No Place to Hide

by Opa Hysea Wise

  Smythe nodded and looked toward her mother. Taking her hand, together, they returned to her father’s bedside. After a few minutes, she left her mother at her father’s bedside and returned to the waiting room to call her sisters.

  Her first call was to Nellis, her younger sister. Smythe was particularly fond of her, if only because she, too, had an unusual first name. Smythe found her sister easy to talk to regarding all manner of subjects—and while they did not speak often, a bond had developed between them. Nellis looked up to Smythe, admiring her intelligence and her quiet, “I’m following my own path” attitude. Nellis, who lived in the Chicago area, was also grateful to Smythe for choosing to move close to their parents after being furloughed, and often expressed her relief at Smythe’s presence.

  “Hello.”

  Clearing her throat, Smythe stood surprised at the sudden emotion welling up in her voice. “Nellis, hi, it’s Smythe. I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news to share.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Dad. He’s had a massive stroke. Nellis… he won’t survive it.”

  Smythe closed her eyes, willing herself the strength to continue the story.

  “We’re taking him off of life support. The doctor told us…” Smythe paused, clearing her throat again. “The doctor said it would only be a matter of time…”

  “Oh, God, no!” Nellis sobbed. “Please, God, no, please God, no! What happened?”

  Smythe, suddenly feeling weary, reached for a chair and sat down. “I don’t have all of the details, but Mom tried to wake him up this morning, and he didn’t wake. She thought he was just being stubborn. You know Mom. But he wasn’t. Based on all of the tests, he would not survive without extraordinary measures.”

  “But there’s hope; there’s always hope, Smythe. Don’t let him die—please!”

  “Nellis. There’s very little to no brain activity, and this isn’t the way he’d want to live.”

  “He’s our father!”

  “Exactly! Which is why the most compassionate thing Mom and I could do for him is to let him pass in peace—not tied to a bunch of machines just to keep him with us.”

  Smythe listened for a response but could hear only the empty silence of grief. Promising her youngest sister that she would call her with any new changes in their father’s status, Smythe hung up the phone.

  Father’s status, Smythe thought. Rather cold and formal way to express his death, but how else could I have said it? “I’ll call to let you know he died”?

  Smythe took in a breath. She held her phone in the palm of her hand, thumbing through her contact list. Margaret Kennedy. She hesitated for a moment, wondering which number to dial. Smythe hadn’t spoken to Margaret in years, holding her middle sister personally responsible for Smythe’s social trouble in school.

  Margaret had been welcomed into the high school hierarchy of girls, dressed in the latest fashion and crazy about boys. But Smythe was different. She wore jeans and button-down shirts with sneakers, preferred girls over boys, literature rather than television, and solitude over company. Smythe’s quiet demeanor became fodder for Margaret’s clique of girls, and Margaret just stood by and sneered at Smythe, allowing the verbal bullying to take place. Margaret’s only response had been to challenge her older sister to defend herself, but Smythe never did.

  Smythe clenched her teeth. She tapped Margaret’s cell number and immediately stood from the chair.

  “Smythe, what’s up?” Handing her secretary a file folder, Margaret put the palm of her hand over the mouthpiece and thanked her.

  “Sorry about that. What’s going on?”

  “I’m calling as the bearer of bad news. Dad suffered a massive stroke and will not survive.”

  “Oh, no!”

  Repeatedly making a fist and releasing it, Smythe began to pace. “Mom and I have given the doctors permission to remove all life-sustaining efforts. We’re placing him in hospice, where he’ll most likely pass away in the next couple of days.

  “Oh my God. How’s Mom? Can I talk to her?”

  “Mom is with Dad right now. I would suggest you try reaching her later this evening. Too much noise and activity here—”

  “What hospital are you at?”

  “University.”

  “Good, good.” Taking in a breath, Margaret sat back in her chair, swiveled around toward her office window, and stared out at the New York City skyline. Darting her eyes back and forth, she finally spoke. “Let me call Thomas. He may know some neurologists there. Perhaps consult with them.”

  Leave it to you to want to drag your husband into this.

  “Didn’t you hear me? His doctors have given him no chance of recovery. The most compassionate thing Mom and I can do is let him go. So, that’s what we’re doing.”

  “There’s always a chance—I can’t just accept this.”

  “Do you think we can?” Smythe stopped her pacing and took in a breath. “Look, at least he won’t continue to suffer. And he has suffered, Margaret. I’ve already called Nellis; she won’t be able to get here to say goodbye in person. If you can spare the time—”

  “I can’t. I leave for Italy tomorrow. I won’t be back until a week from Tuesday. I’ll call Mom later to explain. I just can’t believe this is happening.”

  “And yet it has, Margaret. If you want, you can call me, and I can put you on so you can say your goodbyes to him. Or, if Mom is in the room, you can call her.”

  “Yes, that’s a great idea. I’ll do my best to clear my schedule and give her a call tonight, then make arrangements to talk to him while she’s there.”

  “Sounds good. Listen, I’ve got to get back to Mom. I’ll let you know when I’ve scheduled the memorial service.”

  “Yes, that’s good. I’ll clear my calendar once I’m back from this trip. If possible, three weeks from now would be great.”

  “Yeah, sure. Gotta go.”

  “Ok, bye.”

  Ass. Your father is dying, and you can’t spare a day or two to say goodbye!

  Smythe stomped through the waiting room, stopping short of her father’s room to compose herself. After a few long breaths, she forced a smile and returned to sit with her mother.

  Over the next several hours, all life-sustaining measures were halted. The ER staff made arrangements for a local hospice of Smythe’s choosing to take control of his care. Her mother, sick with grief, returned to her home while Smythe remained behind, waiting to accompany her father to hospice.

  It would be close to midnight before transportation services arrived for Smythe’s father. After a short drive outside the city, the caravan, consisting of the transport vehicle and Smythe in her SUV, arrived at their destination.

  The hospice center was a small facility, yet considered one of the best in the valley. Smythe entered the complex and felt comforted to see that it did not have the sterile feeling or appearance of a hospital. As though wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold rainy day, she gazed at a lobby that looked more like a quaint bed and breakfast. The lights were dimmed low. Serene landscape paintings hung on the walls around worn but comfy living room-style furniture. A card table sat off in the far corner of the lobby, with a number of well-used board games and magazines scattered atop it.

  She was met by her father’s new hospice nurse, Evorah. A plump African American woman in her late 50s with a curly hair weave, she held a tender strength in her movement, a reflective gaze in her eyes, and the gentle spirit of an angel. Her enveloping tenderness allowed Smythe to release any anxiety over concern for her father’s care as he journeyed on the last days of his long goodbye.

  Evorah, with an accent that belied her southern upbringing, quietly explained to Smythe she and her team would provide “comfort care” for her father. Not completely understanding the term, Smythe gave Evorah a quizzical look.

  Evorah stated, “We’ll not seek to cure that which cannot be cured. Instead, my team will focus our efforts on easing the physical effects of his dying proc
ess.” She taught Smythe how they could tell when their unresponsive patient was in pain.

  “We’ll watch him closely, learn his facial signals. We all have ‘em when we’re in pain. We look for a slight grimace or restless movement in his body. We watch his blood pressure, too. There’ll be no unnecessary discomfort, I assure you.”

  Smythe nodded.

  “It’s also not too uncommon that he may feel some level of anxiety. We will administer anxiety medication; no need to suffer that.”

  There it is, Smythe thought. The culmination of a life reduced to pain and anxiety medication.

  Evorah offered Smythe a tour of the floor while the hospice team tended to her father. She pointed out where Smythe would be required to sign in and out. With Smythe by her side, she strode through the halls, pointing out the restrooms and nurses’ station should Smythe require assistance during her visits.

  “And I’ve saved the best for last,” Evorah said, pointing toward the kitchen.

  “You’ll want to visit our kitchen periodically. We have the most delicious chocolate chip cookies this side of the Ohi’a river. I couldn’t bake them any better, if I do say so myself. As you can tell, I’ve had my fair share over the years, hence my motherly figure,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. With her hands on her hips, she shimmied her body effortlessly, flaunting her round figure. Smythe could not help but giggle at the sight of this angel.

  Smythe spent a few minutes with her father before she said her goodbyes to Evorah and the nurse’s assistant. Evorah nodded and began speaking to her father in a voice that could have soothed a wailing child.

  After just two and a half days, Smythe received an early morning call from Evorah. “Smythe, I am sorry to inform you, your father passed away peacefully at 2:05 a.m.”

  Smythe sat back against the headboard of her bed. Holding her phone, she stared at the keypad. For several minutes, she sat, numb to the news. It’s time, she told herself. She hesitated before thumbing through her contact list, calling her mother before calling her two siblings.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to have to tell you...” Smythe started, and then listened. She listened as they each poured out their grief-stricken sobs. She bore the brunt of preparing her father’s memorial. Perhaps out of spite for her sister, Margaret, Smythe set the memorial service for two weeks after his death and one week before her resignation.

  A week after her father’s memorial service, Smythe walked away from her corporate position. With no fanfare, she had gathered her belongings at the end of the day and strode away from a life she no longer claimed as her own.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, it all fell together.

  More Time

  SMYTHE CONTINUED TO SIT IN HER CAR. SHE ROLLED DOWN HER window and lit another cigarette.

  So much has happened in the space of a few weeks. Dad dies, and then I decide to turn in my resignation and make a huge career change? What am I thinking?

  She took one last drag from her cigarette before she snuffed it out, littering the parking lot with the butt. The black, midnight sky began to turn to gray. With her coffee mug in hand, Smythe became aware of the sound of a man’s voice.

  “Please, please, don’t. I beg you.”

  The shuffling of labored footsteps came into earshot some distance behind her. She tilted her head to one side as they seemed to draw closer. Her heart began to race, and her breathing shallowed as she turned her attention back to the center. Glancing up at her rearview mirror, two men became visible. One struggled in the hands of the other as they stumbled out from the shadows of darkness into the dull light of a flickering streetlamp.

  Smythe peered into her passenger’s side mirror. Transfixed by the struggle, she watched as the pair got uncomfortably close to her car. One man stopped to swing the other man around. The taller of the two, a white male in his 50s with salt and pepper hair, stood yelling at the second. He towered over him as he continued to yell out profanities, raising his fist toward the pleading man. The pleading man slowly backed away, his head moving from side to side. He cowered before the tormentor, his outstretched hands facing upward.

  Smythe pressed her head as far into the headrest as she could. Sitting perfectly still, she listened as the pleading man spoke.

  “I don’t have it, and I no longer know who does. It will require time. I just need more time; please, just a little more time.”

  His tormentor, enraged, moved forward and landed a fist squarely into the man’s lower jaw, knocking him back onto his heels. He growled, spitting at the pleading man’s feet.

  “You’ve had enough time, you pathetic little man. I told you before Alika, give us the name of the tattletale and the documents—but you didn’t heed my warning. I’ve given you so much time. More than you deserve, but you took advantage.”

  “All my ohana ever wanted was to live off the land! So many are in agony. Our children have respiratory issues.”

  “Your people! Your people? Your people are weak! They had an opportunity to make real money, yet they have refused our offer. But, either way, my employer now has their land, and I have you.”

  Smythe’s shoulders tensed. She sensed this man, Alika, was in danger. But what could she do? She was contemplating her options when a gunshot made her jump. The sound, piercing the stillness of the early morning air, reverberated deep within Smythe’s body. She sat, frozen in place, and held her breath. She watched as Alika slumped to the pavement and anxiously gulped in air.

  Dear God, oh God, oh God, oh God. Hide!

  Smythe looked into her rearview mirror one last time before diving toward the passenger seat, quickly bending her torso over her armrest. Her stomach lurched. She pressed her mouth closed, holding the vomit at bay. Her hands began to tremble as she placed her coffee in the cup holder, her face contorting, hoping her movement was not heard. She did not breathe, remaining perfectly, quietly still.

  She tilted her head and gazed upward through her sunroof, noticing the night sky giving way to the morning dawn. She began to sweat profusely and squelched the need to scream. She swallowed her acidic bile, screaming silently.

  Help me; please help me!

  Her internal chatter told her there was no help, and to prepare for the worst. Yet, with just enough hope, she remained motionless over her armrest and did not make a sound.

  Oh, God, let it stay dark. Please let it stay dark. Don’t let him see me. Please.

  Smythe squeezed her eyes tight, the words of the dying stranger playing in a continuous loop— “I just need more time, I just need more time, I just need more time...”

  How do I get out of here? How can I call 911 without being heard?

  She held her breath and listened. The only sound she could hear was the rhythmic pounding of her heartbeat. It seemed as if time itself were caught in eternal stillness. She felt grossly uncomfortable, her chest aching for air. Her body finally rebelled, releasing her diaphragm to take in a breath. She shivered as she opened her eyes.

  Just peek. You can’t sit here all morning. Just a quick glance.

  She lifted her head just enough to peer into the passenger-side mirror. The only one remaining was Alika, sprawled upon the asphalt, his blood slowly staining the parking lot, barely hidden by the early dawn sky.

  She laid her head back down.

  Damn it. Where’s my phone? Feel for it. Where did you last have it?

  She couldn’t find it.

  Please, do you remember bringing it? Yes, yes. Ok. Don’t move. There it is. Ok. Ok, Smythe, it’s under you. Please, please, please just lift up a little.

  Without a sound, struggling to lift her torso just enough to pull her cellphone out from under her, she raised her head, peering through the side-view mirror, her eyes darting around the parking lot.

  Her hands began to shake as she clutched her lifeline.

  Damn it! What’s my passcode?

  She took in abbreviated breaths, her forehead moist with perspiration.

  Maybe I should just d
rive away. Pretend I didn’t see anything.

  No! I need to call 911!

  I can’t get into my phone!

  Breathe, please just breathe.

  In 2, 3, 4. Out 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. In 2, 3, 4. Out 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8. In 2, 3, 4. Out 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

  Remember your code. Please. Just remember.

  She waited in unbearable darkness. Finally, a bubble surfaced from her memory, and her four-digit passcode emerged. She thumbed the code onto her phone and called 911, whispering her location. While waiting for the police to arrive, she suddenly remembered she could have used her phone’s emergency feature. Still bent over her armrest, she tilted her head toward the heavens and quietly whispered, “Ya think you could have helped me out with that little detail a bit sooner?”

  Police dispatch kept Smythe calm, requesting she remain on the phone in her car at the scene until police arrived. Why is this taking so long? He could come back at any moment. Hurry up already! Please help me, please help me! But then, she heard them. Off in the distance, faintly at first, then increasingly louder, was the sound of sirens.

  The wailing became deafening as emergency vehicles drew near, jarring the little emotional stability left within her. Police cars surrounded her vehicle, while fire and rescue vehicles pulled up next to the dead man. The dispatcher disconnected from Smythe as officers began their foot approach toward her car. With her hands raised above her head, she peeked her head up above the bottom of her passenger window, scanning the parking area now full of activity.

  “It’s me. I-I called police, I-I called police!” she yelled.

  After providing officers with identification, she recounted her reason for sitting in the parking lot at such an early morning hour.

  “I-I-I came because I couldn’t sleep. I-I-I ju-just wanted to pray and smoke cigarettes. G-get direction for the day.”

  Between her sobs, she described what she saw. She struggled to recall important details as her ego derailed her focus, berating her for sitting in that parking lot at that time of morning—alone! Fear embraced her like an unwanted hug from an uncomfortable acquaintance, yet she remained steadfast to her account of the event. The police held her for what seemed like hours, questioning her over and over again, but each time, she provided the same description of the suspect and what she heard. Satisfied with the information she provided, the police finally released her to return home. With store surveillance cameras corroborating her story, detectives located and arrested the suspect a few days later.