The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  I wanted to yell, “Drive the f@*king bus, already!” but, figuring that was a mite rude, I just clenched him a smile. He finally dropped me at the stop closest to the hospital.

  Bolting off, I heard him call, “Have a sparkling day!”

  But now, after nearly breaking my neck running the last icy block, I’ve stalled in the lobby. Scared, I suppose. I doubt Angie will welcome me; plus, I’m not sure what I’d hoped to achieve by coming. But I needed to — just in case. I’d hit the chapel, but I forget where it is.

  Incredibly, I’m hungry; it’s been a while since mega-breakfast. I consider paying a visit to the mauve-and-beige vendor cart; it’s like a snack Xanadu at the foot of the escalators. You can get warm pretzels, ice cream bars, and cappuccino. They also offer organic treats and sugar-free diabetic options. This is a hospital after all.

  I decide against purchasing for two reasons: 1) I’m flat broke (the bus ride did me in), and 2) I’m a little shell-shocked. So I just sit, reluctant to leave my cushy chair embrace for the soothing-shade-of-green info desk. What would I say? “Good afternoon, tranquil-hued volunteer, can I get the room number of a patient I’ve been told not to visit?”

  Yeah, that’d go over big.

  This is really not how I’d envisioned today. Wonder what Lex and Tyler are doing — yish! — best not go there. Instead, I focus on the people sharing my serene digs: A group across the lobby, circled in their own pleather mitts, converse in animatedly hushed tones. Their demeanor screams support group — but quietly.

  To my left, a procession of fretful relatives. Shoulders shaped like worry, they glide toward an arch marked (uh oh) Oncology. I’m relieved when they hesitate, change course, pass through a door etched Rheumatology instead. Better chronic than terminal.

  On the wall opposite the info desk are two doors. One bears the universal men’s room sign. To its right is another, marked Hospital Chaplain. I briefly mull approaching one, but I’m not sure which I need most. I’m recalling Gran’s horror stories about hospital restrooms — “germ incubators,” she calls them — but the chaplain’s door has visible cobwebs. I stay put.

  “Inertia, thy name is Galloway.” Crap, I said that out loud, judging by the faces of the support circle, anyway. Embarrassment urges me toward the horseshoe-shaped counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  I hear Mrs. S-B-C’s voice in my head: I don’t know; CAN you? I resist flaunting my grammar skills. I mean, the old lady’s just trying to help. Can? May? Who cares?

  Her nametag says Iris in jiggly cursive. She’s taken obvious care matching the ink to her earrings and eye shadow, all a suitable-to-the-pastel-environs blue.

  “Um … yes, I … I hope so. I’m here to visit a patient.”

  “Name?”

  “Evan Galloway.”

  “One moment.” Twisting in the violet rolly-chair, she scans her monitor, apparently finishing what I interrupted. About three minutes in, lower lip pooched like a tiny, pink diving board, she says, “Sorry, there’s no one by that name. Maybe you want Bradford.”

  “What?”

  “Hospital. Maybe you want Bradford Hospital,” she wrinkles her nose in distaste, “the other one. Across town.”

  I just blink, positive Angie said Saint Luke’s, then I repeat, “What?”

  Huffing, sliding her glasses down her sizable nose, she glares over pale lilac rims. “Young man, I have no one named Ethan Gallaghan on the patient database.” She seems to savor the words “patient database” on her tongue.

  I’m wondering if she’s an escapee from the idiot ward, then I realize I’m the one having a brain stutter. “Oh, sorry! I’m Ethan Gallaghan.” It’s best she doesn’t know my real name.

  Her lips tighten into a perturbed o.

  “When you said, ‘Name?’ I thought you wanted my name. But you meant the patient’s name — obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  Ignoring her withering tone, I say, “Right, the patient’s name, Giuseppe Alberti.”

  Immediately efficient, she tabs down her screen. “Alberti? Like the restaurant? Okie-doke. Just gimme a sec. Yep, I’ve got a Joe Alberti. He came in around eight this morning, through the ER. He’s in ICU. You’re family?”

  I don’t hesitate; thanks, amygdala. “Yes. I’m his grandson.”

  Her eyebrows stretch to their upper limits. “Gallaghan?”

  “Yeah,” I match her snippiness quotient, “my mom’s his daughter, Theresa Alberti Gallaghan.”

  “Okay then. You’ll find him on nine. Down the hall. Take the Father McGivney elevator to three, hook a left past the cafeteria. Then take the Pierpont elevator. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I sprint down the hallway, surrendering to the urgency that’s been nibbling my brain since the restaurant.

  “He wouldn’t want you here, Evan.”

  Six words with the power to deflate. I pause long enough for Angie to shove me backwards, into the hall, outside Zio Joe’s curtain corral. He doesn’t have a real room; no one does in ICU, just these plastic, floor-to-ceiling drapes partitioning each patient from the others. I try to slip past, reenter the little rectangle where Mister A floats in his metal bed. Angie blocks me like a vicious goalie.

  “But Angie, I — ”

  “No buts! Except maybe butt out, okay? My father is dying, kid, and whether or not he knows who the hell I am right now, I intend to be with him ’til he goes — ALONE.”

  As she says it, Angie jerks the drape shut in my face. She reminds me of Mister Alberti pulling back the curtains to reveal Dad’s mural. Or a really angry magician’s assistant. If not for her furious expression, she could be performing some magic back there; I’d vote for making all those tubes and machines disappear.

  I was only with the old guy for about ten minutes before Angie returned (probably from the ladies’ room) to eject me, but from what I saw, things aren’t good. He just lay there, machines huddled around the bed, tubes in both arms, this snorkely thing in his mouth. His hair was off to one side on the pillow, but he was in no shape to care.

  He looked like a husk, what’s left when a beetle molts its skin: an exoskeleton. I remember finding one on the windowsill when I was a kid and trying to get it to walk, or fly, before realizing it had nothing inside. God, why was I thinking of that?

  The curtained pen lacked a chair, so I sidled up, half-cheeking it on his waffle-blanketed mattress. I felt like I should say something to Mister A, in case he sensed me there. Fingers trembling across his pillow, I tried to reposition his comb-over. As I did, I whispered, “It’s me, Zio. I promise you’ll be out of here soon. And when you come home, I’ll have the Last Supper finished.”

  I’m not sure he heard me, but right then, as I made an impossible promise, his eyes fluttered open, meeting mine. I swear he tried to say something; the hand nearest me flopped on the blanket like a speared fish.

  I leaned toward him, asking, “What do you want to tell me?” like he could form a word with that vacuum hose in his mouth.

  Then Angie appeared, to catapult me from their lives. As I stand, staring at the beige barrier, I begin to realize she’s probably right; Zio wouldn’t want me to see him in this condition. I remember at the restaurant how he hugged me when his brain rebooted. He seemed desperate, ashamed even, of being so out of it. Safe to say he’d be humiliated to be seen this way: feeble, drugged, and tubed.

  I feel guilt for even coming here. What was I hoping to do, pump him for some deathbed revelation before he went? Nice. I finally understand this isn’t about me. However much I’ve convinced myself I’m a member of the clan — and despite what I told Info-desk Iris about being Theresa’s son — the Alberti family really doesn’t include me.

  Backing down the hall, past the Ladies Auxiliary gift shop, I poke my head into the family waiting room, the perfect brooding nook: dimly lit, vague piney aroma, dilapidated sofa. I’d hoped to find Lupo here, but no sign. Maybe he’s in the cafeteria. Or else Angie se
nt him to notify the rest of the family about Mister A. That’d be interesting. I picture relatives cross-country, jiggling silent receivers, asking, “Lupo, that you?”

  I think about calling Mom or one of the aunts for a lift, but can’t face another Galloway Gal car ride. Walking out the main hospital entrance, I taste snow in the air. Luckily, Grandmother’s house isn’t really over the river and through the woods, because I’ve decided to hoof it.

  “More pie?”

  I’ve already had two pieces, but the tart goo somehow soothes. Gran hoists another meringued slab onto my plate, then heads back to the kitchen.

  I guess it’s ironic, ending up here with the Queen of the Galloway Gals, after nixing the lure of a warm car ride to avoid interacting with one. But, post-hospital, I craved familiarity — the comfort of brown linoleum, that faint mothball scent, a no-questions-asked hug, and dessert. Major dessert.

  I was really looking for Gramp, hoping to clear up some stuff about the dead Evans and the whole “you done her dirty” thing, but Gran said he’s “at the depot.” That cracks me up, like he’s living this second life as a conductor, when really he’s at Home Depot, probably salivating over dangerous power tools.

  Gran’s back, leaning over the coffee table with her big ceramic cow pitcher. I never understand why she can’t just serve milk from the carton like normal people.

  She fills my glass, claiming, “That crust’s a little on the dry side.”

  There’s this slight buzz in my head, and I can barely keep my butt on the couch. I’m ready to bust. Not just from pie either — it’s Alberti stress, and of course, Father Fran. Gran, perched on the La-Z-Boy, seemingly oblivious to my agitation, grins across her coffee cup. Emboldened by sugar, I plunge.

  “I’m going on encounter, but I — ”

  Making this exaggerated, stick-out-your-chin face, she leans across the table, dabs me with a dishcloth.

  Through the damp fibers, I continue. “I need to talk to you about something.”

  “What is it, Jun — ?” She catches herself, “Evan?”

  An image of cliff divers pops into my head as I say, “I was hoping we could talk about Father Fran.”

  Bracing for the dropped cup, the hurled pie server, I expect her to scream. Faint. Something. But she just looks at me with a strange nonexpression and says, “That’s odd.”

  “What is?”

  “Your grandfather brought him up just last night.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes, and it’s not like we talk about him that often. Such a good man.” She winks. “And so good-looking, like a television star.”

  Eeeuww. “Father Fran was Dad’s art teacher?”

  “That’s right. But even before, when your father was maybe nine or ten, he recognized your dad’s talent.”

  I suppress a cringe. “He did?”

  “Yes, your father made a poster for Catholic Schools Week. Oh, I was so proud they chose it to hang on the altar.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Father complimented his artwork — your dad was an altar boy then — and asked if he could treat ‘the budding artist’ to some supplies. Well, I knew your Gramp would never allow it, but it seemed like such an opportunity. Private lessons! So I agreed it’d be our secret.”

  It’s killing me to not just blurt what really happened during those lessons. But what good would that do? What could I hope to achieve other than making her feel as bad as I do? Worse, because obviously she’d blame herself.

  “So, he and my dad were close?”

  “Well, yes, Evan, they were. But how’d you find out about that?” She looks a little puzzled, nothing dramatic.

  I risk gliding on half-truth. “I found some pictures in Dad’s trunk.”

  “Wait a second.” She crosses to the corner curio. From the bottom shelf, where it’s sandwiched by Hummel figurines, she pulls a brass frame: a yellowed photo of Dad, altar-robed, next to a priest. “This the picture you found?”

  “Uh … yeah.” I feel dizzy, staring into the eyes of my father’s monster. He does look like some actor — really tall, broad shoulders, the dad in that old ’60s Disney movie, The Parent Trap.

  “And what else did you find?”

  “Nothing much. Bubble gum cards, cassettes, junk like that.”

  “Junk? Too bad. I was hoping you’d find something good.”

  Scooping a final lemon gob, I prod the last hunk of crust and push my plate aside. “So, whatever happened to him?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Father Fran.”

  “Oh, he passed.”

  “When?”

  “Just after you were born.”

  “Must’ve been tough on Dad.”

  “Now you mention it, it was. Your father took it surprisingly hard. It’d been years since he’d seen Father. Of course, they had been close.”

  “Why hadn’t he seen him for so long?”

  “Well, priests, they have no control over where they’re sent. Father Fran was reassigned out West when your father was in high school.”

  “Did they keep in touch?”

  “No, and that puzzled me. I remember your dad was very upset, like he’d lost his best friend. It was only natural, I suppose. It was sudden. And he’d really come to rely on Father. You know, for a time, I thought he might follow in Father’s footsteps.”

  “How?”

  “Well, he confided in me he was considering becoming a priest. I think it was mainly that he and Father had become so close. He was a wonderful influence on your dad.”

  I stifle a shudder.

  “What is it, Evan? You look a little green. Was three pieces too much?”

  “No.” I worry my cheeks may split from the effort to smile. “I’m okay. What do you mean ‘a wonderful influence’?”

  “Well, your father could be … ” She struggles, twisting dishtowel fringe as her eyes pool.

  “You okay, Gran?”

  “Yes, honey. It’s just … it’s hard to talk about.” I nearly do a Pettafordi spit-take as she finally says, “Your dad could be a little moody.” She spots my eye roll. “Okay, you’re thinking that’s a bit of an understatement, right?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Look, Evan, you never exactly got the best your dad had to offer, but,” stopping herself, she picks at coffee table crumbs, “that’s not what I mean to say.”

  “Gran,”

  “No, let me finish. He gave all he was capable of. I’m sorry it wasn’t quite what you deserved.”

  “It’s okay, Gran.”

  “You’re a good boy, Ev. And I guess the father he was is the father you were meant to have. But if you could have known him,” her voice weakens, “before.”

  “Before the baby?”

  Biting her lip, she smoothes my hair. “I’m not sorry your grandfather took you to the cemetery, Evan. We always felt you had a right to know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you ask your mother about it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did she talk to you?”

  My voice comes out papery. “Yes, she showed me some pictures.”

  “That’s good. She was very strong when it happened, stronger than your dad. But it’s something no one should have had to go through.” She inspects the porcelain server. “Finished?”

  When I realize she’s talking about pie, I nod. Gran scoops my fork/glass/plate and bolts for the kitchen in one quick movement. We pretend the running water masks her sniffling.

  Joining me on the couch, she clears her throat and says, “He was never really the same after. I’m afraid you got sloppy seconds.”

  “I always felt a bit like I was the sloppy seconds. I guess now I know why.”

  “No, honey. You mustn’t feel that way. He really did love you.”

  “Okay.”

  “But even when he was a child, it was almost like there was another world inside his head.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, he
was a very gentle boy. Your Gramp was always worried there was something wrong with him, that he was weak.”

  “But Dad was this big sports star. How could Gramp think that?”

  “This was before, when he was a skinny, little kid. But I always knew. He wasn’t weak, Evan. He was special.”

  “Special how?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Sensitive. Kind. He’d cry over little things. We had, I don’t know how many, road kill funerals when he was five or six. And he worried about people. I remember, when he was eight, he didn’t want to keep his Christmas presents.”

  “Why?”

  “He’d seen a TV program about orphans and he wanted to send them all his gifts. Said we all should. Well, Rosemary, she was furious, thinking she’d have to give up her Chatty Cathy.”

  I can’t help laughing. She joins me. “I know, it was priceless.” Then we look at each other, wondering if laughter’s okay.

  “Was he ever happy?”

  “Sure he was. And when he was happy, he glowed. People stopped and smiled wherever we went, drawn to him like moths. Even though he was shy, if someone paid attention a light switched on. He could be so … articulate and, I guess you’d say, charming.”

  I try to steer the conversation back to Father Fran. “And talented.”

  “Yes, he was that. I always encouraged his artwork, even though your grandfather had misgivings. We did projects together: paint by numbers, decoupage. Sweet times. How we’d talk! But your Gramp said I babied him, made him soft. He was never one to talk about feelings.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I know. The more things change … but your father craved — now what’s that Oprah word?”

  “Validation?”

  “That’s it. He needed a reminder that he was loved, was worthy. And the artwork seemed to give him that — it was like food. But I guess your Gramp had a point.”

  “About what?”