When he finally drifts off to sleep, without singing or saying another word, I go in search of Lars, but he’s left for the day. I call Dani, even though I know she’s at a band practice. I get her voicemail, but I don’t leave a message. I call my mom, but she’s out, probably with Lars. I ride home, do my homework, watch some TV and go to bed. The next morning when I get up, there is a note from Mom on the kitchen table.
Arthur had another stroke in the night. Lars is taking me to the hospital. Go to school. Keep your cell phone on. Don’t worry. XO Mom.
My first thought is: Was Lars here overnight?
Fifteen
I don’t go to school, and I don’t answer the phone until Mom calls, even though Dani texts throughout the morning: Where r u? Is something wrong? I try to force myself out of bed and onto my bike, but I’m not sure if I want to ride to school or to the hospital, so I stay where I am. I can’t face Dani’s concern any more than I can face what’s happened to Arthur. Mom calls around noon.
“He’s stabilized, Rolly.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
She hesitates. “It means...he’s out of immediate danger, I guess.”
Immediate danger. Like an avalanche or a charging grizzly.
“Did they shave him yet?” I ask. “Brush his teeth?”
“What?”
“He looked like crap yesterday, Mom. Like no one cared.”
Mom starts to cry, and I realize she thinks I mean she doesn’t care.
“I didn’t mean you, Mom. I meant the people at the hospital. Isn’t that what they’re paid for?”
She gives a strangled laugh. I wonder if I should tell her that Arthur spoke—that he sang—yesterday. Would it make things worse or better? I can’t decide, so I keep my mouth shut. The secrets I’m swallowing make me feel bloated and lethargic, as if I’ve suddenly gained fifty pounds.
Mom tells me it’s okay if I don’t come out—Arthur is sleeping and heavily medicated. Lars is going to take her out for lunch and then she’ll come home and have a shower and a nap before he takes her back to the hospital. He doesn’t think she should be driving.
“I’ll be there soon,” I tell her. No way do I want to be here when Lars brings her home. For all I know she’s planning to shower and nap with him. I just can’t deal with that right now. I know I should be happy for her, I know Lars is helping her through a bad time, but it still seems disloyal to Arthur. To me. Maybe I should have taken the T-Bird and made a run for it when I could. Everyone would have been happier.
I’m at the hospital within the hour. Arthur’s room is empty, the bed flat and smooth, the iv pole gone. A prickly sweat floods my body, and I feel as if I’m going to pass out. I sit down on the end of the bed, put my head between my legs and wait for the wave of terror to fade. Questions fizz through my brain. Is Arthur dead? Where is his body? Does Mom know? Why didn’t she wake me up last night? Why did I lie in bed all morning? Why isn’t Mom here? Where is all Arthur’s stuff? I jump up and run to the nurses’ station, yelling, “Where is Arthur Jenkins?” at an RN I’ve never seen before. Her name tag says Marnie. She seems to be moving in slo-mo as she pulls out a chart and reads it, her lips moving as she runs a finger down the page. When she looks up she says, “And you are?”
I want to punch her and grab the chart from her pudgy hands, but I grit my teeth and say, “His grandson.”
“His grandson. Oh yeah, Royce. I heard about you. Your granddad was moved to Intensive Care last night. One floor up.”
I’m already on my way to the elevator when I hear her say, “I’m sorry, dear.”
Why is she sorry? I find out when I get to the ICU. A nurse stops me at the door and asks me who I’m visiting. When I tell her, she takes me into a small office and sits me down, which is almost as frightening as not finding Arthur in his room.
“Are you close to your grandfather, Royce?”
Am I? I think about her question for a minute and then I nod.
“When was the last time you saw him, Royce?”
“Yesterday afternoon. He was…okay. I mean, he was…the same.” I don’t tell her about the singing or the way his hand touched my leg. It’s private, between him and me. Not her business.
“I need to prepare you a bit before you see him, Royce.” I wish she’d stop using my name. It’s like she’s had lessons on how to speak with distraught family members, which come to think of it, she probably has. Always use their names. Make eye contact. As if on cue, she looks me in the eye and says, “It can be very upsetting. He has a tube in his nose that goes into his stomach, for feeding. There’s also a tube in his mouth—it’s called an endotracheal tube—that’s attached to a mechanical ventilator. There are a lot of wires attached to monitors. We need to keep an eye on his various…functions. He’s catheterized, and of course there’s an iv for medications. It can be a shock to see someone you love like that.” She stops to see how I am taking it.
“So he’s basically on life support?”
She hesitates before she answers, as if she wishes someone else were there to give me the answer. “Yes.”
“Can I see him now?”
She gets up and says, “You have to wash first and put on a mask and gown. We’ve had another superbug outbreak. You can stay for fifteen minutes. No more.”
“Okay.” She shows me where to scrub up, and where to find the gowns, which are made of a ludicrously cheerful Hawaiian print. Palm trees and hula girls. An alternate universe. When I’m ready, she leads me to one of the glass-walled cubicles that surround the nurses’ station like cells in a honeycomb. The only noise in the room is the rhythmic swish of the ventilator. Arthur looks even smaller than he did yesterday, as if each successive stroke is shrinking him. Even though I have been prepared, I am not prepared. No one ever could be. The body on the bed is not Arthur. I am as sure of that as I am of my own name, but I know I need to say something.
“Hey, Arthur,” I say. “It’s me—Rolly.”
I sit on the edge of his bed while the nurse checks his vital signs.
“Can he hear me?” I ask.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she replies. “It can’t hurt to talk to him, and it might help. Lots of people think it does.”
“Can I bring in a CD player? He loves music.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” she says as she leaves the room. “Fifteen minutes, Royce.”
I nod. As soon as she leaves the room, I pick up Arthur’s right hand, the one without the iv. This is the hand that grabbed the rope at the swimming hole in the summer and hurled snowballs in the winter. This is the hand that held that first cello bow, the one he bought at the auction. This is the hand that revved the Indian motorcycle, that changed the gears in his T-bird, that stroked his lovers. The hand is useless now, speckled with age spots, the fingernails long and gnarled. Bruises are blooming under the translucent surface of its skin, and I marvel at how any of us can be contained by something so thin, so fragile.
I am still holding Arthur’s hand when Mom arrives and taps at the window. Her hair is still wet from her shower, and her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Standing beside her is a tall woman in a tailored pink suit. When I come out into the hall and take off my mask, she offers me her white-gloved hand to shake. She is old—although not as old as Arthur—and still beautiful. Her white hair is arranged in a loose bun on top of her head, and she is wearing dangly pearl earrings that match her necklace. When she smiles, I recognize her immediately. Coralee. Wife Number Two.
“I am so happy to meet you, Royce,” she says, “although the circumstances are less than ideal.” She glances at the still form on the bed.
“You’re Coralee, right?” I say as I shake her hand. “I’ve seen your picture.”
“I am indeed. And I have seen yours, although none of them do you justice. You have the Jenkins nose, you know.”
I reach up and stroke my nose. “Yeah. Big.”
She laughs. “I prefer ‘patrician.’ Now, I know these pl
aces insist on one visitor at a time, so why don’t we let your mother have some time with Arthur? I could really do with a cup of tea.”
I strip off the mask and gown and hold out my arm to Coralee. She hooks her hand around the crook in my elbow, like a southern belle at her first ball.
“Such beautiful manners,” Coralee murmurs. “So rare these days.” Mom snorts as she puts on a mask and gown.
When we get to the cafeteria, I steer Coralee to a table overlooking the garden. She lowers herself into the chair with a soft sigh.
“Black tea, dear. With a bit of lemon, if they have it,” she says, “and perhaps something sweet to eat?”
I load up a tray with metal teapots, thick white mugs and a selection of desserts: a brownie, some carrot cake, a chocolate-chip cookie in a plastic package. What she doesn’t want, I will eat. There is no lemon, so I add some honey and milk to the tray.
When I get back to the table, she is laughing at the bunnies gorging on some red-and-white-striped petunias. “Ordinarily I would want to shoo them away,” she says. “They’re destructive little beasts, but I loathe striped petunias, so I’m enjoying the show.”
“Arthur used to watch them from his window,” I say as I set a pot of tea and a mug in front of her. She peels off her gloves and puts them in her purse.
“I bet he was wishing he had a rif le,” she says, reaching for the carrot cake. “He was a crack shot, you know.”
“Arthur Jenkins, bunny-sniper,” I say. Watching Coralee eat, I realize I haven’t eaten yet today. “Is it okay if I have the brownie?” I ask.
She gestures with her fork. “Help yourself. Got to keep your strength up.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes.
“Where’s Aunt Marta?” I ask.
Coralee stops eating and puts her fork down beside her plate. “In Australia.”
“You mean she’s not coming?”
Coralee nods. “I am her proxy.”
“You mean, like, her stand-in?”
She nods again. “Marta is…” She hesitates.
I complete the sentence for her. “A selfish bitch?”
Coralee sits up very straight and glares at me. “There’s no call for that kind of language, young man.”
I glare back. “Why isn’t she here then? Why does Mom have to do everything? It’s not like Marta can’t afford to fly out here.”
Coralee’s glare disappears, and she slumps back in her chair. “Yes, she can afford it. But she’s afraid.”
“Of what? Flying?”
“Of Arthur.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
The glare returns. “I most certainly am not. To her, Arthur is still a powerful person. Why do you think she moved so far away? Why did your mother settle in Lunenburg? Arthur has always been a force of nature. Often a destructive one. Especially to his children.”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard the stories. But he’s changed. You’ve seen him. Marta should get over herself. Suck it up. Mom has.”
“You’re right,” she says. “But I’m afraid she won’t. So you’re stuck with me.”
She lifts her mug in a toast. I lift mine, and we clink mugs over the crumbs of our desserts. “To Arthur,” she says.
“To Arthur,” I echo.
Coralee and I finish our tea and go back up to the ICU. Mom is in a huddle with some of the nurses. Coralee gowns up and goes into Arthur’s cubicle, where she eases off her shoes, climbs up onto the bed and lies down next to him, her face next to his on the pillow, one arm over his chest. I can hear the soft murmur of her voice, but I can’t make out the words. After about ten minutes she comes out, shoes in one hand, wiping tears away from her eyes.
“I think it’s time for me to go, Royce,” she says. “Can you call a cab? I’m sure your mother wants to stay here for a while.”
“Go? You just got here. What’s the rush?”
She pats my cheek. “You’ll get tired of me soon enough. I need to rest. Traveling is hard on old ladies. I’m staying at Arthur’s house, dear, but I have no idea where it is. My bags are in your mother’s truck. Could you get them and come with me?”
“Sure.” We say goodbye to Mom, and I call a cab from the hospital lobby before I get Coralee’s suitcases from the truck. Three of them, each one big enough to smuggle a small child. I guess she’s planning to stay awhile.
“I’m sorry I missed the gala,” she says as we ride into town. “I hear Arthur was in fine form.”
“Yeah. He was pretty stoked, I guess.”
“Stoked?”
“Excited. Happy. Enjoying every minute.”
She leans her head back and closes her eyes, and I can see how tired she is, how fragile. Wisps of hair are coming out of her bun and there are smudges under her eyes. She opens her eyes when the taxi stops outside Arthur’s house, but she makes no move to get out of the car. It’s as if all her energy has been used up in flying out here and getting to the hospital. Her hands shake as she digs in her purse for money to pay the cab driver, and I realize that her head is also shaking, or rather vibrating slightly. Either she’s about to collapse or she has Parkinson’s or both. I help her out of the car, and she stumbles slightly as we walk down the path to the front door. I get her into the house and help her into Arthur’s chair. The drapes are still open and the view is, as always, spectacular. Ocean, sky, mountains. A line of fish boats heading back to Fisherman’s Wharf.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
“Why?”
“For being a burden.”
I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
She shakes her head. “I used to love traveling. Now it just reminds me that I’m an old lady.”
“An old lady with a lot of suitcases.” I grin at her so she’ll know I’m joking. “I’m going to put some clean sheets on the guest-room bed. It’s kinda small, but the mattress is okay, I think. You gonna be all right?”
She nods. “Lovely. I’ll just sit here and soak up the panorama, dear. Imagine waking up to this every day. Heaven.”
She’s asleep by the time I finish changing the sheets, putting clean towels in the bathroom and humping her suitcases into the guest room. It’s weird to see her in Arthur’s chair, her head lolling to one side just the way his used to. Her neck will be sore if I don’t wake her up, so I touch her shoulder gently and say her name. I half expect her to yell at me, demand coffee, tell me I’m an idiot, but all she says is “Thank you,” as I help her to the guest room. She sits on the bed and bends over to pull off her shoes. Then she swings her legs up onto the bed and lies down with a huge sigh that is almost a groan. I pull a fleece blanket over her and leave the room.
While she sleeps, I make a grocery list. Milk, bread, butter, cheese. I put on a pot of coffee and make myself a café without the lait. I wash the dishes and wipe the counters. I dust the piano and tidy the desk. I text Dani and bring her up to date. When Coralee gets up, it’s almost dinnertime and I have made a decision. We will order pizza and I will tell Coralee how I know that Arthur wants to die.
Sixteen
We sit at the kitchen table and share a large meat-lover’s pizza with extra cheese. Coralee has a Diet Sprite and I have a regular Coke, which we pour into proper glasses, with ice. Mom always says, “Only hillbillies eat off cardboard and drink from cans,” so I get out china plates for our pizza too. Coralee eats hers with a knife and fork, which I find pretty funny. She eats a lot for an old lady—almost half the pizza—and when she belches delicately into her paper napkin, she giggles afterward.
“Excuse me. I haven’t had pop and pizza in years. I’d forgotten how good they are. Very naughty though. My doctor would not approve.”
I put our dishes in the sink and sit down again at the table.
“What did you do after you and Arthur split up?” I ask.
“Arthur convinced me to go back to school. He told me I was an educator, not just a nanny. He paid for my education. I got my teaching certificate and worked fo
r many years at schools for girls in Third World countries. Sometimes our teams had to build the schools first, before we could teach in them. I stopped teaching when I couldn’t get travel insurance anymore. That was a very sad day. I was a headmistress at a private school in Toronto for a while after that, but it wasn’t the same. Too much privilege. Too many stuffed shirts.”
I must have looked surprised because she raises an eyebrow and says, “You thought I was a rich old society lady, didn’t you? Soft hands, never worked a day in her life. Watercress sandwiches for lunch. Bridge on Thursday afternoons. Cocktails before dinner.”
“N-no,” I stutter, although she is right about the rich society-lady part. “I didn’t think anything. Other than that you were—are—beautiful.”
“Oh, you are definitely Arthur’s grandson!” She balls up her napkin and tosses it at me. “He knew how to treat a woman.”
“Still does,” I say, remembering how courtly he was with Midge and Bettina, how he totally charmed Dani. “At least some women. He’s not that nice to Mom. Or the nurses.”
“He was a wonderful husband,” she says. “Attentive, funny, romantic. So romantic.”
“Then why did you get divorced?”
She frowns slightly. “I couldn’t stand that he was away so much, and I was left at home. I thought I would be happier with a man who didn’t travel, who came home for dinner every night. And I wanted a child of my own.”
“Did you have a child?”
She shakes her head. “Sadly, no. But I had a wonderful career. And another husband, a good man who came home every night for dinner. But no children.”
“What happened to him—your husband?”
“He died a few years ago. Heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We had a lovely time together, and the end was quick.”
“What was Marta’s mother like? Did Arthur ever talk about her?”
“I never met Marta’s mother, of course, but I don’t think Arthur ever got over her death. It was very hard for him to see Marta for what she was—a child, an innocent. He always saw Lenci’s face when he looked at Marta. He tried though, especially that first year, when he gave up touring, but they never really connected. And Marta never forgave him for his absence.” She stops speaking and takes another sip from her glass.
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