As soon as I see the white H on the blue sign, I am nervous. My hands are clammy. I scan the large foyer without really seeing anyone. Then a kind face steps into my line of vision. I grab the man belonging to the face.
“Excuse me. I need to find my father.”
The tall, young man with red cheeks and wispy bangs leans his mop against a door frame and folds his arms across his chest. “Who is your father?”
“Ted Hamilton. He…he…” I start tearing up, yet another telltale sign of my anxiety.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was he brought in by ambulance?”
“No, a silver Camaro. 1960s refurbished.”
The friendly janitor looks at me confused, and then he motions for me to follow him.
“What is your name?”
“Mari Hamilton.”
“I’m Virgil.” He turns to the woman on the other side of a white counter. “And this is Sandy.”
Sandy is a plump brunette. She wears one of those old-fashioned nurse caps. The kind that resembles paper sail boats.
Virgil serves as my liaison to locate my dad and kindly escorts me to the fourth floor. Just as the elevator doors open with a “bing,” Dad is being wheeled toward a room, his left leg wrapped in bandages and sticking awkwardly in front of the wheelchair.
“You poor thing!” I rush to his side and begin fussing. I adjust the neckline of his hospital gown and wipe a bit of dirt off his face.
“I’m fine, Mari. It is just a sprain, so I can go home this afternoon. I hope you didn’t tell your mother.”
My nervousness turns to frustration when I see that he is okay. “You don’t think she will notice the splint?”
He pretends to pull his gown hem down over his leg.
“Not funny. And what were you doing working in the yard? Bernie told you to only exercise in the house and when someone is present. Someone other than Daisy.” I brush down stray strands of his hair. I find a piece of twig and a leaf.
“Bernie?”
“Fabio.”
“Oh, yes.” He nods.
“And why were you the only one at home? We have a schedule carefully figured out. There is to be someone with you at all times. What happened?”
As I discipline my father, the nurse and Virgil transfer him to his bed.
“I am a grown man. A babysitting schedule is not necessary.”
“Ted!” My mom comes rushing in. She bypasses the fussing and begins the scolding. “What on earth were you doing? Who was supposed to be with you?”
Virgil brings in a couple more chairs for all of us. Mom remains standing, so Virgil sits down next to me and leans forward resting his elbows on his knees as though ready to watch a football game on television.
“It doesn’t matter who was supposed to be there. I was supposed to be there, as I was reminding our thirty-year-old daughter. I am a grown man. I don’t need supervision.”
Virgil turns to me. “Thirty, huh? I would have guessed younger.”
“Oh, thanks.” I think.
Just then the phone by Dad’s bedside rings. Mom grabs it. “Marcus! No, just a sprain. I don’t know what happened. We had such a good schedule. Who was supposed to be with him?”
Dad reaches for the phone but Mom steps back. I notice her face fall and she closes her eyes. The phone goes to Dad.
“What is it, Mom?” I ask.
She sits on the edge of his bed. “I am the one who was supposed to be there.” Her fingers smooth over Dad’s knuckles.
I try to defend Mom to herself. “Things have been crazy, and we switched up the schedule last week, so nobody has figured it out.”
“I need to quit campaigning. I promised myself and him,” she points to Dad, who hangs up the phone, “that I would postpone the city council campaign if it interfered with the family.” Mom’s shoulders slump.
“City council. In this town that is quite competitive. I’m impressed.” Virgil stands up to shake her hand.
“Mari, who is your new friend?”
“This is Virgil. He’s a janitor.”
“Head janitor,” he clarifies, returning to his seat.
“Well, Virgil, I was running for city council. I haven’t been elected yet. But another year, perhaps.”
I know her. This is her final decision. “Yes, definitely another year.” I cheer.
“You are lucky to have such a supportive daughter,” Virgil adds.
Dad squeezes Mom’s hand and looks over at me and then to Virgil. “You should know that my daughter has a serious boyfriend. Very serious.”
“Dad!” I stand up and put my hands on my hips. “Unbelievable. A man offers me help while I am in a state of panic and you assume he is hitting on me. I find that to be extremely offensive, not just to me but to…”
“Virgil?” Dad asks.
“Yes, to Virgil.” I turn back to point to my helpful friend—and the chair is empty.