I Don't Know Why #3
I Don't Know Why #3
"I have two bed trays and I don’t know why." The third installment of a new, occasional Oldster Magazine column by bestselling novelist Laura Lippman.
I have two bed trays and I don’t know why.
Until recently, it was three, but then I examined the one that I kept in the guest room, a family relic made of white wicker, and realized it was in irreparable shape, several of its slender slats broken or cracked. I trashed it.
And then there were two, including another white wicker one, which I decided to stash in the guest bedroom closet, hoping guests never find it because I have no intention of bringing my guests breakfast in bed. But I’m OK if they unearth it and tend to themselves.
Even if a spill-proof bed tray existed, it wouldn’t meet my standards because I don’t eat in bed, ever. I think it’s disgusting. Drinking, ditto. The only liquid allowed in my bedroom is water. How did I ever end up with any bed trays, much less three? (Now two.)
Finally, I have a Lucite one, which I bought when I was newly single in the early days of the pandemic because it matches the Lucite bench in my bedroom. It is aesthetically pleasing, but wildly impractical as it’s a flat, edgeless surface. The slightest tilt would end in chaos. I just move it around the house, a sad little Casper the Friendly Ghost of an object, barely visible, filled with yearning to be liked, to be useful.
Even if a spill-proof bed tray existed, it wouldn’t meet my standards because I don’t eat in bed, ever. I think it’s disgusting. Drinking, ditto. The only liquid allowed in my bedroom is water. How did I ever end up with any bed trays, much less three? (Now two.)
I do have fond memories of the bed tray deployed during my occasional sick days in elementary school. Metal with painted flowers, it had two sturdy legs that folded beneath when not in use. But I think the affection I feel for that bed tray is nostalgia for the A-plus experience of my childhood sick days. How do I explain to anyone born after 1965 the glory that was staying home sick, if you weren’t too sick? In my family, it meant that a portable television was brought into the ill child’s bedroom, with Premium saltine crackers and flat Coca-Cola because we are from Georgia and every Georgian knows that flat Coca-Cola cures almost anything.
Later in the day, there would be a snowball from the Windsor Hills Pharmacy. Oh, the luxury of eating an orange-flavored snowball from bed while being in charge of a portable black-and-white TV with three channels. Dark Shadows! One Life to Live! The Big Valley, baby’s first Stanwyck.
Flash forward. My daughter, now 14, has been — knock wood — a shockingly healthy child who almost never misses school. On the rare occasions I’ve kept her home, I set her up in the den — a den! My dead father and living mother are already aghast at my showy lifestyle — with a television that has more channels than I can count and more streaming services than I want to admit. I bring her food and drink, but I place everything on the coffee table. No bed tray necessary.
How do I explain to anyone born after 1965 the glory that was staying home sick, if you weren’t too sick? In my family, it meant that a portable television was brought into the ill child’s bedroom, with Premium saltine crackers and flat Coca-Cola because we are from Georgia and every Georgian knows that flat Coca-Cola cures almost anything.
And when I’m sick — well, when I’m sick, I’m on my own. That’s true, in part, because I’m a divorced mom, but it was true during my marriage, too. No one ever took care of me. Or did I simply never let anyone take care of me? It’s a bit of a chicken-or-the-egg question.
To be fair, I was almost never sick during my 18-year marriage. In fact, I remember only two times. One was during Mardi Gras in New Orleans, when I took to my bed with flu and exhorted my family to go on without me. I was so sick that I was scared I would collapse if I tried to go downstairs to the kitchen, so I drank water straight from the tap in the bathroom.
The second time was six weeks later, a relapse that began during a book festival in Florida. This was in 2015, long before Covid, but I was in such bad shape I thought I might be denied boarding. I made it home and crawled into bed, where I stayed for a week. My then-spouse was working, in a city 200 miles away, so I relied on my assistant, then not even a full year into her job, to get me from the airport to my bed, from my bed to the doctor, from the doctor to my bed. My assistant Molli is a superhero, but I cannot imagine asking her to bring me a Windsor Hills Pharmacy snowball on a bed tray. For one thing: Windsor Hills Pharmacy is long-gone and snowballs are now largely a seasonal treat in Baltimore.
But also, to reiterate: Eating in bed is disgusting.
Now, finally down to two bed trays, which is clearly two too many, I still find myself eyeing new ones. A sleek little wooden number in a high-end furniture store in New York City. A Midcentury bamboo charmer online. And, quite recently, an all-white one at Ikea, a cheaper version of the one I just tossed. “Why are you looking at that?” my daughter asked. “YOU DON’T LET ANYONE EAT IN YOUR BEDROOM.”
I have a good friend whose second marriage ended three years before my second marriage did. I remember us in the winter of 2016, hunkered down in a beloved bar, discussing our problems. She was resigned to the end that was hurtling toward her; I believed I had survived a siege and emerged victorious. (In hindsight, I realize it’s probably a bad sign if one is thinking of one’s marriage in such militaristic terms.)
It is lovely to care for someone, lovelier still to allow someone to care for you. I’m good at the former. I literally cannot imagine the latter. Except, perhaps, when I’m staring wistfully at a bed tray.
My friend is now remarried to a wonderful man and their relationship is amazing. The temptation is to call it a fairy tale, but it’s more like a really good Laurie Colwin story: grounded, filled with good humor and good food. He brings her fastidiously brewed coffee in bed and while I would never allow such a thing in my bedroom, I find their practice endearing.
It is lovely to care for someone, lovelier still to allow someone to care for you. I’m good at the former. I literally cannot imagine the latter. Except, perhaps, when I’m staring wistfully at a bed tray.
Check out the whole series. Previously Laura Lippman also published an essay called Whole 60 on Oldster, and took The Oldster Magazine Questionnaire. She publishes the newsletter Shaved Meats, Piled High.
Lady in the Lake, a miniseries based on Laura Lippman’s thriller by the same name, is currently streaming on Apple TV.
 | A guest post by
|
Just for the record, there is also a thing (my mother had one) called a…wait for it….BED JACKET
My husband brings me “fastidiously brewed coffee” in bed and I sip while reading my morning Substacks and do the crossword puzzle . It’s a lovely way to start the day, especially when the Substacks are this good! (And it’s the only food/beverage other than water I allow in the bed - because ew.) Thank you for such a delightful first read today.