May We Be Forgiven: A Novel

by Homes, A. M.

  “I’m gonna pass,” the guy says. “I have to get back to work. But I’m curious what’s wrong with you, that you’re lying in bed ordering rice pudding and Scotch.”

  “I’m dying,” the man says, “and you know what’s amazing? Today I really did almost die once, they were about to let me go, and now that I lived, I feel great, not like I’ll live forever, but I’m okay with dying.” He pauses. “I’m dying,” he says. “I’ve said it more today than ever before, and suddenly it’s a fact, something that’s out there, like a coming attraction at the movies.”

  “I guess we’re all dying,” the deli guy says. “I mean, sooner or later we gotta go.”

  The woman who delivered the hospital meals comes to collect my tray. She stays for a slice of pizza and a few fries.

  I’m enjoying the cheeseburger; it’s a perfectly gummy, gristly combination, cut by the salty fries and the sour snap of the pickles. I am well past my fill line when I take a tumbler of rice pudding and fill both of our hospital-issue blue plastic cups with Scotch.

  “You want me to get some ice?” I ask.

  “A straw,” he says, “a straw would be good.”

  We’ve propped up the head of his bed, and now he’s happily sucking down the Scotch.

  “I wouldn’t mind a square of chocolate,” he says.

  I give him a whole bar. “Live it up.”

  Bloated, belching French fries and pickle juice, and trailing the IV pole behind me, I take the trash down the hall and stuff it in a can on the other side of the floor. The nurses seem pleased at how well I’m getting around, dragging my sluggish side, sporting one gown worn forward, another worn in reverse, the chic way of shielding the butt.

  We watch one of the cop shows on TV, and sometime between ten and eleven, he feels restless, uncomfortable, and buzzes the nurse asking for Maalox. They tell him there’s no order for Maalox on his chart. He asks if his papers have otherwise been updated.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Good,” he says.

  “Just because I lived earlier doesn’t mean I’m not dying now,” he reminds me.

  Sometime after midnight, a frightful sound wakes me up. The roommate is pitched forward, eyes bugged out as if a terrifying nightmare has grabbed him. I buzz the nurse. “Hurry” is all I can say. Before they get there, he’s already slumped back in the bed, limp.

  First one nurse comes and then a roomful and the red crash cart. They’re rushing, shouting, cracking vials of drugs, shooting him full of this and that. It’s brutal and terrifying, and at some point it’s clear that, despite how hard they’re trying, it’s not going to turn out for the best. After they’ve shocked him twice and his body literally bounced up off the bed—and while they’re still upon him like vultures—I walk out of the room. I pace, dragging my weak leg behind me, up and down the hall and finally back into the room, where I’m standing pressed into a corner when they “call it” at twelve-forty-eight. They cover him with a clean sheet and leave, taking their magic cart with them. There is debris everywhere, syringe parts, gauze, plastic bits. He lies under the sheet. I come closer, never having seen a body not breathing. The creases of the fresh sheet relax over him. I hold his hand, touch his face, his leg. His body is still warm, human, but vacant, the muscles dropping away from the bone, all tension dissipated. They leave us alone, and about an hour later, two security guards come with a gurney and take him away. Something about it, the here and gone of it all, is too strange.

  The room still smells like French fries.

  I need to talk. If I call the house, what will happen? Will the machine with Jane’s voice pick up? If I speak, if I beg, if I prattle on long enough, the dog minder may answer. If I bark, maybe Tessie will bark back. I want to call Tessie. Tessie and Jane.

  I am about to dial when a nurse comes in to offer me a sleeping pill.

  “It’s not easy,” she says.

  I accept the pill. She pours water into my cup, not realizing she’s mixing it with Scotch. I say nothing and swallow it all, the sleeping pill, the Scotch.

  She stays until I sleep.

  In the morning, the bed next to mine is stripped, the floor washed, the debris swept away.

  Not a word is said about the night before.

  Midmorning, someone from the hospital comes with a plastic bag and cleans out his closet, his drawer, and asks me, “Is there anything else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you don’t know? Like you were here all night with his stuff, maybe you took something?”

  “There’s a bottle of Scotch; you want it, it’s yours,” I say. “But if you’re randomly accusing me of theft because I happened to be in the next bed—you are so far over the line.…”

  “He may have had something else, like a watch, like a ring?”

  “I have no idea what he did or didn’t have.”

  The guy looks at me like he’s the hospital heavy, the goon squad sent to shake down patients.

  “I don’t have to put up with this.” I lift the phone, dial “9” for an outside line and then “911.”

  The guy fights me for the phone. “Give it a rest,” he says, grabbing the receiver and slamming it down.

  A moment later, while the guy is still there, the phone rings, I answer. It’s the 911 operator calling back. I explain the situation. She tells me that because I hung up they have to send someone to make sure I’m not being held hostage, not being forced to give statements against my will. The goon squad is looking at me in disbelief. “You fuck,” he says. “You fucking fuck.”

  “What are you going to do now, beat me up?”

  He looks at me again, shaking his head. “You got no sense of humor,” he says, leaving.

  An hour later, the cops arrive—thank God it wasn’t an actual emergency.

  “You doin’ all right?” they ask me.

  “As best as can be expected given the circumstances,” I say.

  One of them gives me his card in case I continue to have trouble. “You’d be surprised,” he says, “the number of calls we get from people in hospitals, old-age homes, trapped in their children’s houses, elder abuse; it’s a problem.”

  I never thought of myself as elder. A few minutes ago, I was a guy in the middle of his life; now, suddenly, I’m elder.

  Today is a school day. I realize it when the nurse comes in and tears two pages off the calendar. “Sometimes we run late,” she says.

  I phone the school and tell them that I’ve got to cancel class due to a death in the family.

  It’s a relief when a volunteer from the physical-therapy department comes to get me.

  In physical therapy I am given a walker—mine to keep—fitted with green tennis balls to make it slide easier. The physical therapist tells me it’s her job to get me ready for discharge. “Usually after an event such as yours, a person goes to rehab for a week or so, but with your insurance an open question, they’re not going to take you, so you’ll have to do it yourself at home. The good news is that in the grand scheme of things what happened to you is relatively minor.”

  “Felt major to me,” I say.

  “On a scale of one to ten, yours was a two,” she says. “Trust me, you got off easy.”

  She tries to get me to play a game with buttons and zippers, which at first seems idiotic, but when I try I’m surprised at how my fingers no longer seem to belong to me. I try the buttons again, and finally she gives me another, larger set and this time I can do it. “Great,” I say, “so what am I supposed to do, have all my shirts retrofitted with clown buttons?”

  “It’s a look,” the therapist says.

  “Am I going to get better?” I ask. “Or is this the way it’s going to be?” Who thought getting dressed and walking up four stairs would be so difficult?

  “Don’t panic. It takes time,” the therapist says.

  After an hour of therapy I’m exhausted, and return to my room feeling very alone, with an open invitation to come back again in a couple of hours
if I want to try again.

  Lunch is waiting. Tomato-rice soup, the same tomato-rice soup I had in the cafeteria while waiting for news about Jane. I can’t help but think that if I eat it I will never get out of here, I will be in an endless loop of tomato soup and hospitals, and so I simply leave it.

  A young woman comes into the room. “Papa?”

  “You have the wrong room.”

  “No,” she says, “I’ve been waiting. I was here and you were gone. I’m here for Bed A, but there’s no one in Bed A.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Did he go home?”

  I notice she is wearing a red scarf. “Where did you get that scarf?”

  “It was a gift from my mother—why?”

  Why do I have to be the one?

  “He died,” I say.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  “Can you tell me about him?” she says. “We never actually met.”

  “There was something your father wanted me to tell you.” I take out the sheets of paper and attempt to decode my marks, filling in blank spots with fragments I remember but couldn’t write down fast enough.

  “My mother died two years ago. In her papers were letters from him. I wrote and he never answered, until very recently.”

  “He was lovely,” I say. “One hell of an interesting guy. Complex and very human, with all that entails. I’m sure he felt bad about whatever happened, and no doubt it was more complex than we’ll ever know.”

  A priest comes into the room. “I got a call that someone had a confession to make.”

  “He died,” I say. “Do you have a rabbi?”

  He pulls a yarmulke out of his pocket and puts it on his head.

  I find it confusing, the yarmulke and the collar.

  In the midst of all this, the doctor comes in. “How are we doing, Mr.…” He pauses to check the name on my chart. “…Silver.”

  “Have we met before?” I ask.

  “No,” he says.

  The young woman stands, excusing herself. “It’ll be a few minutes,” I explain, “the doctors never stay long.”

  “I’ll get a coffee and come back,” she says, leaving.

  “There’s just one of us now,” I tell the doctor, “the other guy died.”

  “Sometimes it can’t be helped,” the doctor says. “But you’re okay. You’ll be going home soon. Are there any questions?”

  “Can I fuck?”

  There’s a loud pause.

  “I worry that taking my brother’s Viagra is what caused this ‘incident.’”

  “How so?”

  “I was taking a good amount of the stuff and, well, I worry I blew a fuse, so to speak.”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s an interesting idea. I’ll make a note of it.”

  “And so can I fuck? Can I take Viagra? Or Levitra, or whatever the hell comes next?”

  “I’d give it a rest,” the doctor says.

  “How long of a rest?”

  “Let’s say, if you are able to get an erection on your own, with no assistance, fine, but if you get a headache or feel ill, stop. If you can’t get an erection, which you may not be able to after an event such as this—not permanently, but for the short term—I’d lay off the hard stuff—no pun intended. It’s about how much risk you’re willing to tolerate. I’ve known men who after an event like this were terrified, they couldn’t even think of trying to have sex. Others try again right here in the hospital—they say it’s a ‘safe’ environment, but you didn’t hear that from me. That’s off the record, of course.”

  “Of course,” I say. “And of course the question is hypothetical. The truth is, I’m terrified, I’m suddenly terrified of everything. I can’t imagine taking the pills again, I can’t imagine ever wanting to have sex.”

  “That’s more like it,” the doctor says. “Men need to stop feeling pressure to perform. Let yourself off the hook.”

  “What I really want to know,” I say, trying again, “is was this it or was this just a warning? Is there more to come? Should I prepare myself for the worst?”

  “We make no promises,” the doctor says, shaking his head. “Your arteries look good, there’s no hidden clot waiting to break off and play marble run through your veins. You’re in good shape for the shape you’re in. I expect you’ll make a full recovery, you’ll be back to work next week. Gotta go,” he says, checking his watch.

  The girl comes back, coffee in hand.

  “You’re tired,” she says, looking at me kindly.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s been a difficult time,” she says, and I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.

  “Yes,” I say. How is it that she found her father on the day after he died—where was she yesterday?

  I think of Nathaniel and Ashley, wondering where I left off, if they’re curious why they haven’t heard from me, if they’re all right. I’d call them right now, before I forget, but can’t remember exactly where they are: what are the names of their schools?

  I’m guessing I should feel fortunate I haven’t forgotten them entirely.

  In the middle of the afternoon, with no warning, I am released.

  “Okay, Mr. Silver, you are free to go,” the nurse says. I feel less like I’m being released than kicked out. “I had a stroke and you’re already sending me home?”

  “You lived, you get to go home, be happy. We have people sicker than you stacked up in the Emergency Room, waiting for a place to go. There’s a taxi waiting downstairs.”

  I don’t know how or why, but my pockets are loaded with cash—my roommate’s cash. I didn’t do this, but someone did—quite intentionally. I only discover it when I reach for my wallet and find wads of twenties. “It’s your lucky day, pal,” I tell the taxi driver, giving him two twenties for a twelve-dollar job.

  “I’m not going to ask,” he says.

  The dog minder is gone, but has left a note: “Hope you’re feeling better. I’ll come by around 5 to walk Tessie. P.S. I’m also happy to keep working as needed—the card with my fees is below.” I glance at the card, which is decorated with paw prints. Fifteen dollars a walk, fifty dollars a night for sleepover—seems reasonable.

  I fall asleep on the sofa. The dog and cat curl around me. No one is paged overhead, no code red or blue, there’s no antiseptic smell, no hint of steamed broccoli, simply the silence of the house, the clink of the mail dropping through the slot, the comfort that Tessie is on duty. I am still sleeping when the pet friend comes at 5 p.m. He covers me with a blanket, walks the dog, and then tells me he’ll be back in the morning.

  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I say.

  “You don’t have to.”

  I nod; my eyelids feel heavy.

  “Until tomorrow,” he says.

  As it gets dark, a kind of cold fear sweeps through me. I turn on every light and the television and find myself wondering, how do I figure out what’s for dinner? I go into the kitchen, I open and close the refrigerator and then I go back to the sofa.

  Among my discharge papers is a sheet about Meals On Wheels. I call the number; they’re closed for the day, so I leave a message.

  Recalling a commercial for Domino’s Pizza thirty-minute delivery guarantee, I call, order pizza and a couple of Cokes.

  While I’m waiting for the pizza to arrive, someone calls back from Meals On Wheels.

  “Look,” she says, “your message sounded pathetic: you just got home from the hospital; you’re living at your brother’s house while he’s ‘away,’ whatever that means. But we’re not a turn-on/turn-off service like cable television, there’s a process, one must qualify for the program.”

  As she’s talking, something about the tone of her voice has me regretting the call. I tear the Meals On Wheels flyer into a thousand pieces. She goes on: “My point is,” she pauses, “the reason I called you back is that if you’ve got no food in the house I can drop a little something by.”

  “I’m fine
, thank you,” I say, wanting to end our conversation.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.”

  “You know, there are other options for people with resources. A lot of the new diet plans offer home delivery: The Zone, Home Bistro, Smart Food, Carb Conscious. If you’re all right for tonight, how about I have someone call you tomorrow and they can talk you through an application?”

  The doorbell rings—the pizza!

  I hang up on the woman as she’s still talking and use my walker to go to the door. Tessie and I do a strange dance, related to the tennis balls on the bottom and our mutual insistence to be first to the door.

  The pizza is like salty cardboard with melted rubber on top. I eat the whole thing.

  My first night home, George’s psychiatrist calls. “Sorry to have been out of touch,” he says.

  “Me too.” I take a breath and am about to tell him about the hospital, about the man who died, about everything, and then stop myself. A personal caution light goes on.

  “I had a small event,” I say.

  “I hope it was pleasant,” he says.

  “It wasn’t a wedding,” I say, and say no more.

  “I was hoping to talk about your family.”

  “I was in the hospital.” Despite my desire not to say it, it slips out like a leak, like a thing sneaking away; it comes out on an inhale, a swallowing of the words.

  “Pardon?” he says, not having heard.

  I say nothing.

  He continues: “As you recall, we spoke about the need for a more complete family history. I have some forms I’d like to e-mail you. They ask for information about your family, where they were born, how they lived, illnesses, hospitalizations, incarcerations, death.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “Have you given further thought to visiting with some of the older relatives? We’d like to know more.”

  Call it the wake-up call of mortality. “I’d like to know more as well,” I tell the doctor. “Go ahead, send the forms and I’ll get on it.”