“Take him, Jesus!” I yell it out loud. “Take him!”
It feels good to say it, but it’s so final, so definite, that it’s scary. I’m crying now, but I shout it again.
“Take him, Jesus! Just take him!” I’m fed up with it now. “Quit messing around with my dad! Quit torturing him!”
Then I think, quit messing with whom? Quit torturing whom? Do I really mean me? Do I want Dad to die so it will finally be over and we can get on with our lives? Am I being selfish and short-sighted? A month from now, will I kick myself for wishing him gone a second sooner than he had to be?
When I get home Dad is not dead. He’s praying. Alone and praying.
I duck behind the potted fig, hoping I’m hidden. Dad’s not just reciting the Our Father or the Hail Mary or some prayer from a book. He’s praying in his own words, out loud. Talking to Jesus like Jesus is one of his brothers. Using simple, everyday language like he really means it.
“Help me, Jesus. Help me with this pain. Give me some relief, or at least make me strong enough to bear it. To bear it in your name. Please, give me some relief from this pain. Take me up to heaven with you, Jesus. Thank you for my family, Jesus, for my wonderful wife and children. I’ve had a full life. Thank you for everything you’ve given me.”
I’m shocked. I mean, Dad’s always gone to church. He gets ashes on his forehead on Ash Wednesday, gives up stuff for Lent. He’s even been reading the Bible lately, ever since he got sick. But I’ve never thought of Dad as religious.
No, I always figured he went through the motions to please Mom and Gram, judging by the way he was always nodding off during church and slipping out right after communion to get to the golf course. And when he’s mad, he swears. Not just shit or hell or damn, but the really bad ones: God damn it and Jesus Christ.
“I’m ready, Jesus. Just bless my family. Take care of them for me.”
I feel so uncomfortable. This is Dad’s private prayer. I shouldn’t be listening. He would be so embarrassed if—
Dad looks up and sees me. “Hey, Weez, come say a prayer with me.”
A made up one? In my own words? I’d feel so stupid.
“Hold my hand,” says Dad.
I start saying the Our Father, and he joins me. At first I feel really awkward, but by the time we reach “Thy will be done,” I’m meaning every word of it. It’s the most genuine, meaningful prayer I’ve ever said.
So Dad is a spiritual man after all. Whether he’s always been this way deep inside or whether his sickness drove him to it, it doesn’t matter. Dad believes, really believes. He isn’t running treadmills in his mind wondering if there’s a heaven or a hell or nothing at all, wondering if there’s meaning. I’m so glad. I feel so much safer knowing he’s this way. And it makes it easier for me to believe, too.
CHAPTER 27
Monday, September 8
The sun-catcher crystals hanging in the window twirl slowly on their lines and send rainbows dancing across the floor.
Dad’s lying here, staring up at the skylight. I’m sitting at his side, holding his hand. We aren’t talking; there’s nothing more to say between us, nothing a smile or a squeeze can’t convey. So it’s a comfortable silence.
Dad’s preoccupied by something, anyway. His eyes move the way people’s do when they’re listening to a secret. They dart from side to side in edgy little movements, almost as if he’s reading off the skylight. He’s very alert. His head isn’t simply resting on the pillow; he’s holding his face up, his neck angled back. I look at the skylight, but all I see is blue sky.
I’m impressed by how noble he looks, how patient he’s become. I wonder what he’s thinking.
It’s almost as if he’s responding to the music Mom’s playing, as if it’s talking to him. The music’s soft and gentle with some kind of airy whistling—a fife or a flute. Real dreamy stuff. It sounds Irish or Scottish. I’ve never heard it before. It’s beautiful.
The song changes, grows stronger. It’s sad but determined, with bagpipes moaning a heavy beat.
Dad seems to be going somewhere with it. Even though he’s lying here, I sense he has embarked on a journey. It’s as if someone is pulling him up out of bed by the hand, and I’m watching him go. He’s a soldier being led off to war. He doesn’t want to go, but it’s his duty.
He’s been called.
My dad is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen, lying there in that bed, looking up with those big, pleading eyes and those teeth so big in his thin face.
All of a sudden it looks like he’s receiving something—something big. His eyes grow wide and he goes slack-jawed. It’s as if he’s seeing something amazing and listening to something very important.
In my mind, Dad has started up a steep stone staircase into the sky. It’s narrow and winding with no railings on either side, going up so high that it tapers off into nowhere.
The music gets louder, faster, stronger. Dad’s moving swiftly with it now, bounding, running, flying. All on his own. Up, up, away from us. Peacefully, resolutely, not afraid of where he’s going.
I hear angels singing in the music, calling him upward, welcoming him, calming him, telling him not to be afraid. It’s spooky and haunting, but the music seems to be coming straight from heaven. Dad is being shown. He’s a little boy in awe, eyes full of wonder. A little boy looking up for direction and approval. “Is this right? How am I doing? Show me how. Here I am!”
I want to cheer, “Go, Pops, go!” I want him to be free.
But the way he yawns and settles his head into the pillow, I’m afraid his ascent is going to be a slow, drifting one. Quiet. Feathery and soft at times, painful and cutting at others. Strands tearing away, one by one, until he is no longer held down.
Sitting quietly at Dad’s side while he sleeps, I’m surprised I’m not bored or frustrated or wishing I was somewhere else. I’m just holding his hand. Yup, Dad and I are going for the record. I don’t know how long it’s been now, but surely we’ve broken all previous records set in the Jeep. Funny how I lose all sense of time sitting here with him.
The sun’s going down so it must be almost dinnertime. But I’m not hungry. I’m not anything. Which is hard to believe. I mean, I’ve been sitting here for hours, days, weeks, doing absolutely nothing. Except this.
I used to think, why does Dad have to get sick now, just when I’ve reached this huge milestone and I’m finally enjoying myself? Honestly, that’s how I thought. But none of that matters now. I’ll be sitting here reading the Bible to Dad to help him through a bout of pain, and I’ll see he’s fallen asleep on me with tears still running down his cheeks. And I’ll put the Bible down and wipe the tears from his face and just sit with him, going for the record. And while I sit so quietly, I realize there’s nothing else I could be doing that’s as important as this. This is what life is about.
That’s what I do most of the time now—sit here daydreaming. But it’s not always about Dad. Sometimes when I’m zoning out, I get this picture in my mind. I don’t know where it comes from, but it’s of Clay.
He’s in his boat, smiling his square-toothed smile, and the sun’s glinting off of everything—the water, his teeth, his sunglasses, the tops of his copper curls. In the lenses of his glasses I can see the reflection of this tiny flesh-tone figure. It’s too small to see if it’s nude or in a bathing suit or even if it’s male or female. But I think it’s me.
Tuesday, September 9
“Did we get a call from Mary?” Dad’s asked this at least thirty times in the last few days. It’s the first thing he says when he wakes up.
“Not yet,” we say.
“Poor girl. She must be about ready to pop.” And he closes his eyes again.
A half hour later the clock in the living room chimes and startles him awake. “Did we get a call from Mary?”
“No.”
“Poor girl,” he says as Mom and I mouth it along with him. “Must be about ready to pop.”
But the next time he asks we have s
omething to tell him.
“Yes!” Mom says. “She just called. Nothing’s happened yet, but she’s having contractions. The doctor told her to go to the hospital.”
Dad licks his lips. “Well. Let’s pray everything goes well.”
I grab Dad’s shoulders and shake him gently. He’s skin and bones. “Pops. Pops. Wake up.” He’s a rag doll in my hands, out stone cold. Pops,” I say louder. “Pops, wake up!”
He snorts. “What? What? Mary?”
“She had her baby! It’s a boy!”
“You’re kidding. Where’s your mother?” His eyes dart around for her as if he doesn’t believe me.
“She’s on the phone with Hugh.”
“Did everything go all right? Are they okay?” Dad tries to lift his head off the pillow. He looks more concerned than happy.
Mom comes bursting into the sunroom. “It’s a boy! Seven pounds, seven ounces, twenty-one inches long. Peter Alexander. What do you think of that, Grandpa? Peter Alexander!”
Dad’s face flushes pink, but his brow stays furrowed. “And Mary? How’s Mary?”
“Hugh says they’re both doing fine.”
Dad sinks back into his pillow and smiles. Lying there so small and gray and loose-skinned, he looks every bit a grandpa and nothing at all like my old Pops.
“Here, Pete; do you want to talk to them?” Mom hands him the phone.
“No, just tell them congratulations. Tell Hugh to have a cigar for me.”
And as quickly as he woke, he drifts back to sleep.
Mom and I look at Dad’s bag, then at each other.
His urine has changed. I didn’t notice it this morning, but when I went to empty it after lunch, I almost threw up. I didn’t say anything to Mom, given the cheer of the day, but it’s obvious she’s noticed it, too. How could she not? It’s like the liquid in a can of kidney beans, with floating bits in it like the egg in egg drop soup.
“Do you need any Roxanol, Dad?” It’s almost dinnertime and he hasn’t had any since before lunch.
Dad moves his head weakly from side to side. Now that he doesn’t have Mary to ask about, he’s suddenly gone mute.
He stares at the skylight, his eyes going back and forth in those edgy little movements. He doesn’t react to anything Mom and I say, just stays fixed on that skylight.
I keep trying to snap him out of it. “Dad, can I get you anything? Are you comfortable? Isn’t it great about Mary’s baby?”
He closes his eyes and acts likes he doesn’t hear me.
“Leave him alone, Leah,” says Mom. “Don’t try to make him respond. Remember what Heather said about withdrawal?”
So we don’t ask anything of Dad and he doesn’t ask anything of us.
Wednesday, September 10
Mom and I have just woken up and we’re sitting cross-legged, side-by-side on Mom’s bed, staring at the quarter cup of kidney bean slime in Dad’s bag.
“He needs to drink, Mom.”
“He needs to do a lot of things, Leah.”
Dad still isn’t up when Heather arrives. He doesn’t move when she takes his vital signs. His arm is limp as she removes the blood pressure cuff from around his shriveled biceps and takes his hand.
“Pete, can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand? Pete?”
Heather’s eyes get glassy. “I’m going to miss you, you sweet man.”
She pats Dad’s arm, gets up, and leads Mom by the elbow out of the room. I follow them into the kitchen.
“Rita, it’s time to call Paul and Mary home.”
“But Mary just had her baby yesterday!”
Heather raises her eyebrows. “These things are never convenient. You might be able to wait a day or two.”
“We’ll wait, then. I don’t want to worry her. She isn’t even home from the hospital yet. And how can I call Paul and not Mary?”
Mom lowers her head into her hands. Heather puts an arm around her.
“It’s like he was waiting,” says Mom, wiping her eyes. She’s gotten so good at pulling herself together quickly. “Like he was hanging on for the baby to be born. The change has been so dramatic. Overnight. It must have taken more than I realized, and he just didn’t have anything left.”
“Yes,” says Heather, “we see this a lot. Patients have a big milestone, a date they set for themselves. More patients die the day after Christmas than any other day of the year.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Doesn’t he want to see the baby? Isn’t that something to hang on for? It’s only another week or so.”
“Oh, sure, honey, but there are so many things to hang on for,” says Mom. “There’s our anniversary at the end of the month, the holidays, seeing you off to college. And there’s no way he can make all of them. It’s probably a miracle he was able to hang on until the baby was born.”
Maybe. But it seems to me this baby, his first grandchild, would be something to celebrate, not something to make him quit trying and let go.
Now that it looks like we may be near the end I’m getting stubborn again. This just can’t happen.
CHAPTER 28
Thursday, September 11
“The time has come for my departure. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith …” I’m reading Dad’s favorite Bible passage to him, 2 Timothy 4:6-8.
He hasn’t opened his eyes or spoken in two days. He startles every now and then, and we turn him several times a day so he won’t get bedsores, but other than that, he doesn’t move.
Mom says we have to keep talking to him and reading to him.
“… Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day.”
Dad chokes, snorts, and gags. He’s breathing in fits and starts, like a backfiring car about to stall. I wonder if it’s the death rattle everybody talks about. But then he settles into a rhythm again.
A sharp clattering of metal breaks the silence, and Mom and I look up from our books. Dad’s hands are clamped onto the top bars of the side rails, his knuckles white and trembling. He looks like he’s sleeping, except his brow is lifted in that helpless, pained expression, the way saints always look in paintings and books.
Mom pries his near hand off the metal bar and holds it. “Its okay, Pete. It’s okay. I’m right here. Leah, go get some Roxanol.”
I run to the kitchen, wondering how we’re going to get him to drink it, wondering who will hold his head back and who will pour it in his mouth and if he’ll choke on it and cough and sputter it in our faces like he did last time.
“Here, Mom.”
She doesn’t take it.
“Here, Mom.” I nudge her with my wrist.
She shakes her head.
“What?”
Her head drops and she starts kissing Dad’s hand, over and over. Her shoulders are bouncing up and down. She’s crying, but she’s not breathing.
Neither is Dad, I realize. His other hand slips off the bar. Mom is sobbing now; huge heaving sobs rack her body.
Oh, my God, Dad is dead. I think he’s dead.
Mom puts her arm around me and draws me in.
Dad’s chest isn’t rising or falling, but something more than that is different about him. I’ve never believed in vibes, never felt anyone’s aura, but Dad’s is gone, no doubt about it. He’s empty. This is just his shell we’re staring at.
Is this all there is to it?
I didn’t get to kiss him or hold his hand or say a prayer with him. I wasn’t even here at his side! Is this all I get? Some eventless passing? A person can die with no more ceremony than it takes to tie a shoe or yawn or turn on the TV?
Mom’s crying, her head buried in Dad’s chest, and all I can think is, “So what do we do now?” Call Heather? Call an ambulance? A funeral home?
“Go get your grandma,” says Mom.
Gram’s head is back against her chair, but her lips are moving and she’s fingering her rosary.
“Gram.”<
br />
She opens her eyes. “Sweetie?”
I can’t say it. “Come with me, Gram.”
She doesn’t ask why. One look at my face and she flings her rosary onto the bed and follows me.
Mom moves aside for Gram.
Gram touches Dad’s arm and her breath catches. She recoils her hand up to her mouth, covering it lightly. Her eyes go squinty and she looks at Mom, terrified, unbelieving—really?
Gram makes the sign of the cross over herself, folds her hands in prayer, and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she bends down and puts her hands on either side of Dad’s temples and kisses him on the forehead. Her boy. Her Petey.
She’s not crying. Neither am I.
“Should I call Paul and Mary?” I ask Mom.
“Yes, would you, please? Paul will know what to do.”
I mean to go do it, but somehow I can’t. I don’t want to leave Dad. It’s like his death will be over then. Like he will be over. Shouldn’t I say goodbye somehow? Shouldn’t I hug him or kiss him or hold his hand? But I’ve no more desire to do that than to kiss a stone wall.
I back slowly out of the room. I guess that’s it. I guess he’s dead, and now we get on with things.
Saturday, September 13
I’m not crying. I should be, but I’m not.
Dad’s in a casket wearing his navy suit that’s ten sizes too big for him now. The undertaker did a terrible job on him. His lips look funny. They’re all tight over his teeth like they’ve been sewn together. And his hair—he never wore it like that! I should go ruffle it up.
No, I better stay here, in the middle of the room where I can talk to people as they file past to see Dad. Mom says that’s what we’re supposed to do. We have to give people privacy when they’re up by Dad.
But I want to go up there now. I want to fix Dad’s hair.
Everybody’s here. Mary, Hugh, the baby. Dad’s family, Mom’s family. Enzo. People Dad’s done business with. Golf buddies. Regulars from the bar. Old friends from Milwaukee. Neighbors. People from church and school, teachers, Mr. Pfieffer, my whole high school soccer team.
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