses. She shared that her daughter was terrible at the clarinet but enjoyed it so much that the house was going to suffer at least another 3 months of squeaky practice sessions.
Oddly, Susan abruptly stopped her story there. She was usually inclined to share an endless stream of details. I was surprised not to learn the color of her daughter’s shoelaces, the detail on the hem of her dress, the stain she couldn’t get out of it and how it got there. Susan’s ever-present warming smile seemed strained today as she nodded me down the hall towards Nanabapa’s room. “He’s been asking about you all day. Go.”
Each room I walked past had its own unique mix of smells. Most were dominated by bleach, urine and excrement, but every few feet an open door offered the smell of home cooked foods from around the world, brought in by family and friends for their loved ones. We’d chosen this nursing home because it was filled with other aging immigrants, feeling and smelling much like the neighborhood we lived in. No matter the room though, there was no escaping the air being streamed through the vents. I don’t want my last few weeks on this earth to smell anything like this I thought.
I knew Nanabapa’s smell well, and a whiff of it hit me about two doors before I got to him. My grandfather and I had shared a room in our family’s already crowded apartment since I was 12 years old. Now, at 17, my roommate was in someone else’s room. Not ours. It wasn’t a change either of us had adjusted to well. To make up for it, I spent every minute I could with him in that room after school and on the weekends. I wanted him to be surrounded by our smells, those of a teenage boy who played hockey more frequently than he showered, and of a boisterous grumpy old man who slurped two mangoes a day and made sure we had incense burning all day long.
I had brought two especially sweet-smelling mangoes cut into bite-sized pieces for him today — as I did yesterday, and every day for the last two weeks since my roommate had taken a turn into his true last days. Each day, when I opened the Tupperware, the smell of the fruit, warmed from sitting in my backpack all day long, filled the room. For a few minutes, we’d be transported back to our room — minus the incense. Incense burning wasn’t allowed in the building.
I always hoped the sweet aroma lingered well into the night after I left. This was going to be the smell that for years to come, would remind me of our magical time together. Years scattered with many nights of us chatting in the dark, well after bedtime for us both, my mom yelling from her own room to her father and her son to “Shut it and get some sleep!”. For five years we fell asleep and woke up each day to mangoes and incense. I was determined for at least mangoes to be the smell of our last days as roommates.
As I got to his door, it was surprisingly shut. He liked it open so he could see people walking by, especially now that he was stuck in bed. I double-checked the name on the door plate and confirmed I wasn’t lost. As walked into his room, I saw that my mother was already there. It was too early for her. How did she get out of work? Why was she here already? Nanabapa’s eyes were closed as he lay propped up slightly in his bed. His breathing was extra labored. A wisp of smoke caught my eye. By the window, a stick of incense stood burning.
I looked at my mom who said nothing as she held her father’s hand ever so gently. I opened the tupperware container, placed it on his belly so we could all smell it and took his other hand in mine. My mom and I both reached into the container and placed a soft morsel into our mouths. With a deep breath, for the last time, all three of us took in that peculiar Nanabapa mix of sweet and spicy air.
