Sid and Teddy

by H. D. Knightley

  Teddy (After walking backwards up the beach and splashing Sid with a flick of his hair): What ya reading?

  Sid: I’m rereading this book about Mary’s time in France and wondering if she loved the Dauphin. Sometimes I think no, sometimes yes. I’m pondering it.

  Teddy (after dropping to the towel): She lived with him for how long?

  Sid: About eleven years.

  Teddy: He was friend-zoned then, too much like a sibling. Poor Dauphin.

  Sid: Poor Dauphin is right, he was short and she was like, five foot eleven.

  Teddy: I change my answer. He loved her for sure. He probably climbed her like a flagpole and she carried him around in her pocket.

  (Once their laughter died down) Teddy: Have you asked Cameron what he thinks?

  Sid: Kind of, Cameron’s eyes glaze over, and he ‘ums’ a lot whenever I bring Mary Stuart up.

  Teddy: Ah, of course.

  (After a pause) Teddy: I think the Dauphin loved Mary desperately. She was the older woman, and he had loved her since forever. But she thought of him as a pawn in her political theater.

  Sid: You think she was that calculating and cruel?

  Teddy: No, more like just indifferent.

  Fourteen

  Teddy

  I waited for hours. Other people came and went. Sometimes the waiting room was crowded, a few times I was by myself, sitting, staring at my hands. My phone died and I wanted to go charge it inside my car. I also needed to go to the bathroom, but I didn’t want to leave the waiting room in case I missed her. Finally a voice came over the loudspeaker, “Visiting hours are over, clear the waiting room.” I kept my seat, determined not to go. They, someone, the hospital strongmen, would have to kick me out.

  At last Sid pushed through the doors.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “No, not really, but they’ll know more tomorrow.”

  “Aw, Sid.” I wrapped her up in my arms and we hugged for a long time, her face buried in my shoulder.

  The loudspeaker reminded me, “All visitors must clear the public areas.”

  I asked, “Do you need a ride home?”

  “I think I better ride home with Dad.” She pulled away and lifted her bag to her shoulder. Distracted, she said, “Yeah. Okay.”

  “I’ll come tomorrow?”

  She ran her hands down her face then up and her fingers through her hair. “No, um, no, I need to . . . I’ll call tomorrow when I know anything.”

  I walked out of the hospital to my car, surfboards on the roof. Wet towels on the seats.

  The next day she didn’t call.

  Fifteen

  Sid

  The thing about mothers is this—they have plenty of hands. I think it’s a forgotten or unnoticed part of pregnancy, the growing of extra appendages. Like multi-armed goddesses, mothers need that many arms to keep the children from running into the street. Mothers evolved.

  But those of us who aren’t mothers yet, we simply have two. Two arms, two hands.

  And when your mom is pulling away, you need both those hands to grasp, to hold on. Because mothers are pulling away with eight arms, full strength.

  You need your hands for that.

  And you don’t have them for anything else.

  You have to drop everything.

  And no one can blame you because you’re literally doing the best you can, a mere non-mom mortal with not enough arms.

  Sixteen

  Hospital Diary

  Day two: Today sucked. When Dad and I got to the hospital, the Doctor had already done his rounds for the day. Oh well, maybe I would catch him tonight, that’s the tone the nurses took with me. Oh well.

  Mom slept all day. She woke and a nurse spoon-fed her. She stared up at the nurse like a baby bird looking up at her mother bird. She said something to the effect of, “The election of the moon, necessible?” And then she slept again.

  The doctor came in just before visiting hours were over. He seemed confused when he flipped the charts, his brow furrowed. Was that protocol, to express your inner confusion when looking at charts in front of the patient’s family? It seemed like a rookie move, like I wanted to call a time out, and ask for a different Doctor, but also, what did I know? In a hospital it seemed like you got what you were given. He asked, “Did she wake up today?”

  Dad said, “Yes, sort of—”

  And the Doctor said, “Good good,” like that was his diagnosis. He said he’d see us tomorrow and that we’d, “Know more.”

  Dad and I picked up pizza and drove it home and ate it in silence.

  I didn’t text Teddy. Because I couldn’t.

  Day three: Dad and I arrived early, but were told that today the Doctor had afternoon rounds. Great. We sat in the room while Mom slept. Kindly nurses came in, checked her vitals, smiled at us. They said, “We have to ask the doctor,” whenever we asked direct questions.

  Dad left for lunch and that was when the Doctor appeared in the room to flip through Mom’s chart. This is what I learned: Because of confidentiality agreements, the underage daughter of the patient doesn’t get to hear shit.

  Mom woke up twice.

  Once about 10:30 a.m.—she stared at me and then looked the other way.

  Once about 5:00 p.m.—she said, “Foo . . .” And the nurse spoon-fed her again.

  I got the distinct impression that Mom didn’t even recognize me.

  And then to make matters worse, I developed an earache, because I forgot the other day to use the drying drops in my ears. Now my whole head hurt with unspeakably painful radiating pain. Painful pain. Can’t be eloquent because so much pain. You might think, hey, I was at a hospital, that a hospital would be a perfect place to ask someone about a terrible pain spreading around eating into my temples, but all I could think was, Don’t distract them. They clearly needed to focus.

  Seventeen

  Teddy

  Sid wasn’t answering my texts or my calls. Wasn’t there an unspoken agreement that when someone is in the hospital, the people not allowed to visit the hospital get news? Then I thought, Who would pass along the news? The mom. Sid’s mom was the one in the hospital.

  I tried to relax about it and give her time. Let her be with her mom, get her mom better. Then she’ll call. What did she say?

  “Three days.”

  Right, I would give her a couple of days. That made sense. It was the best way to help.

  Eighteen

  Hospital Diary

  Day 4: Dad accidentally slept in, so I accidentally slept in. I stuffed cotton balls in my ears and downed as many aspirins as I thought I could take, should take. (Mom would know how many aspirins were safe.) And we missed the Doctor.

  But he had left a new order. The unhelpful nurse at the front admissions desk, informed us of it with a look that was all, “Can’t believe you missed him; his rounds are random and unpredictable, but obviously you don’t care enough.”

  The order was that, unless something changed by 5:00, Mom would be moved to a special unit at another hospital across Los Angeles. The current hospital was about fifteen minutes away from home. The new one would take over an hour, longer in traffic.

  Mom didn’t wake up all day, so around 3:00, nurses began bustling. They burst in to check Mom’s vitals and then to administer potions and also to make notations. At 6:55, five minutes before visiting hours ended, a team of men entered and rolled her with great fuss and carelessness onto a gurney and wheeled the gurney down the hall and away. To some place new. Mom never even woke up.

  Dad was informed that we should return home and meet Mom at the new hospital in the morning. Visiting hours were over, and Mom needed to get settled in. As if Mom would unpack her bags and brush her teeth in her new digs.

  Nineteen

  Sid

  Dad and I went home and ate cold leftover Chinese food.

  I went to bed at 7:00, the pain so bad it took three aspirin, some homeopathic remedies, mullein drops in my ear canals, and two hot water bottle
s, one on each side, just to lie down. I cried. A lot. Because you know who puts drops in my ear? Mom.

  Have you ever had an earache? It has three levels. The first is the physical pain, like pain inside the canal, inflamed skin, sore cartilage, even the bone. Then there’s the vague pain, the throbbing headache that makes thinking impossible. Lastly there are the twangs and twinges. A good earache takes all that other pain and says, “Wait, that’s not all!” And will send shooting pains, even more painful pains, into and around the ear. These shooting pains were in my temples. That did not seem good.

  Or healthy.

  Or something that should go unmentioned—

  “Sid?” A knock on my door.

  I squeaked out, “Teddy?”

  “Yeah.” The door to my room opened. I could tell he was standing there, but I was deep inside a nest of my bedding clutching hot water bottles to my ears.

  He asked again, “Sid?”

  “I’m in here.”

  The edge of the bed jostled as he kneeled beside it. “Your dad said your mom didn’t come home?”

  “She . . . No, she’s going to another one.”

  “Sid, I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” My insides felt tight, like I was chilled, shaking.

  “How’s your dad doing?”

  “I don’t know, we aren’t talking much.”

  “He’s playing Guns and Roses, loud.”

  “Yeah, he’s been doing that.”

  “Can you come out of the covers, so we can talk?”

  “Nah. I’m—tired.”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  A twinge hit. I grimaced and gripped the hot water bottles, waiting for the pain to subside. “No, I can’t, I need to . . .”

  I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t want.

  The room was quiet for a long time. I felt the slight movement of his head dropping to the mattress and after a few minutes he said, “I’ll go, I’ll call tomorrow.”

  He was quiet again for a few minutes more and then the bed jostled as he got up. There was a soft click as my bedroom door closed behind him.

  Twenty

  Hospital Diary

  Day 5: We arrived as soon as the hospital opened for business. It looked the same as the old hospital, same doors, same colors, same nurses. Bigger, but still, hospital. I looked in on Mom then descended to the cafeteria for breakfast and while we ate, we missed the Doctor. I kid you not. And bigger hospital meant he only did rounds once a day, but we could, “Make an appointment for later in the week.” Or perhaps, tomorrow, never, ever, ever leave. Dad said he would bring a stadium potty and just piss in the room. The nurse did not consider this funny.

  Neither did we.

  He and I sat in the room and watched Mom sleep. She looked terrible. Am I supposed to say that? I wanted to wash her hair, pluck her chin, put a smear of Chapstick on her lips, lotion on her hands, but also she was unconscious; it didn’t seem right, but when she became un-unconscious would she be angry? Was I the Worst-Daughter-Ever for not plucking the hairs? But also girl-power, looks aren’t everything, and what a sexist thought, plucking chin hairs during a hospital stay. That’s literally the one time you get to heal and not worry about beauty standards, right?

  Mom woke up three times. We talked to her, but she only said, “Uh huh,” in response. The nurse spoon-fed her. We watched.

  .

  Twenty-One

  Sid

  I wrung my hands. Come to find out that’s a thing, massaging your hands distractedly at bed sides. Seems archaic, sounds like something you’d do in some other century, like the nineteenth. Mom is sick, uh oh, better wring my hands. Now we’re more advanced, aren’t we? But here I sat wringing. Or checking Facebook. Same thing, really.

  The news of the world was shit today. Literal shit. Like stuff was going on out there that made me think we weren’t advanced at all. Stuff that made me scared and made me not want to read anymore. The world goes on, of course, but does it need to go on so stupidly?

  Mom woke up and a nurse bustled in. She was young, not much older than me. She carried a bowl of mushy stuff and a spoon. She sidled right up to mom. “Hello, Mrs. Dalton, how are you today?”

  Mom said, “Uh huh.”

  The nurse stuffed a spoon of mush in Mom’s mouth and brusquely wiped her chin.

  I wasn’t sure if it was protocol, or Out Of Line, because the nurses barely acknowledged me and Dad in the room, but I asked, “Is she going to be okay, I mean, I know you don’t really know, but I mean, in your experience, being around this kind of thing?”

  The nurse looked at me as if she had only just noticed I stood there, “Oh, well, what did the Doctor say about your grandmother?”

  “That’s my mother.”

  Her hand faltered mid-spoon-feed. “Oh, yes, I’m sorry, my mistake. I don’t know the case, and I’m not her doctor, but we get this all the time, and there’s usually a full recovery.”

  My heart raced. “Really—even from this?”

  The nurse looked down at my mother, who looked up with her lips parted, waiting for another spoonful of mush, oblivious to the conversation. The nurse faltered again, then said, “Yes, of course, all the time.”

  My heart soared.

  Dad asked, “What time tomorrow will the Doctor be on his rounds?”

  “Um, I believe in the morning. What’s the day, oh yeah, morning rounds. Just get here early, in case.”

  Dad said, “Thank you so much.”

  And I agreed, “Yes, thank you. That is fantastic, thank you.”

  The nurse left the room and we beamed down at Mom as she slipped into sleep.

  Dad and I went out for our favorite tacos. We sat across from each other and smiled and even laughed a few times. The music was loud. It had been so many days since we had been in a loud, full of activity, real world, normal events, kind of place.

  It was shocking, how everything around me kept happening, oblivious to the earthquake trashing my home. Shouldn’t an earthquake this intense be felt by everyone? Chairs falling over, drinks spilt—something?

  Twenty-Two

  Texts

  Speaking of everyone, I needed to let Teddy know:

  Sorry I disappeared.

  Hospital said Mom

  will be okay.

  Dad and I are eating out

  celebrating

  That’s awesome.

  Woo-hoo!

  I’m telling Mom.

  Right now.

  She says so wonderful

  Can she call your mom?

  I stared off across the restaurant, thinking about mom saying, uh huh, being spoon-fed, staring through me.

  Not yet.

  Soon though.

  I have to go, our food

  just got delivered.

  Let me guess,

  you’re at Wahoos?

  Okay, letting you go

  thanks for texting.

  Good night

  Good night, Sid.

  Twenty-Three

  Hospital Diary

  Day 6: Dad and I sat in the car outside the hospital watching the sun rise. We had Starbucks drinks and pastries. As soon as the clock struck seven, we entered the front doors.

  Twenty-Four

  Sid

  It took four hours for the Doctor to arrive in Mom’s room. We stood and she said hello, but didn’t introduce herself. She picked up Mom’s chart, flipped pages, and huffed. Then she woke Mom up with a brisk, “Mrs Dalton, wake up.”

  Mom said, “Uh huh.”

  The doctor shined a tiny penlight in Mom’s eyes, checked Mom’s pulse, and wrote something on the chart. She asked, “Have you got any questions?”

  Dad and I looked at each other.

  Yes, I have questions, starting with, What the hell? But I asked, “When will she get better?”

  The Doctor looked at me with squinted eyes. “She’s not.”

  Dad asked, “What do you mean?”

  The Doctor look
ed down at the chart. “She won’t get better. We’ve done all we can.” She flipped the pages on the chart and spoke directly to Dad. “The ammonia buildup, the fluids, the confusion. It’s time to consider Hospice for End of Life care.”

  “Oh,” he said, then he fell quiet, as if that was all the explanation he needed.

  I looked from Dad to the Doctor and back again. “Wait, what?”

  The Doctor glanced at me and returned to speaking to Dad, “The admitting nurses will provide you with some contacts for local Hospice care. I’ll sign the release forms for tomorrow morning.”

  I said, “I don’t understand.”

  She turned to the bed, “Mrs Dalton? Mrs Dalton?”

  Mom struggled her eyes open and looked up at the Doctor.

  “Mrs Dalton, I’m Dr Patel.”

  Mom said, “Uh huh.”

  “Mrs Dalton, do you know these people?”

  Mom followed her eyes to me and Dad at the end of the bed. She looked at us, her eyes unfocused. Then she looked up into the Doctor’s face.

  “Mrs Dalton, do you know what year it is?”

  Mom said, “Uh huh.”

  The Doctor asked again, “Do you know where you are?”

  Mom said something that sounded like, “Shoneslaw.”