By the time they slipped through the hidden door of the old hospital, the ironic detachment that Katie intended to drape herself in slipped away. The visiting party became four when Robin realized she had to be there for her daughter if this turned out to be an awful idea.
As the flashlight beams led the way and the dust and rot began to make her feel like she was suffocating, Katie wished she had stayed home. But that thing her uncle said—about how much her father was hurting because of everything that happened—made her take the ride.
She could tell he wanted her to come have a look at her grandfather. She could do that for him. But now here she was, whispering and creeping about in a deserted old hospital, feeling an impending sense of attack, like in one of the Saw movies.
They finally gathered at the door into room 116.
“It’s just like he’s asleep,” John said to Katie soothingly. “You’ll see.”
He opened the door. But it wasn’t like that at all.
Across the room, the shriveled, bone-thin old man writhed in anguish, his breath ragged and full of fluid. The familiar and calm lines on the vital signs monitor spiked wildly, the measures for heart rate, pulse, and oxygen all registering dire numbers as the unit blinked and beeped.
The familiar silence of the room broken alarmingly, John and Mike rushed to their father’s side.
“Jesus, he’s burning up,” John said as he felt Larry’s forehead. The old man’s mouth snapped open and closed sharply, fighting for air. His lungs gurgled with phlegm.
“He’s … drowning,” Mike said with muted urgency. The involuntary contortions caused the old man’s eyes to open for scant seconds before slamming shut again. Katie couldn’t have known that parted eyelids—for even a moment—weren’t normal.
* * *
Gloria came within fifteen minutes. The Husteds stayed out of her way as she intensely but unhurriedly took Larry’s temperature and listened to his breathing. She had a log book that John wasn’t sure he had ever noticed before. It was filled with pages and pages of meticulous notes. She entered her new records and shook her head.
John discussed her diagnosis in halting but sufficient Spanish that would have impressed his family any other time. They saw John’s spirit sag.
“It’s an infection of some kind. She thinks he caught something,” he said. “His fever is nearly a hundred and three.”
“Is this it?” Robin asked with stark sensitivity.
They all watched as Gloria injected something into Larry’s IV line.
“She said she could flood him with antibiotics, see if he can fight it off. I said go ahead, but…” he trailed off. “Yeah, I think we’re there.”
“What about your mother?” asked Robin, impulsively but certain it needed to be asked.
John and Mike looked to each other for an answer, then turned to their father’s bed. Gloria stood over him, gently brushing his matted hair with her fingers, holding his hand, and whispering something gentle in Spanish.