Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

  “You’ll wear yourself out,” you say, squeezing her hand a little tighter. “You don’t...you d-don’t want to do that because everyone is coming over to see you.”

  Her private vaudeville of language continues, and every squeak is wrapped up in sandy, sputtering, wet rawness that makes your stomach tighten and your throat constrict. Her hand in yours is cold and leathery but she’s trying to squeeze back, to let you know Please don’t do this, please don’t do this, I know I’m sick and I know it’s hard on you kids but I don’t want to die, not yet, I don’t want to die not yet not yet not yet please don’t do this pleasepleaseplease.

  You let go of her hand as a nurse comes into the room and asks if she can speak to you or your sister. You nod at Lisbeth and walk out into the hall, but not before bending down and kissing Mom on the cheek; it still tastes of the tear you wiped away earlier, and the saltiness is unexpected; it tastes of flavor, of something being prepared, Christmas dinner where Mom always used just a little too much salt in her stuffing, but you loved that smell, didn’t you? The way it wafted up the stairs and tickled your nose to wake you: It’s Christmas, come on down, sleepy-head, and see all the goodies Dad and me have got for you!

  “I’ll be right back,” you whisper to the tear’s trail, hoping Mom hears it, as well.

  Outside, the nurse pulls closed the glass door separating Mom’s room from the rest of the ICU. “Is there anything more you’d like us to do?”

  “I think she might need a sedative of some kind. She’s really scared and—”

  “—doctor already wrote the order for a sedative and morphine, as well. I can give it to her any time you say.”

  You nod your head and chew on your lower lip for a moment.

  (Handling things just like the Good Boy we all know you are, say the Guests. You can’t tell if they’re making fun of you or not, so before you get too caught up in this moment you tell them to fuck off and simply jump to the outcome without benefit of observation.)

  “I don’t want her knocked out, understand? She’ll want to say g-good...good-bye to everyone and I want her to be conscious.”

  “It won’t knock her out, I promise.”

  “Then please give it to her now.”

  The nurse nods her head and looks at you—she has very pretty grey eyes, doesn’t she? They look just like your ex-wife’s—but here you are observing the moment while it rides right on by, and have to ask the nurse to repeat what she’s just said.

  “Is there anything we can do for you or your sister?”

  “No, thank you. I just want Mom to feel...I mean, she’s been so sick for so long and we—Lisbeth and I, we...”

  The nurse puts a hand on your forearm. Her fingers are soft and warm, the first time a woman’s fingers have touched there in—what?—a year-and-a-half? Two years? Who remembers?

  (We do, say the Guests. We remember everything, pal. That’s why you invited us here.)

  “Is everything the way you want it?” asks this nurse of the warm soft fingers on your arm.

  What you want to say is: No, everything is not the way I want it, so if you’ll pardon me, then, I think I’ll just go over here and scream for lost things, throw back my head and open my mouth and just scream. For a smile I haven’t seen in years, or the chime that’s missing from a laugh, or the noise not made by a child now ten years in its grave, for the toys my ex-wife and me don’t have to pick up; I’ll scream for all the school pictures that aren’t decorating a mantel, then maybe for songs no one but me remembers of cares about, songs from dead singers that make me smile or cry when I hear an echo of their choruses from a passing radio accidentally tuned into an Oldies station, and finally I’ll scream for my only living parent whom I am about to kill. Yes, that sounds good. Sounds splendid, in fact. So if you’ll just excuse me for a moment, I’ll go take care of this. Sound okay? Good. If you need me I’ll be right over there. Can’t miss me. I’ll be the one screaming.

  That’s what you want to say (as you observe in the moment that hasn’t quite gotten away from you yet), but what actually comes out of your mouth is: “Yes, thank you, everything is fine...as fine as it can be under these circumstances, I guess.”

  Nurse of the warm fingers lingers for just a moment longer, maybe longer than is necessary or even professional, and the sad smile on her face is echoed by the one in her eyes.

  You both release a breath at the same time. She blinks, squeezes your arm, and with a soft swish of shoes against the polished tile, heads off for the syringe.

  (Were you just flirting? the Guests inquire. Oh, pal, what stones you’ve got. Mom lying in there choking to death on the ruined slop of her insides and you’re making time with Florence Nightingale. Show of hands: spit or swallow?)

  “Shut the fuck up!” you growl through clenched teeth. An older gentleman passing by you snaps his head in your direction, his offense at your language all over his face.

  “Sorry,” you mumble. “I wasn’t talking to you, I was—”

  But he’s gone, turned into another room a few yards down.

  (A flirt and a charmer. What self-respecting nurse wouldn’t want some of this action?)

  Shaking your head, you go back in to Lisbeth and Mom.

  “She’s scared,” Lisbeth whispers. You wonder why she bothers. Fer chrissakes she’s standing right there next to Mom, holding the woman’s hand, and Mom might be hard of hearing but she isn’t deaf and she may not have been the ideal parent but her life’s going to be over—repeat that, turn up the volume, OVER—in less than two hours and the woman deserved to not be spoken of in Third Person.

  “I know you’re scared, Mom,” you say, taking your place by the bed. “But this is what you wanted.”

  The shaking of the head again.

  You reach into your pocket and remove the copy of her living will, unfold it, and hold it up for her to see. “You made us promise you that if this time ever came, we’d go through with it. Even if you said ‘no,’ we’d go through with it.”

  Lisbeth snaps your name and you give her the Glare. The Glare has served you well over the years, hasn’t it? The Glare scares even the Guests sometimes. Burns right through a person, makes it damn near impossible to maintain eye contact with you. You know this, and you use it to your advantage whenever you want to be left alone, which is most of the time, so many have known the terror of the Glare.

  Lisbeth looks away almost at once. You feel terrible for having looked at her this way, but dealing with that is for later.

  (You got that right, pal. We’ll just add that to the list, shall we?)

  You grab Mom’s hand away from Lisbeth and hold it tight. You look at your sister—who’s still not returning your gaze—then directly into Mom’s eyes. You have looked into her eyes this intensely maybe three times in your entire life. “Listen to me, Mom. You will never be able to function without this machine, do you understand me?”

  A slow nod. Another tear.

  “Even if we were to call this off right now and leave you hooked up to this thing, you’re not going to last another week. You’re on borrowed time, Mom. You should have been dead six days ago.”

  Once again Lisbeth says your name, this time spitting it out as if it’s some rancid chunk of food.

  “You’re here with us now,” you continue, “and you’re awake, and you’re getting the chance to do something Dad didn’t get to do. You’re getting a chance to say good-bye to all the people who love you. They’re all coming, and they’re all going to stay right here with you until you fall asleep for the last time. The nurse is going to give you a shot so you’ll be comfortable, and all you have to do is just let us say good-bye and tell you that we love you and then you can rest. You’re tired, Mom. You’ve been tired for so long—” Your voice cracks on these last two words, and you have to turn your head away for a moment to get a grip on yourself.

  (Aw, say the Guests, look at this. Widdle baby cwying faw his mommy. Little late to feel sad about this now, isn’t i
t, pal?)

  You ignore them and turn back. “—and you need to rest. You’ve earned it.”

  Her hand squeezes yours.

  “I have no idea how scary this must be for you, but we’re going to be right here, however long this takes. But I’m—we’re—going to keep our promise to you, Lisbeth and me. Because this is what you wanted. But there’s something you need to do for me, Mom. You need to let me know you understand. Can you do that? Can you squeeze my hand and let me know that you understand so I don’t have to go through the rest of my life feeling like I’ve killed you?”

  She looks in your eyes.

  And for some reason you remember something from twenty years ago: you were still living at home and had picked up the phone one day, just to make a call, but Mom was talking to someone so you started to hang up when you clearly heard her say the words: “I love you.”

  Phone in hand, staring.

  Dad was raking leaves in the back yard.

  You lifted the receiver to your ear and listened. Details. Specifics. Minutia. Three years this had been going on. They laughed. At your dad. At you. But not Lisbeth, not the light of everyone’s lives, not her.

  You hung up loudly and waited. It didn’t take long. Mom at the door to your room, her eyes wide and frightened by the headlights.

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough,” you said.

  Her face took on many forms in a very few seconds; sadness, shame, anger, indifference, confusion and, finally, resignation. “Go ahead and tell him. I don’t care.” Bullshit bravado, that.

  “I figured out that much from what I heard. So you really think I’m useless?”

  Shock, for just a moment. Then: “Sometimes.”

  You nodded your head. “It would kill Dad if he knew.”

  “I’m not going to tell him.”

  “Neither am I.”

  She’d smiled at you, then, and for a moment you thought it was a smile of love and appreciation, but it was in her eyes, wasn’t it?

  You were now in it with her. If Dad ever found out, she could deflect part of his hurt and anger and anguish by saying, “Your son’s known about it almost the whole time.” And that would kill Dad.

  There are times you wonder whether or not it did help kill him, just as much as the diabetes and high blood pressure and prostate cancer. Had he somehow found out? Then just let his heart break along with everything else so he could die alone in the toilet of his room at the nursing home? That’s where they found him—dead in the crapper.

  You never found out what happened to the other guy, never asked his name, never kept an eye out for a strange car or truck parked near the house.

  Dad’s gone. Grandma, too. Now it was Mom’s turn; not because you want it this, because it has to be this way.

  “Please squeeze my hand,” you whisper, and the begging in your voice disgusts even you.

  Mom looks at you the same way she had after that phone call twenty years ago.

  “Please?”

  Mom does not blink, does not try to speak, does not shake her head.

  After a moment you look at your sister. “She squeezed my hand,” you say. Softly.

  Lisbeth releases a breath, her shoulders slumping, then smiles and weeps at the same time. The relief she feels is palpable even from where you’re standing.

  (She bought it, pal. Very nice, very smooth.)

  You look back down at Mom. She will not look at you.

  “I love you, Mom.” And you do. That’s the terrible part. If she’s going to hate you for this, so be it. It’s what she wanted, and you promised.

  (That you did, pal.)

  You were her son. You were a Good Boy. And it was your duty.

  The first of the friends and family begin to arrive, and you’re relieved to step back from the bed and give the rest of them the chance to say good-bye.

  The warm-fingered nurse comes back in, smiles at you, then gives Mom the shot. “This will help you relax, Mary. You’ll feel better here in just a minute, I promise.”

  Mom smiles at her, a smile full of gratitude and affection. Part of you wishes she’d look at you like that, just once, just for a moment, but the rest of you

  (And us, pal. Don’t forget us, we’ll take it personally!)

  knows damn well that you’ve already gotten the last direct look from her that you’ll ever know, and there you were in the moment, observing the event while not being a part of it so now all you’ve got is the impression of something that may or may not be a memory of an experience you weren’t really a part of in the first place.

  (Let’s hear it for our Fearless leader, folks! Nothing gets by him, nosiree!)

  The room fills quickly; aunts, uncles, Mom’s co-workers from the cable assembly plant, friends of the family you haven’t seen in years, and a few people you’ve never seen before. You wonder if one of them is Him. You wish you could figure out which one He might be so you could follow him out to the parking lot and slit his throat with your car keys, then pull back his neck and expose the wet tissue and shit right down his throat.

  (Now, now, say the Guests. Is that any way to think at a deathbed?)

  Mom smiles at all of them, squeezes their hands, gestures for them to bend down so she can hug them and they can wipe away her tears. Warm Fingers comes back in and give Mom a shot of morphine, then stops beside you and whispers, “I have orders for two morphine shots. The second one is much stronger. I’ll be at the desk, so when you want the second shot, just let me know.” She touches your arm again, and this time there’s a definite intimacy to her touch. You nod your head and place your hand on top of hers. For a moment her fingers entwine with yours, then she is gone.

  A few moments later two technicians come in and ask for everyone except you and Lisbeth to clear the room. They wander into the hall. The first technician—a girl no older than Lisbeth, twenty-six, twenty-seven tops—closes the glass door and then pulls the curtain across it. The room becomes grey and shadowed; Death pausing to check his schedule: Here, is it? Ah, yes, I see. Okee-dokee; back in twenty minutes.

  “Are you ready?” asks the technician.

  You look at Lisbeth, then at Mom who still won’t look at you, and say: “Yes.”

  She turns off the ventilator.

  The sudden silence sings a sick-making sibilance of final things that cannot be taken back.

  “Now, Mary,” says the technician, “we have to take out the tube now. Are you ready?”

  Mom smiles around the tube and nods her head.

  You look away for only a moment, hear the terrible sound of medical tape being peeled away, then decide this is something you have to see.

  Mom’s already wrenching upward from the force of the tube being pulled from her, her face collapsing forward, becoming a reddening gnarl of flesh as her body locks rigid and her tears stream down and her fingers shudder (somehow that is even more terrible to you than her face, the way only her fingers and not her hands shudder) and the veins bulge in her head and temples and her eyelids spasm—

  —make it stop, you think. OhGod I didn’t think it would hurt this much, it’s my fault, I’m so sorry, Mom, I’m not mad at you, I understand, I never hated you, never, please make it stop, please make it stop, please make it—

  “Don’t swallow, Mary,” says the technician, her hands moving gracefully, one over the other, as she pulls and pulls and pulls.

  It takes only ten seconds but it seems like ten minutes, and when it’s done, when the tube has been pulled free Mom slams back against the bed with such force she actually bounces a little, and when she bounces a spray of thick black-flecked spit scatters across her face and down onto her chest and even onto your own hand even though you’re standing a couple of feet away. Her face is covered in sweat but it’s not quite so red now, and her chest is moving up and down as she pulls in breath and you feel the tears on your own face now, goddammit, and the snot running out of your nose but you don’t move to wipe away any of it becaus
e look at her, she can’t wipe the muck away so you won’t, either, you’ll stand here covered in your own fluids to show her that you understand, that you want to feel something of what she’s going through now because this is the last thing you’ll ever share, the last thing, the very, very, very last thing and you want to remember it, every specific, every detail, every minutia because you’re a Good Boy and that’s what a Good Boy does.

  (And noble, to boot. Look at all this fucking nobility. It makes you want to openly weep sensitive manly tears, it does.)

  The ventilator is rolled into a corner, the tubes rolled into coils and deposited into the medical waste bin, Mom is wiped clean, and the technicians leave, opening wide the room to light and sound and the waiting throngs.

  You move toward a corner and stand there, no longer trusting your legs.

  Looking out of the glass, you see Warm Fingers and nod your head. She nods hers in return and runs to fetch the last syringe.

  Bit by bit, Mom’s eyes close—but not all the way. The light fades, the readouts become erratic, the last shot of morphine is administered...and then all of you wait.

  No one in the room will look at you. At Lisbeth, yes, but not at you. You were the one to give the orders. You were the one who didn’t get off at Cave City. You were the one with Mom’s stubborn streak and the living will folded neatly in your pocket and the memory of the phone call and your ex-wife’s tears when the police called about your little boy who you shouldn’t have let ride his bike to the movies that day but, jeez, Dad, I’m almost ten and it’s not that far and the screams in your ear of You Fucking Bastard How Many Times Have I Told You I Don’t Want Him Riding That Bike Outside The Neighborhood and the fists against your face again and again and again and Dad whispering No Son of Mine Would Ever Put My Ass In A Nursing Home but you’re a Good Boy, aren’t you?

  (Well, say the Guests, about that...)