Dr. Lee’s name was Mark, and that’s what Slava called him now, for airs and graces disappeared in this kind of conversation. Mark was trying to explain to Slava that her father’s brain had exploded, but in medical terms. He was using a metal pointer to describe the mass on the x-ray. Slava was looking at a drawing of a cartoon mouse on the wall when he’d done that. She didn’t need a diagram.
Mark was patient. He’d dealt with many versions of grief and pain before.
‘Well, the aneurysm contributed to a subarachnoid hemorrhage. It was so severe, that it makes me think it was happening over a long period of time, just hadn’t been diagnosed.’
‘Like a ticking— ‘
‘Time bomb. Yes.’ Mark nodded and leaned back in his chair as if they were having the most natural of conversations, and not about a man who was dying in the other room. ‘What was his lifestyle like? Did he smoke?
‘Yes. All his life.’
‘Did he have a healthy diet?’
Slava offered a weary laugh. ‘If you can call inches of butter on his bread, and coffee white with heavy cream and plenty of sugar in it, and alcohol-fueled card games at midnight… healthy?’ She wiped a tear off her cheek and cleared her throat. It felt like dry, broken glass. ‘What about his other scans, what did they show? Reception, or rather the nurse who was sitting at reception, told us that he’d been in the neurosciences unit.’
Mark picked up the chart that had been attached to Henry’s door. ‘Well, it says here that when he was admitted, his blood pressure reading was 200 systolic over 105 diastolic…’
His blood was bubbling like a pot of boiling water, basically. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered.
‘Yes. There was extensive bleeding on the brain, and the current scans show no activity at all.’ His face was sympathetic. ‘No change from before.’
‘So, the respirator is breathing for him, basically. But what about the rest of him?’
He put the charts down and leaned forward. ‘His brain shows no activity, but his heart is extraordinarily strong, considering what condition he was in when he got here. It could very easily keep going for days, weeks, or it could stop within hours. His brain, however, is… well…’
‘Gone.’ Slava hung her head.
‘Yes. There are no electrical impulses being sent from his brain. The machines are helping him breathe, which obviously circulates oxygenated blood through the body, but the heart's intrinsic electrical system can keep the organ beating for a short while after a person becomes brain-dead — and some biological processes — including kidney and gastric functions — can continue for a week or so. Alternatively, the heart could just give up on its own.’
‘Okay, so what do I need to do?’
‘I’d say give yourselves time with him, and then you can decide if you want to keep him on machines, or…’
‘…let him die with dignity, and no artificial means,’ Slava interrupted.
‘Yes, that’s a way of putting it.’
‘Thank you.’
Mark walked back around his desk and sat on the edge, folding his hands on his thighs. ‘I'm really so sorry.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘If you need time in here, just take whatever you need. Or ask me anything. Do you need me to bring your mother in?’
‘No,’ Slava shook her head. ‘I’ll go back in a minute.’
He nodded and walked off, Slava watching his white lab coat dust the sides of the door frame and turn the corner.
Slava listened to the quiet of the room, and heard the noise of the hospital behind her, as if a thick fog had settled. Her father, the man that seemed to be the strongest, tenacious man she had ever met, had lost his fight; his mind had given up. And yet his heart refused to let go.
Glen Cove spread out in a spill of land that had was connected by green spaces and winding roads that worked their way towards the Long Island Sound. You could see it all on a clear day, standing at the perfect height, or sat on their favorite bench by the beach, watching the water lap the sand. Julia saw it all now, through the hospital window and felt as if she were standing on the precipice of something unfamiliar. The feeling merged with a distant memory: of arriving at the western edge of Australia with Henry, looking out at the edge of a ship and seeing nothing but water at their feet and the long edge of a country that she’d never eyes on before. The difference was, that she was now alone, and the cry of seagulls were replaced with the whine of machines.
Julia felt certain areas of her body light up, whilst the rest stayed disconnected: she was conscious of her breath, as if she had to focus to remember to breathe; her ankles hurt, but her feet and legs felt numb; her fingertips felt cold; she’d been grinding her teeth apparently because her jaw now ached. She walked over to the chair that she’d just left, and moved it closer to Henry’s bed, up at his head.
She leaned forward, her face a couple inches from him and scanned his skin: it was pale and sunken, the dark circles under his eyes not as pronounced as they had once been, probably an effect of the machined oxygen coursing through his lungs. His hair was brushed back. When had it turned so silvery? How had she missed that? she thought. His lips were soft and flat, relaxed underneath the cannula under his nose that was taped to both cheeks. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked at him so closely, so acutely aware of the texture of his face, the shadow of his eyelashes, the way his hair lay, the soft fuzz that had grown on the edges of his ears. It was the way a child would look at its parents: intently, faces up close, digesting and imprinting it all. Adults, they just don’t. She spied a few freckles under his right eye, and saw the grey in his eyebrows, still as full and pronounced as they were when she’d met him.
She delicately followed the map of his face with her finger, creating a permanent mark on her memory. She followed the lines on his forehead, the shape of his hairline, his jaw, chin and neck. She laid her palm on his head, similar to what she imagined she would do with her own daughter when she was ill. ‘Henry’, She whispered. ‘Henry, what’s happened to you,’ she asked, as she placed her hand in his limp one. She smiled at how big it still was, compared to her own. It felt heavy and lifeless and unnatural, and she’d hoped that by holding it she could warm it slightly.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Slava pulled up a chair and sat next to her.
‘You know,’ She spoke without looking at Slava, tracing her finger around his wedding band, ‘I never thought he’d stop. I thought he’d live forever, or at least until he’d learn to slow down and spend time doing the things he loved.’
‘I know, Mama. I always thought the same.’ Slava leaned forward and rolled the IV drip to the side. The click and whirr of the ventilator responded. ‘It was too much for you both. Too much work, too much worry, maybe.’ She moved her hair off her shoulder, the blonde streaks bright against the blue of her sweater.
‘He would be so disappointed with this,’ Julia gestured to the room. ‘‘Dai Bozshe, for God’s Sake, look at me now’, he’d say. ‘’Look at this useless body doing nothing but lying around!’’ A laugh escaped as she blinked away tears. ‘So undignified, this end, for someone like him. And now what do we do?’
Slava rested her hand on Julia’s arm. They let the silence in, the weight of the day. The minutes drifted as they sat in their own thoughts.
Julia turned to Slava. ‘Do you need a minute with him, rabbit?’
Slava weakened at the childhood nickname that she hadn’t heard in years. Her mother had carried a distance with her for so long, and this one little word revealed an incredible amount. ‘Yes, Mama. She turned and saw that Emilian was still there, keeping quiet vigil, reading a book. ‘Emilian can help you get some coffee.’ She helped her up and led her to the door.
It was many minutes before Slava spoke. At first, she felt embarrassed that she had nothing to say, and no plan with how to say it. Her father had always called her a ‘planner’. You always need a reason for things. You probably get that from me. She was in a r
oom that felt like a vacuum. It could have been hours that she’d been sitting there, or it could have been seconds. Nothing mattered.
She leaned back in her chair. ‘Papa, can I tell you something?’
The machines whirred.
‘I wish I knew more about you and Mama. I wish I knew more about what happened to her, to you, to your lives. I get a sense that I wasn’t ever told much, just the things at the surface. It created distance; like I’d missed something important.’ She shifted in her chair at the admission. ‘Emilian always told me that it would get there. I would know more, just like everyone does when they get older. You know, parents ending up looking like regular people, doing their best.’ A sigh escaped. ‘But we never got there, you and I.’
A beep from the machine prompted her to glance at the monitor, but it was nothing urgent.
‘I haven’t asked Mama about her life. Maybe I will, I don’t know. I feel like with this happening, you here, I need to take that opportunity. Get to know her, I guess.’ Slava rested both hands in front of her stomach, fingers laced together. ‘Maybe that’s something that as a wife and a mother and a woman you just, you bury things and solve them slowly on your own. Not letting people in. Maybe that’s what you do for your children. For your husband. For your family. You lock things away so you can love each other the best way you can.’ Her throat caught. ‘Papa, you loved each other. I don’t remember anything much about Australia, but I remember the love.’
Please talk to me. Just one word.
Slava shifted her feet softly, like a child. ‘I remember anger too. Especially as I got older. But all you needed to say to each other was I love you. It’s not that hard.’
She looked up at him and pulled her hair down onto her shoulder, twirling it around her finger as she’d done when she was little. She was a daughter who was losing a father and telling him all the things that she’d never been able to. She’d just needed more time: more time to learn about who he was, more time to tell him who she was. So, she told him now, because she knew she would always do the same for the baby growing inside her— she would tell her everything.
‘Papa, I love you’ she whispered, and her chest crackled as she began to sob.
‘I'm so sorry for the things that I’ve never said to you and for the moments we never got a chance to share. I'm sorry for not being the daughter that listened and behaved and made you chase me around the house when I was naughty,’ she laughed through her tears. ‘I'm sorry I never took walks with you and asked you what your favorite season was, or your favorite piece of music.’ She pressed on her cheeks to dry the tears. ‘I'm sorry that we didn’t hug, or kiss or show each other anything but expectation. I know it was always understood, but we could have said it more.’ The bedsheet was wet, her face swollen as she leaned on her hands on the metal rail beside his bed.
She turned her head to the side and her eyes became distant at the beginning of a memory. ‘Papa, do you remember that day that I walked into the greenhouse and you were angry at me because you were worried that I would break something, but then I watched you, and I listened. Mama told me that was the day you told me about the orchids. You told me how to care for them and how to raise them and how to protect them.’
She stood up, the shadows of the afternoon filtering into the room, creating glittering shapes of the bits of dust in the air. She leaned over and kissed his forehead, like a mother to a child, lingering to imprint the feel of his skin on her memory. ‘Ya tebe lyublyu, Papa. I love you. Thank you for being my father.’ She felt her stomach again. Only she and Emilian knew their secret, and now her father would. ‘I wish you could have met your grandchild.’
The machines beeped and hummed.
When she left the room, she saw the name on the door again. RUDNIC. She reached over to his chart, withdrew a black pen and quickly drew a K at the end. ‘There you go,’ she smirked and wiped a tear away. ‘You would’ve wanted me to do that.’
That evening as the streets grew dark and quiet and the bright lights of the hospital shone, Emilian, Julia and Slava maintained a vigil in his room or in the hallway. Slava had explained to Julia as plainly as possible that the man they had loved was dying, and Julia had known, despite the words breaking her heart. She had felt it in the air around him, in the room she had seen him in, even the night where she couldn’t wake him up. Her strength was in knowing, and in the decision she knew she had to make soon.
Nurses drifted in and out at regular intervals, checking on vital signs. Sometimes the family were together, but oftentimes apart, one of them grabbing coffee or water or something to eat. Julia prayed at his side with a fist of rosary, and Slava paced, or watched her mother through the glass, wondering who the girl was that had lost the man she had loved.
‘Hey, do you want to go home for a bit, for a little sleep, and then come back?’ Emilian looked as tired as Slava suspected she was, but she hadn’t looked in a mirror all day. He was her mirror.
‘Yeah, probably. We can stay at my mother’s, if that’s okay?’
Emilian nodded in response.
Slava looked through the glass. Her mother was still praying. ‘She’d be there all night if she could.’
‘She won’t go willingly.’
Slava shrugged and opened the door to the room.
‘Mama?’ She walked over and saw her mother’s face. She looked as if she was in a dream, her eyes staring and tired.
‘Yes? Any news for Papa?’
Slava shook her head. ‘Listen, I think we should go home to rest a little, and then we can come back later, or tomorrow? You need to have some sleep.’
‘Can I stay here?’
‘No, Mama. They’ll take good care of him, don’t worry.’
Julia nodded trustingly. ‘Can you leave me? I’ll be ready in a minute.’
Slava nodded and walked out, softly closing the door behind her.
Julia stood up and walked over to the window again. The sky was the kind of blue that was lit from within, not the kind of night that was black as pitch and had no depth. She could see cottony white clouds, the scattered stars, and the red light of a plane, winking in the distance. Further still, she saw the faint warm lights of houses that lined the shore. Not far from those houses was their own. Hers, now. They had settled their life in it together, piece by piece, and they were happy. She would be surrounded by memories of him, and it would fill the space without him there. She grabbed her right hand, spun her wedding ring round and round in a type of meditation. Forty years of seeing someone’s life burn bright. And now, snuffed out.
She turned to look at him and the sight of his peaceful face made her lips tremble. Tears fell. ‘Henry, you know, you weren’t the easiest person. But then, neither was I. We suffered greatly, you and I, so many broken pieces that we couldn’t put back together,’ she tilted her head to the side. ‘But we had each other. And that was enough.’ There was forgiveness in her voice.
She walked over to him and sat down, taking his hand in hers, the touch of him still so comforting and safe. ‘I will miss you’ she whispered, for ‘love’ was too great a word to bear out loud. And as her lips touched his cheek, she watched his eyes, in the fleeting hope that he would respond with just a single movement.
The next morning, the sun dangled in the sky and a dark pink ribbon of cloud stretched across the horizon. Shops opened their doors and reversed their ‘closed’ signs, people carried their morning coffees to work, waves lapped the shore, and the sound of birdsong crept over the winds. In the small house on Cooper Slava slept in Emilian’s arms, their secret safe and warm inside her, and Julia slept heavily in the other room, clutching Henry’s pillow to her body.
The world was welcoming a new day with simmering activity. But in Henry Rudnick’s room, a man who had lived a life that had been vast and complicated and loud, the machines finally fell silent.
34
On the afternoon of the funeral, the grey stone church stood lonely against the weather, its sta
ined glass muted. The cold rain ran in rivulets against the dark cars that collected on the road, the sky was an opaque grey. As they sat in the car in front of the church, at a distance behind the hearse, Julia rested her face on the window and looked out. They’d been there together, she and Henry, for an occasional Sunday morning mass. It was an easy walk from their house, a straight smooth gravel road and then a left past the cemetery. They’d come here together even today, but she would leave alone.
‘Mama, are you ready?’ Slava undid the seatbelt that had nested itself under her protruding belly and turned to Julia. She saw her mother gazing at the church, the car windows spattered with rain.
‘My mother used to tell me that death is simple.’ Her voice broke. ‘It doesn’t care for ceremony.’ Julia’s face remained facing the church, recalling this memory in a trance. Slava watched her mother as she grieved, and reached over to Emilian in the driver’s seat, finding his hand and squeezing it as Julia continued. ‘Death does not care of wind, or rain, or sun, for nothing matters when the time comes to meet with God.’ She wiped a tear from her cheek and looked down. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’
Julia watched as people streamed into the church, the heavy, ornate wooden doors held open by two priests (one Ukrainian, one English). Some she recognized, many she didn’t. Word had spread in the city, and then farther still to anyone that had known Henry, that a great spirit had dimmed, and his obituary was the flag for mourning: for immigrants, for Ukrainians, for people that had survived journey, and for those that hadn’t. It was a celebration of his life, and a grieving for it.
People were huddled and whispering in groups: somber black suits, and dresses adorned with red wooden beads and embroidered flowers, smells of hairspray and rose-tinged perfumes combining with heavy colognes. Surely funerals should be private, thought Julia. People are only here to mourn their own loss, and eat the food carefully laid out for them. Her anger was misplaced, but it was normal. Her husband had created a community of spirits, and his sudden absence in their lives unsettled them.
Motherland Page 28