Ultimatum

by K. M. Walton

  “We can’t just leave him in here, Lucas. What if he falls off the toilet? Look, he can’t even keep his body upright.”

  I felt myself lean to the side. Luckily the one stall wall was close, or I would’ve been on the tile floor. Everything swayed. I was a tree branch on a windy day. Oooh, Oscar would like that fancy talk. I gritted my teeth and tried to cement the thought to memory. I was the wind, right? Or was I the leaves?

  “Shit!” Lucas shouted.

  “Can we sneak him out somehow? There’s gotta be a way to get him outside without the whole effing world seeing. Think, Lucas!” Darren demanded.

  “I don’t know! God, why do I have to solve this?”

  “Is he passed out?” Darren asked.

  Someone slapped me across the face, and I puked all over their legs.

  Oscar

  Jacque rounds the corner with a pile of blankets in her arms. Her face lights up when she sees Stephen, and her pace quickens. “Hey, Growler.”

  Stephen shoots me a look. “Uh, Oscar’s here too, Jacque.” He points to me.

  I’m used to being ignored, and the fact that Stephen has to stand up for me makes me sad.

  She bobs her head. “Right. Sorry. Hi, Oscar.”

  I’m having the most difficult time concentrating. Her eyes seriously could be pools, which I know is such a cliché, but it’s completely true. And the girl smells like lemonade. Honest to God, she smells like it. It’s a breath of heaven in this hideous place.

  “Can you hold on a second, Oscar?” She pulls Stephen a few feet away and whispers, “Their dad looks awful.”

  Even though she says it in a soft voice, I overhear. I cringe at her obvious statement. He’s about twenty-four hours away from death—of course he’s looked better. At least she’s thoughtful enough to try and shield me from her thought.

  Stephen nods and they walk back to me.

  “Sorry,” she says, wincing. “I should’ve pulled Growler farther away. I know you heard me.”

  Stephen draws in a huge breath and attempts to change the subject. “Did you do the stat homework yet? It sucks.”

  Jacque shifts the pile of blankets to her side. “Great,” she deadpans. “I’m here till nine, and then I have to pick up my sister from ballet. All the way in Philly.”

  “Philly?” Stephen says. “Aren’t there a bunch of dance places here in West Chester?”

  She rolls her eyes. “She’s a Level Three ballerina at the Pennsylvania Ballet. She’s really good and all, but picking her up is a pain in my ass.” A grin spreads across her face. “Wanna share that stat homework with me, Growler? I’ll do the next one for us.”

  Stephen shrugs, and Jacque wraps her free arm around his shoulders.

  “You are the man!” she exclaims.

  Again I’m in awe of this effortless exchange, the way she threw her arm around him without hesitation. It all confirms my awkwardness.

  Marnie appears at the end of the hall and shooshes her. She whisks Jacque away, telling her she’s got blankets to deliver. Jacque turns and waves over her shoulder.

  My stomach is in knots. Besides feeling crappy about my inability to interact with people, I am also pathetically superficial. I can’t believe I’m allowing someone’s looks and scent to affect me so deeply. If I was alone, I might have punched myself in the head. My lips tighten.

  “I think you make her nervous,” Stephen says.

  I laugh because that is ridiculous. “Nervous? I don’t think so.”

  Vance says from behind, “What the hell are you guys doing out here? Did you come to hang with me or not, Growler?”

  Vance

  Two years ago

  I got buzzed every day of my suspension. All five of them. My dad let me work at the Blue Mountain instead of rotting in front of the TV at home. I took full advantage of the stocked bar every chance I got. Dad caught me once and told me to go easy. He didn’t want me stacking the cases wrong. I did that last year when I was trashed, and he’d never let me live it down.

  “Don’t puke on those lemons, puke boy,” Joey said, messing with me.

  I held up the knife and stabbed the air.

  “You gotta learn how to hold your liquor, son. Throwing up on your buddies like that just ain’t right,” he continued.

  I went back to cutting lemons for the bar. “Everyone pukes, Joey. They didn’t care.” What was the big deal? They did what they were supposed to do: help their teammate out. I can’t believe I got suspended because of those two jackasses. I mean, they’ve seen drunk people before. But they both panicked when I hurled and ran to find a teacher. They said I was convulsing or some shit. I didn’t believe it. Dad thought they pussied out and didn’t know what to do with a little vomit.

  All they should’ve done was make sure I didn’t choke. Just like Oscar and I did with Dad. But no, they overreacted and got me caught.

  Growler somehow managed to stay under the radar that night. He said he wasn’t that wasted. I don’t know how, because we drank the same amount of vodka. He must’ve eaten dinner. Not eating was definitely my downfall, a mistake I’ll never make again. Live and learn, my dad always said.

  Bill chimed in. “That’s not what I heard.” He snorted. “I’m friends with Darren’s mom. Let’s just say she got an earful about you from her son. He was less than happy with you.”

  “Darren hates his mom, so who cares what she says.”

  My dad came out of his office with his hands on his hips. “Who hates their mother?”

  “My buddy Darren,” I said.

  He ripped a huge burp and rubbed his belly.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  He bowed. “Women drive me to drink. And speaking of drinking, I need one.” He poured himself a shot and tossed it back. “What time is it? Isn’t Oscar supposed to be here by now?”

  Joey shouted from the back, “Yeah, Steve. Oscar’s definitely late. It’s almost four.”

  My dad turned to me. “Has he texted you?”

  I squished up my face. Oscar hasn’t texted me since seventh grade. “No.”

  Dad pulled out his phone, read something, and did a facepalm. “Shit. His art show was today.”

  Joey leaned on the bar. “We’ll take care of things here. Go!”

  “No.” My father shook his head. “It’s over in two minutes. It was from two to four. Who runs a damn art show in the middle of the day? Doesn’t that damn teacher know people work? Real jobs?”

  “You hate art anyway, Dad.” Lemon juice dripped down my arm right to the cut on my elbow. (I’d sliced it when I fell off the toilet.) I winced.

  “True,” my dad said. He mumbled curses under his breath as he walked back into his office and shut the door.

  Oscar would be pissed and mope around for a few days, but he’d get over it. He always did.

  Oscar

  I let Vance and Stephen sit in the mini–living room. I’m watching my father. Even though I’m counting his breaths, I crane my neck to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  Stephen says, “Crazy that Jacque Beaufort works here, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Vance says with an air of total boredom. “Are people asking where I am at school?”

  “Everyone.”

  My brother must be smiling at that response. “Of course they are,” he says. “That was a stupid question.”

  “I didn’t mean to make you freak earlier.” Stephen’s voice is small. I can tell he’s nervous. “I’ve never been in a place like this before. And it’s awful seeing your dad like this. Is he in pain?”

  Vance exhales loudly, and I wait for him to blow up again. “Nah, no pain. That’s what a hospice is all about. They explained it to me and Oscar. They do everything they can to make the patient comfortable during their last days. No pain is what they do.”

  “How’s O
scar doing?”

  My brother has no idea how I’m doing. He remains focused solely on himself. As per usual. I lean over a bit, anticipating Vance’s answer.

  He huffs. “The fuck if I know.”

  At least he’s honest.

  “Coach told me to tell you that coming to a practice might do you good. Help clear your head. He said we’re right across the street and you could be here in two minutes if you needed to be,” Stephen says.

  “Coach knows I can’t do that. I don’t want to.”

  They start talking about homework, and I zone out. I look down at our father with his slanted head, forever-open mouth. Hear his labored breaths. And I cry. The guilt over wanting him to die strangles me. It’s hard to breathe. I try to let the tears flow as silently as I can, but they’re clunky. I choke and then immediately cover it up with a fake cough. Having them hear me weep is the last thing I want.

  My brother has always shown love and respect to this man in front of me. He has idolized him and emulated him and, yes, he has loved him. I believe our father may be the only human being that Vance truly values. Dad is a prize to him. A hero. Even our mother never got the same treatment.

  I love my father too. Children are programmed to love their parents. It’s just how human beings are. So it’s no surprise that the love I have for him is genuine. It’s complicated, yes, but it’s real. Last night, as I was falling asleep, I tried to think of something positive about me and Dad. I ended up with: college. One thing Dad believes in for me and Vance is going to college. Vance and I have known about our college funds since we were little kids. Dad never went, and it’s something he’s been passionate about for both of us.

  College is the only topic of conversation where Dad and I can talk somewhat normally. Unfortunately, I can count those conversations on one hand.

  With all that said, other than help pay for college, my father has done little to support me, to show me love, to care for me. To me, my father has been just as good as dead for my whole life.

  I went inward after Mom died because I had no choice. There was no one left at home who valued my presence, who cared what I thought, who wanted to spend time with me. It was so easy to slide into my shell. Who would ever pull me out?

  I choke on a sob and cover my mouth. I pretend to have another good cough to camouflage the crying, and I think it works. Vance and Stephen are lost in their own conversation.

  I’m just plain lost.

  Vance

  Two years ago

  My dad had disappointed me, yeah, but what parent hadn’t let their kid down at some point? He’d missed a few of my big games, but I’d never cried about it or made him feel bad. He wasn’t perfect. Who was? So when Oscar refused to speak to him for, like, a week after Dad missed his art show, I was fired up. I told him he was being a selfish baby and that Dad could see his stupid paintings or pieces or whatever-the-hell he called them if he just brought them home.

  Oscar ignored me, of course.

  I swear he didn’t eat with us for days and days. He went straight to his room after school and didn’t come out till morning. I have no idea what he ate, or if he ate at all. If he was looking for pity, he would get none from me. People forget shit all the time. Who did he think he was? The king of the world?

  Dad was usually clueless about emotional stuff. That was Mom’s job. She’d go talk to Oscar. I don’t know what she said to him, but he always came out of his room happier. Now she was gone, so no one went to talk to Oscar.

  Dad acted like everything was totally normal. He made dinner, set a place for Oscar, called him down. Nothing. We’d be jamming to reggae. We’d eat dinner. Tell stories. Regular stuff.

  This went on for a while. Then one night Oscar just showed up at the table, as silent and moody as ever. I opened with a jab, “Look who decided to grace us with his presence tonight,” and I got the evil eye from Dad. That didn’t stop me. “No, Dad, he needs to grow up and realize the world doesn’t revolve around him and his little drawings. You were working. You weren’t out partying. Wor-king.”

  Oscar stood up and walked upstairs. We didn’t see him at the table for another week.

  The baby.

  I’d admit it: I liked not having Oscar around so much. He had a knack for annoying Dad with his high-and-mighty crap, which was something I rarely did. Dad and I spoke the same language. Oscar was like an alien.

  While Oscar was sulking in his room all those nights, Dad and I had tons of time to talk lacrosse strategy and music, shit my brother didn’t care about. We jammed to tunes as loud as we wanted. He said I could go to the upcoming Reggae Sunsplash concert at the Mann, said he’d drive me and Growler and pay for me if I scored a hat trick in my next game. I took the challenge.

  It would be great to get stoned out of our minds, listen to Jimmy Cliff and Toots and the Maytals, and not have to worry about driving home.

  Perfection.

  See, Oscar didn’t even know what he was missing. If he would stop being such a whiner, he could actually have a life.

  Oscar

  Stephen’s gone, and my brother and I flank our father’s bed. My gaze is locked on Dad’s chest, counting the breaths. Vance is playing some game on his phone.

  Still four breaths a minute.

  Without looking up, Vance asks, “Still four?”

  I nod, knowing my answer won’t register. Passive aggression at its finest.

  He asks again.

  I nod again.

  He stares at me. “What’s your problem?”

  A fresh wave of guilt washes over me. Now’s not the time for me to be a dick. “Sorry. Yes. Still four.”

  Vance huffs and bites the inside of his lip, something he only does when he’s worried, which doesn’t happen that often.

  “What time is it?” he asks.

  Instead of snarking that he’s got his phone right in front of him, I say, “Almost nine.” I yawn and start a new breath count. My heartbeat doubles. I think I just counted three breaths. No, count again.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  Shit.

  “Vance, he’s down to three breaths.”

  My brother pops up, his phone clattering to the floor. “What?”

  “Look,” I say. We count and time. “Three.”

  He runs from the room, and within a few seconds Marnie is back with him. Her lips tighten, and she squeezes my shoulder.

  “Is it happening?” I whisper.

  “Let me see how he’s doing first. Okay?” She feels his forehead, lifts the covers to survey his legs and feet, and starts her own breath count. “It is three, guys.”

  This is real. My lip quivers so I bite it. I’ve been secretly wanting it to happen, but now that it’s so close I…I…

  Oh God.

  Vance’s face drains of color. “He’s never opening his eyes again, is he?”

  Marnie turns to Vance and takes his hand. “Aw, honey. I’m sorry. No. We’ve done everything we can to make him comfortable.”

  Vance says, “What Oscar said. Is it happening?”

  “All I can tell you is that he’s closer to passing, but I can’t tell you for sure that it’s going to happen tonight. We do see a lot of patients let go while their loved ones are sound asleep, almost as if they’re sparing them from the last good-bye. Some wait until family members are all here. Everyone is different.”

  Neither of us have a response. We both simply stare at her.

  “Oh, boys, I’m so sorry. This is a tough situation. You’re going to have to dig deep and be strong.”

  I guess Marnie is forgetting that we’ve already lost our mother, so we’re intimately familiar with digging deep.

  Marnie steps back and says, “If there’s anybody you’d like to call, to let them say their good-byes, I’d do it. Just let me know their nam
es so I can let the guard downstairs know and he’ll let them up.”

  “We should call Joey and Bill,” I say.

  Vance nods. “I’ll do it.”

  “Uncles?” Marnie asks.

  “No. They’re my father’s bartenders at the Blue Mountain,” I say. My father is an only child. Both of his parents died when he was in college, and my mother only has one sister who lives in Singapore. I turn to Vance. “What about Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop?” They’re my mother’s parents who live in Alaska. Yeah, Alaska. And even though we’ve only seen them a handful of times throughout our lives, they should probably know that their son-in-law is about to die.

  My mom shared her regret with me about losing touch with her parents during one of our last “in the backyard, listening to reggae, looking at the sky” moments. She admitted to missing them, which is something I’d never heard her say before. It was no secret that Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop resented Dad for taking their daughter so far away. They were also not fans of his infidelities. Go figure. Throughout my childhood, I’d overheard lots of telephone arguments between Mom and her parents, and she was always so protective of Dad. It used to make me angry. I wanted her to tell them the truth—that she was in love with a guy who didn’t know how to love her back.

  She never did patch things up with them.

  Vance says, “You seriously think they’d care? They didn’t even come to Mom’s funeral.” He shakes his head. “I mean, Mom was their daughter and they didn’t come. So they’re definitely not jumping on a plane to come be with us, that’s for sure. So what’s the point? I don’t think they even know our names, for fuck’s sake. The last time we saw them, I was seven.”

  Marnie clears her throat. “I’ll let you guys hash this out privately. So you want Joey and Bill on the list, right?”

  “Yes,” we say in unison.

  Vance is right. They’d never come. They hate Dad. Quite frankly, I hate them. How do parents not come to their daughter’s funeral? “I agree with you, Vance.”