Saving Alice (24 page)
D
uring the following week, I visited Paul in the hospital twice daily, a few hours in the morning, a few more in the evening. Susan and I alternated “visiting” duty. She was a shadow of her former self, as if she’d finally crossed the point of no return. Her own prognosis was dim, although not life-threatening. Her nose, so badly damaged, probably would never look the same again.
I tried consoling her, to no avail. Slowly, she closed herself up, devastated not only by the physical abuse and the betrayal of yet another fervent wish, but with the diminishment of what she had seen as her only asset. Her own “trading” account was now down to zero.
Eventually they moved Paul to another room, upgraded his status to serious, and continued to watch his progress. He hadn’t regained consciousness since the accident, and his brain monitor continued to show erratic signs.
Waiting there, sitting with Paul’s mother in the sterility of the waiting room, had a disconnecting effect on me. With Paul lying there unaware of his surroundings, I felt nearly jealous of his oblivion.
At work I muddled through, and as usual Larry never noticed.
One foot in front of another,
I repeated to myself. Eating and drinking lost their appeal, and I lost five pounds in seven days.
Monitoring the caller ID, I ignored all but the most pertinent of calls. Donna called several times and left a couple of messages: “Sally told me you called.” Later: “Did you get my message, Stephen?” And finally: “I’m worried about you, Stephen.”
By Wednesday, the initial panic gave way to something akin to mental anesthesia. By Friday, further removed yet, I felt something akin to relief, as though divorced from the “pressure” of seeking success.
Friday afternoon, my mother called. Suddenly, we were in the land of stranger-than-fiction.
“Your father has been admitted,” she said.
She told me Dad had doubled over with a terrible case of heartburn while tooling around in his garage. The doctors had commenced a series of tests, but the initial consensus was positive. Gallbladder attack was the initial prognosis, and most likely surgery would be scheduled to remove it.
“Stephen, he wants to see you.”
“What room?” I asked. She told me—and the number was a mere three hospital doors down from Paul.
I dashed down the steps to Main Street, jumped in my car, and ten minutes later I was climbing the hospital steps to the second floor. Reaching my father’s room, I knocked softly and heard my mother’s voice. “It’s open.”
I pushed the door open, slowly crossing the threshold. My mother, wearing a flowery blue dress, was sitting on the heat register at the end of the room, her back against the windows, her arms braced against the vent. My father’s room was a carbon copy of Paul’s—same speckled linoleum tile, sky blue walls, pastel prints hanging, and warped plastic chairs, issued in bright primary colors.
Lying in a bed surrounded by chest-high aluminum bars, my father’s eyes were closed, his mouth partially open. He had clear plastic tubes in his nostrils, which crossed his cheeks, looped over his ears, and connected under his chin. From there they extended to a hole in the wall. Another tube snaked from his arm to a bag of fluid hanging from a pole, and I recognized a blood pressure cuff. Little wires were connected to adhesive patches on his chest, which ran to a heart rate monitor. I watched the EKG line flicker—squiggly marks, line, squiggly marks, line. Another number indicated his heart rate. He looked terribly vulnerable.
Mom rose from her perch, leaned over him, and passed a gentle hand across his forehead, then smoothed his silvery hair. She’d always been so proud of his full mane, and Dad wore it—and preened it— like a peacock.
You got that from me,
he once said, appraising my own hair.
“Mom’s father is bald, so the verdict is still out,” I’d told him, determined to deny him the right to pass anything of value to me.
I sat in the flimsy chair. “Is he in pain?”
Mom bit her lip and nodded. “This came out of nowhere.”
I leaned forward, reaching for her hand. “How are you holding up?”
She nodded again, and her eyes blinked as she did so. “He was asking for you,” she said. “On the way here.”
I requested further medical clarification, and she gave it to me. They’d scheduled him for an abdominal ultrasound. I inquired of the garage episode, and she indicated that he’d been popping antacids like candy. “But you know how your father is…”
Yes,
I thought, wondering how many times I’d heard her defend him with those words.
She sequenced the details for me, then fell silent. I remained with her for several hours as the nurses traipsed in and out with overly cheerful countenances.
Don’t they know where they are?
I thought, and yet, at that point, it hadn’t even occurred to me, or anyone, that my father’s hours could be numbered.
Just after seven o’clock my father finally opened his eyes half mast. His gaze lingered on me, and his words came out in a raspy whisper, “Well, I’ll be the court jester.”
Mom echoed the sentiment, which seemed to hearken back to an earlier conversation. “I told you he’d come.”
I didn’t know what to do—rise to my feet, approach the bed, or stay sitting. My father’s gesture solved it for me. “Let me get a look at ya.”
I rose and went to stand beside the bed.
“I got heartburn, that’s all. I shouldn’t even be here anymore.”
“Let ’em finish their tests, Dad.”
He shook his head. “So I gotta get sick to see my own son?”
My mother stifled an angry snort. “Lou…”
I smiled at Mom to assure her and looked down upon this man I’d spent my life trying to avoid. In that moment, I came face-to-face with the truth of my emotions—the fact that for years, I hadn’t cared whether he lived or died.
My father cleared his throat. “I got a will, you know.”
“Lou!” my mother exclaimed. “That’s unnecessary. You’re going to be fine.”
“It’s routine, Dad,” I added.
My dad was nothing if not stubborn. He stopped, swallowed, then gazed up at me. “I left you something.”
I shook my head, and Mom jumped to her feet. “Lou, you can give it to him yourself, if it’s so all-fired important.”
All-fired?
That’s the closest my mother had ever come to swearing.
“Dad, you’re just like Alycia. You’re a drama king.”
Still looking up at me, he winked, and then his eyes drooped shut again. He didn’t awaken again that evening, and around ten o’clock, I bid my mother farewell, promising to stop by again tomorrow.
“Morning?”
I nodded, pursing my lips as I did so.
“He wanted to talk to you,” she said.
“And he did.”
She shook her head adamantly. “No, Stephen. He really wanted to talk.”
I shrugged
okay,
wondering if the stress was getting to her.
“I’m sleeping here tonight,” she continued. “Maybe I’ll stop at Ruth’s for a little while in the morning.”
Ruth Westerly was my mother’s best friend from church. I reached out for her and hugged her tightly. She hugged me back. “Promise?” she whispered again.
“I promise, Mom.”
She patted my back. “It felt so good to have you here.”
“He’s fine, Mom. Relax.”
As I drove home, and as I pondered the last few hours, I realized I’d forgotten to look in on Paul. Only a few rooms away.
Bizarre,
I thought, struck again by the absurdity. First Paul, then my father …
what next?
Like a page out my childhood
Ripley’s
.
In the driveway, I shut off the engine and gripped the steering wheel, impressed with the impulse to pray, to say something—
anything
—to God.
I racked my brain, started
O God,
and came up with nothing else.
T
he next day, Saturday, I awakened at four o’clock, my head pounding again. I stumbled to the bathroom, and the mirror revealed the results of my fitful night. I went back to the couch, hoping for another hour or two, but sleep eluded me.
At ten, I finally dragged myself up and called Donna. When I gave her the news about Dad, she was concerned.
“Apparently … it’s just routine. But—”
“But what?”
I shrugged as though she could see me. “Nothing.”
“Are you worried?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
I had difficulty putting it into words. My father had looked worse than his diagnosis.
“Oh, Stephen, Alycia will want to see him.”
I didn’t question Donna’s assessment, regardless of Alycia’s low opinion of her grandfather. I suggested stopping by to pick her up.
“No,” Donna said. “We’ll meet you there.”
We agreed to meet at the hospital in thirty minutes. When I arrived, Donna, in light slacks and striped blouse, and Alycia, in jeans and T-shirt, were waiting for me in the main-floor reception area. The moment I walked in through the doors, Alycia rushed to me. We hugged beneath the crucifix. “Is Grandpa gonna die?” she asked.
I smiled down at her and wiped the tears from her eyes. “No, honey.”
I hugged her again. Moments later, the three of us rode the elevator to the second floor, where I led them across the linoleum floor to room 252.
Donna paused before entering. “Where’s Paul?”
I nodded down the hallway.
Donna shook her head in disbelief. I shrugged to acknowledge what she must have been thinking. She asked me the prognosis, and I shrugged again. “No one knows yet. But it doesn’t look promising.” Donna put her hand to her mouth.
“We’re hoping for the best,” I said, the kind of trite remark that comes way too easily in the midst of disaster.
She reached out and touched my shoulder before realizing what she’d done. When she retracted it, I smiled, and she smiled back. An innocent mistake. We walked in.
My father’s eyes were still closed, and his expression seemed coffinlike. The moment my mother spotted Donna, she burst into tears. With arms wide open, she practically ran across the room.
“I’ve missed you,” Donna exclaimed, and my mother echoed the sentiment. They collapsed into each other’s embrace.
Alycia moseyed over next to me. Before I knew it, she was leaning against me so heavily I had to step back with one leg in order to stay upright.
“It’s okay, sweetie.”
“I know, Dad. I’m just … sensitive, okay?”
I chuckled. “No kidding.”
She elbowed me in the ribs.
“Ouch.”
While my mother laid out the chronology of the entire sorry situation for Donna, Alycia remained buried in my arms. I squeezed her even tighter, kissing the top of her head, and she sniffed.
Donna and Alycia stayed for another two hours, during which time my father remained asleep, but they were present, at least, for the verdict, and it wasn’t what we expected. Dr. Parmele came in, friendly but professional, holding a folder. “I need to talk to the family.”
Donna stepped closer to me, giving me a look that said, in no uncertain terms, she still qualified. Speaking softly and compassionately, the doctor, nevertheless, stated the unvarnished truth. “I’m afraid we’ve made another discovery. It was difficult to spot at first but…”
I could sense Mom bracing herself. Donna frowned in anticipation.
“I’m afraid we’ve found a large aortic aneurism,” the doctor finished. She looked at my mother. “We need to schedule immediate surgery.”
At first none of us said a word, reading instead the doctor’s grim demeanor.
“When?” I asked, and Dr. Parmele looked at her folder again. “No later than tomorrow, but there’s no need for ICU. He’ll be in good care here.”
When she walked out, my mother nearly collapsed into her seat, and Donna rushed to grab her arm. Alycia leaned against me again and burst into tears.
Early afternoon, when it was time to take Alycia home, Donna wanted to talk. She paused at the door, nodding for Alycia to go on ahead. “I’ll meet you just outside the downstairs elevator, honey.”
In the hallway, Donna and I compared impressions, and we both agreed: Something besides my father’s situation was bothering Alycia. Normally, she was a rock of courage during tragic events, determined to be strong for everyone else.
“I’ll call her later,” I said.
Donna began to move down the hall again, but I touched her arm. She turned, her eyes inquisitive. I heard my mother’s voice muffled from within the room, then my father’s husky tone. Apparently, he was awake.
I took another breath. We stood there awkwardly until she bridged the gap and hugged me. She smelled just as I remembered, but it seemed terribly different. She was here because she wanted to be, not because she had to come out of a sense of responsibility. I resisted the inclination to linger within her arms. She felt comfortable, warm and safe, and when I let her go, she kissed me on the cheek and smiled into my eyes as though we hadn’t been divorced just a few weeks earlier.
Minutes later, Larry came by, carrying a bouquet of flowers.
My father rasped out humorously. “I ain’t no female, son.”
“Flowers are for men too,” my mother assured him.
Larry didn’t skip a beat. “Actually … I was hoping to impress the nurses. Maybe … get a date or something…”
“Well, then,” my father exclaimed, gesturing to his fold-out table. “Put ’em front and center. I’ll put in a good word with that cute brunette down the hall.”
Larry sat down and bantered with my father while my mother left the room to compose herself. When she returned, her face splotchy, Larry offered to bring supper for her, as though playing the dutiful son she supposedly never had. She politely accepted his offer.
“Bring me some ice cream,” my father said, tongue-in-cheek.
Larry laughed and left the room.
It was early evening when my father, after taking another nap, decided it was time for our talk. Larry had left hours before, having punched my shoulder on the way out. Hard. It still smarted.
My mother rose. “I’ll be down the hall.”
“Stay, Mom.”
Dad shook his head. “I need to talk to Stephen alone.”
Hidden from my father’s view, Mom lingered at the doorway.
Be careful,
her eyes said, and I nodded, which seemed to reassure her.
Once Mom had left, my father’s eyes closed again. At first I wondered if he’d suddenly fallen asleep again. Then, without looking at me, he said, “I don’t blame you at all, Stephen.”
I was prepared to head him off at the pass. I didn’t want to hear his premature deathbed confessions. “You’re going to be fine, Dad. Let’s not do this, today.”
He opened his eyes. “Do what?!”
“Anything that will needlessly rile you,” I said. “You need to stay calm.”
“Stephen, please,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “May I have five minutes of your time?”
I sighed. My father swallowed, then started again. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”
I looked down at the floor. “I don’t hate you.”
My father licked his lips and considered my dubious reply. “What kind of idiot do you think I am?”
“Dad, please—”
“I can’t make up for being a lousy father, but I
can
apologize, and if you don’t want to accept it, then don’t, but at this point, that’s all I got.”
I expelled an exasperated breath, still looking at the floor. When he didn’t continue, I looked up. His eyes were closed again. I waited for another minute before he spoke again.
“I never intended to cheat anyone, but there’s a whole lotta folks who’ll tell you otherwise. I was trying to help, Stephen. I just … wasn’t very good at it.”
“You were a good salesman,” I said, for lack of something better to say.
He blew out an exasperated breath. “That’n’ a quarter will get you a cup a coffee.”
“Dad—”
“I don’t want to rehearse the past, Stephen. There comes a time when you just chuck the whole thing and hope that God sorts it out.” My father took a deep long breath and sighed. He opened his eyes again and fixed me with a piercing gaze. “I kept ’em,” he said. “You were only twelve when I realized the game was over, but I kept ’em anyway.”
I tried to make sense of his seeming incoherence.
“They’re in a box,” he said. “Your mother knows what they are, and when you see them, you’ll understand. I wanted it all back, Stephen, but by the time I woke up, it was too late.”
My father struggled with his composure. “I wanted it back…”
“Dad, get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
He snorted. “I got all eternity to sleep.”
I resisted the inclination to chide him. “I’m going to get Mom.”
Dad reached out and grabbed my arm. I was startled by his strength, like a vise grip, and his eyes pierced my own. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “If not for her, I’d die with nothing.”
I forced a smile. “Mom’s special. We all know that.”
Closing his eyes, he sighed, and I gently pulled away from his grip. “I’ll get her for you, Dad.”
After I had found Mom and we returned to the room, Dad lay very still. I assumed he’d dozed off again, but his face lacked color.
He’s tired,
I told myself, ignoring the queasy feeling in my gut. For the next few hours, Mom and I shared few words, and Dad didn’t awaken. Mom thumbed through a gardening magazine, if for no other reason than to stay occupied, and I caught a few winks in the chair, thinking about the upcoming scheduled surgery.
Snippets of our conversation flickered through my mind.
I got all eternity to sleep.
And I cringed at the memory of our last phone call.
Come with me,
he’d said.
I was suddenly awakened to the sound of a continuous shrill beep.
Code blue 252
echoed over the intercom system. I glanced up at the heart monitor and to my horror, realized the EKG had flatlined. Before I could react, several nurses burst into the room, pulling what appeared to be a big red toolbox. In a flash, our room became the center of frenetic activity.
I hugged my trembling mother, who prayed under her breath. One nurse opened the box and pulled out two paddles, and another nurse ushered us out of the room. As the door closed behind us, I heard the words, “Charge! Clear!”
For thirty minutes, Mom and I hovered by the door, waiting for any word. Finally, a doctor came out, his face glistening with sweat. I recognized the truth in his grim expression. So did my mother. “He’s with Jesus,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “Dear Lord, watch over my husband.”
The doctor continued speaking. “His aneurism must have ruptured. We don’t know for sure, but an autopsy would confirm this.”
As I tried to listen, my thoughts were as incoherent and rambling as my father’s speech.
He was perfectly fine a few hours ago
.
They allowed us to visit Dad one last time, to say our good-byes. I did my best to simply hold Mom as tightly as I could, until she’d said everything she’d needed to say and the nurse gently lifted the sheet over Dad’s face.
A few minutes later, two men in blue hospital gowns gently lifted my father’s body to a gurney. As Mom and I followed, they took him downstairs. The mortuary had already been notified.
The next few hours were a blur. Larry came back. Ruth was there. Eventually, all the arrangements had been made, and when my mother hugged me good-bye, just before getting into Ruth’s car, she whispered what I would have expected: “You’re in shock, Stephen. Please don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself.”
My throat closed. My dear mother. Her husband had just died, and she was worried about me. Dazed, I drove home in the dark, through a world that had changed suddenly. Inside the house, and alone again, I tried to embrace the reality of it. My father was dead. I slept fitfully that night, trying to erase the last images of my father’s life.
The next morning, I drove up to Frederick to attend Sunday church with my mother. She’d insisted on seeing her friends again, regardless of the timing.
When we entered the church, the entire congregation converged upon us. People I’d never met before hugged me, offering condolences.
“Your father talked about you nonstop,” someone said to me. “His death was so sudden!”
“You look just like him,” someone else whispered in my ear, and for once it didn’t seem like such a blight.
We sat up front again, like privileged guests. The pastor acknowledged my mother from the pulpit, then announced the plans for a Wednesday funeral. I reached over and patted Mom’s hand.
“He’s in a better place,” she said, smiling through the anguish in her eyes.
