by Roddy Doyle
—Come on, Davy, said Joe.
The car moved slowly off, around, and back out on to the road.
—Your man didn’t charge us, I told Joe.
—Saw tha’, said Joe. —He was sound.
—That was a big fare, I said. —It must be – wha’? – twenty euro from town. More.
—There or thereabouts, said Joe. —Twenty-five, maybe. Come on.
—You sure about this, Joe?
—Wha’? he said. —Of course. You’ll have to lead the way, though – come on.
There was a breeze. It was cool – it was reasonable – for the first time in weeks.
—Hang on, I said. —The heat in there, wait an’ see. Just a sec.
He stood beside me.
I inhaled – exhaled, inhaled.
—Okay, I said.
I pulled open the door, felt myself do it, felt the effort, the decision, momentum. There was nothing holding me back. I nodded to Denis, the security man. He smiled back.
Joe was beside me.
Down the short corridor, through the land of the teddy bears – a couple of couches decked in large stuffed toys – and on to the longer corridor.
—Are there wards? Joe asked.
—They moved him to his own room, I said. —Three days ago – four. Here.
The blinds were down and closed. The ‘Family Only’ sign hung on the door.
I put one hand on the handle, the other on the door glass, and pushed as I also held it back. I realised, I recognised it: this was something I did – used to do – at home in Wantage, with the front door, to stop it from creaking, to stop myself from falling forward. I could hear Faye. You could always oil it. Or stop drinking. Whichever’s handier.
The room was empty.
But it wasn’t. My father was there. In the bed. On the bed, suspended just above it. He was hardly there. His size was a shock. It had been a shock for months, every time I left and came back.
Joe was behind me, beside me.
—Jesus, Davy, he’s so small in the bed.
I nodded.
—Was he small? he asked. —Is he small? He wasn’t, was he? I don’t –
—No, I said. —The same size as me, about. I mean, everyone shrinks when they’re getting older.
—He’s tiny.
—Yeah.
—Jesus, Davy.
I could hear his breathing, my father’s breathing. The rattle was sharper – both weaker and stronger. The death rattle. The name made sense in the room. It hadn’t been like that when I’d left to meet Joe. The sister, the nurse – my nurse – Margaret, had told me that he’d days left.
—Short days, she’d said.
—How do you know?
—I’ve been doing this for years, she said. —Sometimes I feel like an Indian scout. In one of the old westerns. Looking into the sky or putting my ear to the tracks.
—What does short days mean?
—It means you can meet your friend for a meal and a few drinks.
—And he’ll still be here.
—He’ll be here – yes.
Joe had closed the door and now it opened again, behind us. We were standing at the foot of the bed.
I turned.
It was another sister, a different nurse. The different ranks wore different uniforms, different colours. She was one of the senior ones. They seemed to have more clout than the doctors, who I’d rarely seen. They were older, firmer; I believed what they told me.
—You’re here, she said.
—Yes, I said. —I made it.
I hated what I’d just said. I hadn’t felt drunk, I’d stopped being drunk. But now I was drunk again, just stupid. It was some sort of a game – touch the bed before your father dies.
—Good, she said. —You hear him.
—Yeah.
—He’s nearly there.
She got past us.
—Sorry, said Joe. —I’m in your way.
—You’re not.
She went to the top of the bed. She looked down at my father. She looked at the drip – the morphine. The room was dim, almost dark. The candle on the shelf above the radiator was electric. I’d show it to Joe when she left us alone. I’d turn it on and off.
—He’s comfortable, she said.
—Thanks.
—He’s very comfortable, she said. —We’ll turn him again in half an hour.
—Thanks.
I couldn’t remember her name. I couldn’t read her name tag.
—I’m Joe, by the way, said Joe. —A friend of Davy – David’s.
—You’re very good to keep him company, she said. —I’m Maeve.
—I was just sayin’, said Joe. —He’s so small there. She smiled.
—Like a child or somethin’, said Joe.
—Did you have a good night, anyway, lads? she asked.
—Yes, thanks.
—Good, she said. —Good – I’ll leave you alone for a little while.
—Will it be tonight, Maeve? I asked.
—Yes, she said. —I think so.
She was at the door.
—I’ll just be across the way, she said. —You know where to find me.
—Yes.
She was out, gone. The door was shut.
—She’s nice, said Joe.
—Yeah, I said. —They’re all great.
—Nice room.
—Yeah, I said. —It is. It’s very peaceful.
There was a little garden on the other side of the window.
—We can sit down, I said.
—Grand.
—You go that side, Joe, I said. —Go on.
I sat on the chair to the right, at the top of the bed, near my father’s head – his face – on the pillow. Joe placed a chair opposite me.
—Is this okay? he asked.
—Bang on.
—He’s –. He’s right down to basics. Isn’t he?
—Yeah, I said. —You’re right. Did you see your father dyin’, Joe?
—No, he said. —He just died, like. In the garden. I wasn’t there. No one was.
—Was he there long?
—A couple of hours. My mother found him.
—That must’ve been awful for her.
—She was in the house the whole time, he said. —The doctor told her he’d died immediately – dropped dead. But –.
—The poor woman.
—Yeah.
We looked at my father. We listened to the rattle. His face was already stretched, at the mouth and cheeks, as if he’d already reached out for his last breath.
—You haven’t seen anyone die before now, I said.
—No, he said. —Have you?
—No.
—We’re both virgins, so.
—Yep, I said. —How long ago was that?
—My da?
—Yeah.
—Fifteen years. Yeah – fifteen.
—Jesus –. Time.
The window behind me was open.
—It’s not too bad tonight, I said. —Not too hot.
—It’s grand.
—There’s a water fountain thing out there, I said.
—But they had to turn it off.
—’Cos o’ the water restrictions?
—Yeah.
—Fair enough, I suppose.
—It was a nice sound, though, I said. —At this time o’ night, you know.
—Yeah, he said. —What’s the smell, Davy?
—Is there a smell?
—I think so, yeah.
—A bedsore.
—A bedsore?
—A fuckin’ bedsore, yeah.
—Christ.
—It’s the stuff they use to mask the smell, I said. —It’s in the dressing.
—Grand.
—Zinc, I think
they said.
—Really?
—I’ve lost track, a bit, I said. —The HSE women tried somethin’, different things, to mask it – the smell. And that got changed in here – the dressing they’re usin’. I don’t notice it now, really. The real smell’s horrific.
—Must be.
—Fuckin’ horrific, I said. —Embarrassin’.
—How come?
—Just is, I said. —I didn’t look after him properly.
—Ah, Davy.
—I had to change the dressing, myself, I said. —The weekend before he came in here. I couldn’t do it properly. I tried –
—’Course you did.
—So fuckin’ inadequate.
—He’s very old, Davy.
—I know.
—You’re not a nurse – a fuckin’ health professional.
—I know.
—Are you alright? he said. —Do you want something to drink?
—There isn’t a bar.
—There’s a vendin’ machine – lay off. We fuckin’ passed it.
We laughed quietly.
—Can he hear us?
—They say he can, I said. —Or could. He might be too far gone – I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine he can hear us. Lookin’ at him.
—If they say he can –.
—Maybe – yeah.
—D’you want somethin’ to drink? A Coke or whatever.
—Lucozade might be nice.
—Fuckin’ hell, he said. —Can I have that in writin’?
—I like the occasional bottle, I said. —I’ve low blood pressure – sometimes.
—An’ it helps, does it?
—Seems to.
—Okay.
—The sugar, I said. —D’you want to hold his hand?
—No – can I?
I stood up and leaned across my father, and lifted the blanket and sheet enough for Joe to see his hand, and take it.
—Is this okay?
—Of course.
—It’s warm.
—He’s alive.
—Yeah –. Yeah.
—That thing beside you there, I said.
He looked at the lamp – the blue, then green, then blue lamp – on the locker beside the bed.
—That helps with the smell as well, I said.
—Clever.
—They put somethin’ in it. Some kind of oil.
—Wha’?
—They told me, I said. —I can’t remember.
—You’re shite.
—I know, I said.
I looked at Joe looking at my father. I looked at my father.
—They prefer to call them pressure sores, I said.
—Sorry?
—The bedsores, I said. —They call them pressure sores. It’s marketin’, I think.
—Wha’?
—Men our age – which sounds worse? Bedsore or pressure sore?
—No competition. Bedsore.
—So, just change the fuckin’ name, I said. —That’s what I mean. They should be ashamed of themselves – the HSE, the fuckin’ system. For lettin’ the man develop a bedsore like tha’ – for lettin’ me look after him on my own for that long –.
My mouth was full of water – I didn’t know where it had come from. I waited, then swallowed it back.
—So, I said. —Call it a pressure sore an’ it’s not too bad.
—You’re being hard on yourself, Davy.
—When I was doin’ it, I said. —Changin’ the dressing. I had to get him to stand, hold on to his walker, you know. I was tryin’ to clean it without lookin’ at it, at his bum and – you know. And he was half conscious, half himself, an’ I just wanted it to be finished. I was tryin’ not to breathe till I was done. I had all the windows open in the house. It was hot back then, two weeks ago, too. I was tryin’ to get the bandage thing to hold an’ to get the nappy onto him. And he said –.
I was choking again, my head full. There were tissues behind me on the windowsill. I grabbed a couple and blew my nose.
—Sorry.
—What did he say? said Joe.
—This is no kind of a life.
—He said that?
—Yeah.
—Well –. He was right. Wasn’t he?
—Yeah.
—He wasn’t blamin’ you, Davy.
—Yeah – no. I know that. Just –.
—The end’s so fuckin’ messy, isn’t it?
—Your father, I said. —That’s the way to go, isn’t it? Gone before you hit the ground.
—You’d still be leavin’ a terrible fuckin’ mess, though, Davy. Believe me.
—Yeah.
—The shock, the grief, he said. —Dealin’ with the siblings. There’s another word I hate, by the way. Siblings. Jesus, the tension. You’re kind o’ lucky you’ve none.
—Okay.
—You don’t sound convinced.
—I wouldn’t mind a few now, I said.
—Right, he said. —I think I know how you feel.
—Yeah.
—I’ll ask again, he said. —I don’t mean to be snotty.
—No – go on.
—Where’s Faye?
—At home – I told you.
—Why isn’t she here, Davy?
—Ah, well.
I looked at my father. I hadn’t stopped looking at my father.
—I didn’t want her to be here, I said.
—Why?
—It’s somethin’ I had to do on my own, I said. —Somethin’ like that, anyway. He’s my father.
I shrugged.
—Okay, said Joe.
—I don’t know, I said. —I might have treated him badly. I might have been unfair. I was – unfair.
—Okay.
—Years ago.
—Right – okay.
—I felt, I said. —I thought I should do it – this – on my own.
I was wrong: I knew that now. This time, I’d been unfair to Faye.
—He said thank you, I said. —That time. When I was pullin’ up his pyjamas.
—Now – that’s fuckin’ amazin’.
—It is, a bit.
—It’s fuckin’ brilliant, said Joe.
He let go of my father’s hand. He was wiping his eyes. I leaned across the bed, held out the tissues for him.
—Thanks, he said.
He took one, and another. He took off his glasses and put them on the bed, close to my father’s shoulder. He put his hands to his face and kept them there. He moaned, softly. He took down his hands. He looked at the tissues. He turned in his chair and put them on the locker. He looked at my father. He got his glasses from the bed and put them back on.
—Strange night, he said.
—Yeah.
—A good night.
—Tell me about Jess, I said.
—Jesus –.
—Go on.
—I’ve been tellin’ you.
—Go on, I said. —Please.
—Your da might be listenin’.
—Go on, I said. —He liked women. I think. That’s what’s so fuckin’ sad, I think. One of the things.
—He lived alone?
—For so long, yeah.
I’d kept Faye away from him, and Róisín – she’d never really known him. I loved all three and I’d been cruel to all three.
—We all dream o’ that a bit, now an’ again, said Joe.
—Do we? Livin’ on our own.
—Probably – yeah. Now an’ again.
—So, he said. —Trish –. This is a while back.
—A year.
—Yeah – a bit more. But yeah. She was drivin’ me fuckin’ mad. That’s not fair, but fuck it. She was drivin’ me mad. She wanted to move house – an’ we’re only just finished with the fuckin’
mortgage, by the way. Then she wants to knock the whole back o’ the house an’ put in glass. This is in the same breath as sayin’ she wants to move. It seems like that, anyway. An’ it’s all money. That’s not fair either but it is – money. An’ I’m fuckin’ sixty, Davy.
—You’re not.
—I nearly am. An’ so are you. An’ I don’t know –. I was thinkin’ I’d love just to live in one room, on me own, like. Just deal with myself. An’ I met Jess. An’ it was like all that fuckin’ pressure – everythin’. Gone.
The rhythm changed, shifted. My father’s breathing – it quickened. There was a new click in it now, like something had loosened, broken away.
—Will I get the nurse?
—Hang on.
I watched my father. His face – the mask – didn’t change. The breaths, the gaps between them, were definitely quicker. Then, as if he’d stopped snoring or had turned in the bed, the click sound stopped. He was grabbing air in little gasps but the rhythm was steady again.
—Will I get her?
—No, I said. —She’ll be in in a bit anyway. He sounds alright again.
—Does he?
—I think so.
I sat back. I couldn’t help yawning.
—What about your Lucozade? said Joe.
—He’ll die if one of us stands up an’ leaves the room.
—You don’t believe that.
—I kind o’ do, I said. —I went out for a pint with you an’ look where we ended up.
—Fair enough.
—But no, I said. —Not really. I don’t believe it. But then – I’ve hardly been out of this place since he came in. It’s horrible, walkin’ out. Walkin’ away from him.
—Includin’ tonight.
—Yeah, I said. —Go on, though.
—Jess?
—Yes, please.
—Right, he said. —Jesus. I feel like I’m doin’ a job interview now.
—Chief executive adulterer.
—Fuck off.
—The job’s yours. Go on – you met her.
—Yeah, he said. —And everything. Lifted. After I realised tha’ we wouldn’t be shaggin’ in the back of the car or anythin’ like tha’. And tha’ now – it was a relief, really. But. Anyway. We’d be chattin’ away and I realised – it occurred to me, gradually. But there was a moment, a for fuck sake moment. One o’ those – when it occurred to me. I loved listenin’ to her, Davy. Her voice. Just that.
I nodded. I knew exactly what he meant.
—Just that, he said again. —But then as well, I realised when I was listenin’. She’d be talkin’ abou’ somethin’ that had happened years before but she wasn’t just tellin’ me. She was remindin’ me.