Friday, July 18
I’m in the front yard juggling and I’ve got this amazing string going—I could break my record right here and now—when I hear a car coming down the drive. Shoot! I don’t need any interruptions now.
It’s Heather.
“Well, I’m glad to see you out here playing,” says Heather. “Things must not be too bad, then.”
I lose my rhythm and the ball squirts into a pine tree. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t know? Your mom called the office and asked for me. They contacted me right away, said she sounded really upset.”
Huh? I wonder what’s going on inside. Besides the usual, that is—the chemo making Dad sick and cranky.
Mom’s sitting on the edge of the couch by Dad, holding a wastebasket. He looks like a wax statue, lying there so still and white.
“It’s been a week, Heather,” says Mom, “and the chemotherapy isn’t doing any good. He’s tired. He’s sick. He’s losing weight. And look at his legs!”
Dad’s legs are puffy, almost lumpy in places, and the skin looks soft and spongy. But when Heather touches them, her fingers don’t sink in at all.
“I’m not sure what this is,” says Heather, “but chemotherapy, as you know, can be very hard on the body.”
“I thought that was supposed to be the advantage of the pump—to lessen the side effects.”
“It is, in theory, but remember, this treatment is experimental. There’s still a lot we don’t know. This treatment doesn’t come with any promises, Rita. Only hope.”
“I know all that, but I can’t stand to see him like this. I just can’t bear it anymore.” Mom’s lips go tight and she shakes her head.
Heather turns her sweet china doll face to Mom. “It’s hard, I know. But let’s give it a little more time.”
Mom’s chin is quivering so I go over and hug her. She buries her face in my sweaty T-shirt and I can feel her whole body jiggling.
Sunday, July 20
We file into the pew, Mom and Gram and me. None of us sits in Dad’s spot, the end seat by the aisle. We leave it empty.
Dad’s legs are still swollen and they get worse if he’s on them too long. Heather says he’s supposed to stay off them and keep his feet up.
I wonder how Dad feels having to be baby-sat. He’s at home with a young nurse named Jennifer who comes to spell us for a few hours. Our new priest, Father Pat, is coming to give him communion later.
I really like Father Pat. I understand what he’s saying more than I did our old priest. I just couldn’t get past all his thees, thous, and almighties.
Not only do I pay more attention in church now, but I also mean what I say instead of mumbling along with everyone else like I used to. It’s amazing how fitting everything is. Funny I never noticed it all before.
We pray for the sick, have special times for our silent intentions—I pray for Dad, for North Carolina to call, that I’ll get to go to Colorado.
Father Pat’s sermon today is about faith. The Bible says that if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, nothing is impossible. Even with this small amount, you can move mountains. I like that.
Maybe Gram is onto something
But it’s confusing, too. A few Sundays ago the homily was about how God works in mysterious ways. How we have to accept His will, no matter what. And even though we may not like what he’s doing, we have to trust that it is for the best. We just can’t see it. After that Sunday, I was ready to let Dad die, to say, Okay, God, if that’s how it has to be, just take it easy on him, please, and help me cope with it.
Some days it feels okay to give up like that. But inevitably the guilt settles in, like I must be weak to think that way.
All it takes is faith the size of a mustard seed. Don’t I have that? Because if I had enough faith, I could make Dad get better, couldn’t I?
When we get home, Heather’s there with Jennifer. Dad’s sitting at the dining room table, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows furrowed into an X. Heather is just sitting down across from him.
“What’s the problem, Pete? Jennifer called and said you were being difficult.”
Mom and I exchange sheepish glances.
“No more,” says Dad. “I can’t take it anymore. Get this thing out of me.”
“We can’t take it out,” Heather says calmly. “We told you that going in. We can stop administering chemotherapy with it, but the pump has to stay. Whether we leave it non-functioning or use it to administer painkillers, it has to stay.”
“No,” snaps Dad. “You are not going to use it for that. I will keep taking the painkillers orally. It damn well could be the only control I have left.”
“Okay, then. We leave it empty. No more chemo.”
“That’s right.”
Empty. That’s how I feel right now.
“What a waste of time that was,” mutters Dad.
Mom and I walk Heather and Jennifer to the door and stand there in our church clothes watching them go.
“I should’ve known better,” Dad says. “I did know better. Don’t let this happen again, Mumma. Please. Those papers I signed. Help me stick to my guns from now on.”
CHAPTER 13
Tuesday, July 22
I hate the thought of going to club practice in Midland without Dad, but national camp is only twelve days away. I’ve got to be ready.
Enzo’s my driver now. “I like this getting off afternoons,” he says. “Normally, I’d be chopping lettuce this time of day.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious. Enzo always looks as if he enjoys prep cooking the way he shows off, flashing his knife about, slicing and dicing like they do at Japanese steak houses.
“Do you mind driving me, Enzo?”
“Oh, no. This is one of the more interesting assignments your dad has given me over the years. You know I love soccer.”
I smile and pat Enzo on the knee.
We don’t talk any more about Dad. I don’t think Enzo likes to think about what might happen any more than I do.
Everybody knows about Dad now. Mom told some employees at the restaurant, and the news spread quickly. But it’s a good thing. A relief. We don’t have to pretend anymore; we don’t have to constantly try to keep the house looking like everything’s normal just in case someone stops by.
I brought the walker out of hiding and set it up in the back hall, but Dad won’t touch it. He’s still shuffling around on his own, all hunched over.
When I get home from Midland, Mom and I join Dad in the living room and eat dinner in front of the TV.
Dad’s been so restless lately. He roams from chair to couch, couch to chair, from lying on the floor to standing to kneeling.
“I can’t get comfortable,” he says.
If we walk in on him while he’s resting, he fumbles around and tries to get to his feet. Mom says he doesn’t want us to think he’s lazy.
When Mom and I go to bed, he’s still pacing. He says he’s not tired yet.
I wake up during the night to use the bathroom, and all the lights are still on in the living room.
“Dad?”
He’s kneeling over the ottoman.
“What’re you doing? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I can’t sleep. I didn’t want to keep your mother up with my tossing and turning.”
In the morning he’s still there, the TV’s still on, and he’s tangled up in an afghan on the couch. I think the living room is his home base now.
After my breakfast is digested, I work out by myself at the East Bay Elementary field for a couple hours. When I come back for lunch, Dad is still on the couch. I think I woke him, because he sits up, all disoriented, and struggles to his feet. “Got to keep moving,” he says. “Got to get my stamina back.”
He roams slowly about the house, down the hall and back, between rooms, settling finally on the back porch in a lawn chair. I take my sandwich out there and sit with him. I’ve been practicing all morning and have
had enough of the sun, but I figure he might like the company.
Dad seeks out warm, sunny places; he complains of being cold all the time lately. But the warmth only seems to add to his drowsiness. It isn’t five minutes before his speech starts slurring and his head is nodding.
I finish my sandwich in silence, noticing the beads of sweat popping out on Dad’s forehead and upper lip. I’m afraid he’s going to get heatstroke.
I go find Mom, and we guide Dad carefully into the house. He heads zombie-like for his couch, and Mom redirects him into the sunroom, onto the daybed.
“Oh, come on, Mumma,” Dad mumbles. “I like the couch. What’s the matter with the living room?” When he tries to get up, she gently pushes his shoulders back down.
“No, Pete, you need a change of scenery.”
She turns on the ceiling fan and opens all the windows. There’s a lovely breeze.
“Why don’t you let him be where he wants to be?” I whisper in her ear.
Mom pulls me into the kitchen. “Because it’s time we set him up in one room. And the sunroom is the most pleasant room in the house.”
“What do you mean set him up?’”
“Heather says that as it gets harder for him to move around, he’ll probably want to eat and sleep and spend most of his time in the same room. She says we’ll all end up spending a lot of time in that room, that towards the end the whole family will practically be living in that one room.”
Towards the end. Another one of those hospice phrases I hate.
Saturday, July 26th
Enzo brings Jake and Sam from the restaurant and they move the hospital bed into the sunroom.
Dad’s watching TV in the living room and he’s pretending not to notice the parade of men going back and forth. He knows why they’re here and he must not be too happy about it—why else wouldn’t he at least be civil and say hello?
When they finish, Mom makes the bed in the yellow gingham sheets I used when I was little. She drapes a cotton throw over the outside rail and puts a bunch of pillows against the other, and it doesn’t look too bad. It almost looks like a twin to the daybed on the other side of the room.
With Enzo and the guys sipping lemonades in the wicker chairs and the hospital bed looking like something out of Better Homes and Gardens, you’d never know this was a sick room.
Enzo finishes his drink and says, “Will that do it for you, Mrs. W.?”
“Yes, thank you, Enzo. Leah and I never could have done it by ourselves.”
“Okay, then. We’ll say goodbye to the boss and be on our way.”
Enzo raises his eyebrows like he knows they’re taking a foolish chance, but they go into the living room anyway.
CHAPTER 14
Sunday, July 27
I tuck my chin into my chest and pump my arms, trying to motivate my legs. This is only the second sprint interval in the Fartlek, and already they won’t cooperate. It’s like I’m running through water, my legs are so heavy.
I leave the road and take a trail into the woods. Maybe if I get out of the sun some of my energy will return. It’s cool and dark in here; all the sounds are soft and muffled. Sump, sump, sump, sump go the leaves underfoot. I’m a metronome. My body drones on, one foot in front of the other in the same plodding rhythm.
It used to feel like I was running toward something, being pulled almost. But now I just feel this drag. It takes so much more effort than it used to.
I never realized how much I depended on Clay to push me. I think that’s part of my problem. I’ve never had to think about pacing before—I just followed Clay. He made it seem so easy. He made it fun.
It’s going to take self-discipline, that’s all. I’ll have to forget about him and learn to push myself.
Longer stride, I tell myself. Light on your feet. Bound, don’t plod.
My step quickens and the pendulum swings faster. The trail is leading me now. My breathing is regular now, deep and slow. I’m no longer conscious of the movement of my feet or of the pulse and sounds of the woods.
When I get back to the house I pay Matilda a visit.
A couple years ago, Dad let me paint a rectangle as big as a regulation-size goal on the backside of the garage. I painted this hulking goalie in the middle of it. That’s Matilda.
I dance like a boxer between punches as I wait for the ball to rebound. Then BLAM! A shot with my left. BLAM! A shot to my right. BLAM! Left. BLAM! Right.
What am I doing? I’m not working on placing shots past Matilda; I’m pummeling her.
National camp is a week away, and I’ve lost my focus.
I sole trap the ball and run into the house. Into my room. Reaching between the mattress and box spring, I pull out Clay’s letter.
On my way back out through the kitchen, I grab a bowl and some matches.
Back behind the garage, I sit down against the wall, the bowl between my legs. I tear the letter into fingernail-sized bits.
He loves me, he loves me not.
Oh, how I wish he loved me not.
The last piece ends on he loves me not, but I know better. I drop a lit match into the bowl of confetti and watch it curl and burn. In a brief moment of violence, the letter is gone.
“Leah?”
It’s Mom, lugging a bag full of garbage. I wonder how long she’s been watching. If she notices the bowl between my legs, she doesn’t say anything.
“What’s the matter, honey? You seem all out of sorts. Is it Dad?”
“Yeah.” I can hardly say no; I know that’s what should be bothering me most. “That’s part of it.”
“What else?” She drops the garbage bag and slides down next to me. It’s funny to see Mom in a skirt sitting in the dirt, her knees drawn up all ladylike.
Do I tell her all of it? About Clay? The college stuff? Colorado Springs? No, not all of it.
“Mom, I really need to know—do I have to go to the family reunion, or can I go to Colorado?”
“I guess it has been a long time since we talked about it.”
“It has, and I know Dad got me a ticket to Colorado, but …”
Mom’s pushing pebbles around in the dirt, not saying anything.
“I don’t know, Mom. I kind of need to have it clarified.”
She raises her eyebrows and does this little ho-dee-ho thing with her head, like we’re playing a guessing game.
I refuse to beg. She knows what I’m after.
“Leah, if you’re looking for me to tell you, ‘Yes, you can go,’ I’m sorry. I can’t do that. Not at this point.”
“Great. I knew you’d say that. So I don’t know any more now than I did before. Colorado’s next weekend, Mom!”
“I know it is,” she says, softening. “How about I break it down three ways for you, okay? One, if Dad’s feeling well enough to drive to Milwaukee for the reunion, then we’ll all go, you included. Two, if he’s not up to driving, but is still doing basically okay, then you can go to Colorado Springs. Three, if he’s not doing well at all, you will, of course, want to stay home. Fair enough?”
“Lovely, just lovely. What about what Dad wants? Doesn’t he get a say in this?
“Leah.”
“What would you tell me if Dad stays about the same as he is right now?”
“I’d say go to Colorado.”
So basically, then, I’m hoping for Dad to feel somewhat crappy. Nice daughter, huh?
CHAPTER 15
Tuesday, July 29
It started happening a couple days ago. Dad will be hobbling along and he’ll get this funny look on his face and freeze. Then he looks down to see this big wet spot growing on his pants between his legs. Poor guy. Yesterday his friends took him to the golf course so he could ride around in the cart and watch them play. He wet his pants, and they had to bring him home.
Heather says the cancer has grown and it’s pressing against the nerves that control the bladder. She says that’s why his legs are swollen, too; his body fluids are being trapped there by the tumor p
ushing on the veins that go back up to the heart.
So now he has to wear Depends. He’s completely humiliated. Refuses to leave the house. “Not with this diaper on,” he says.
We’re out on the deck and Dad’s standing over a lounge chair, one foot up, elbows resting on the knee. His eyes close and his head bobs. When the supporting knee begins to buckle, I say, “Dad, why don’t you sit down? You’re falling asleep.”
Dad startles and grumbles, “I’m alright. Don’t worry about me! I’m not asleep. I know what I’m doing.”
He’s irritated with me, so the next time the knee starts to give way, I keep quiet I watch him teeter and bob, wondering if I can catch him if he falls.
And that’s when he topples. I lunge, but I’m too far away to catch him, and he goes down hard on the wooden deck.
“Dad! Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” He’s slow in getting up, but he laughs and brushes himself off. “Boy, I went ass over teakettle there, didn’t I?”
I’m on the back porch with Dad, keeping an eye on him again, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep and topple over. After he fell this morning, I’m not taking any chances.
We’re catching the last of the sun while Mom gets dinner. I’m sitting on the porch steps beneath him, pretending to be reading my Soccer America. Dad’s standing over a lawn chair again. I don’t know why he doesn’t sit down and give his poor legs a break. Maybe sitting is uncomfortable. I don’t know.
All I know is my feet are resting on the cement sidewalk that runs between the house and the garage, and that’s where Dad will fall if he goes ass over teakettle again.
Out the corner of my eye I keep watch over just how relaxed he’s getting. His head droops and bobs, his fingers twitch, and he mumbles, dreaming aloud. When his supporting knee begins to buckle, I quickly try to strike up conversation.
“Can you believe it, Dad? It says here that for the next Olympics—”
“What?” Dad flinches and jerks upright. “What?” His eyes go from scared and darting to focusing sharply on me. I’m being a pain, I know, and I’m not fooling him either.
Going for the Record Page 7