Ted hustled straight back to the hospital. There was urgent business at hand. He pulled up a chair by Marty. He took two tickets out of his pocket and, pushing the oxygen tube out of the way, held them under Marty’s nose.
“Smell that? Smells like victory. Smells like baseball, Boston. Playoff game is coming up and I got us two tickets. I got ’em. C’mon, buddy, time to get up. Rise and shine.”
Marty was still. Ted put the breathing apparatus back under his nose and, feeling his own fight leaving him, surrendered and said, “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry I’m such a fuckup. I’m sorry I’m Mr. Peanut. I’m sorry I’m not the Splendid Splinter. I’m sorry I got in your way, the way of your writing, of your life. And Maria. And I’m sorry I left you, abandoned you. Forgive me, Father, please forgive me…”
Ted put his head down on his father’s chest, so he did not see when Marty’s eyes began to flutter open. Marty croaked through days and weeks of dryness, “Did you say two tickets?”