MORNING SUNLIGHT CREPT DOWN the bedroom wall, crossed the floor, and reached Marco’s face. The heat on his left cheek woke him. He turned his head away from the light and tried to roll over. Nothing happened. On his second attempt, Marco realized his right arm and leg were missing.
“Kevin!” he tried to scream, making a barely audible sound.
He clenched and unclenched his left fist, confirming some part of his body still existed. Terrified of what he might find, Marco inched his hand across his chest. Once it passed the mid-line, that hand disappeared too, only to reappear when he pulled it back in horror.
“Kevin!” he shrieked repeatedly, making muffled whimpers.
Half asleep on the living room couch, Kevin heard gurgling noises. He ran into the bedroom. Marco’s eyes were open, his mouth twisted. He was mumbling incomprehensibly. Torn between the reprieve of having Marco back and the pain of seeing his anguish, Kevin wept.
Marco had never seen Kevin cry. This final proof of love soothed him. It made everything clear. Marco accepted the missing side of his body. He was ready to leave the rest of it now and closed his eyes.
At dusk, Kevin awoke from a dreamless nap. The window shades were outlined by a chrome yellow glow. It must be five o’clock already, he thought. He sat up and suddenly felt trapped in a spinning teacup carnival ride. Afraid of falling, he didn’t move. Nausea rose and crested. Kevin forced himself not to vomit. As soon as the impulse to heave subsided, he looked around the room. The floor, walls, and ceiling were fixed in space, but the swirling sensation persisted. Baffled by why he would be having an attack of vertigo, he noticed the fingertips of his right hand were tingling—the same fingers that had just brushed against Marco when he sat up. Then he understood.
Closing his eyes tightly, Kevin touched Marco. Living flesh was warm, elastic, yielding to the least pressure. Marco’s skin was cool and stiff. Another wave of nausea mounted. He rushed to the bathroom in time to throw up in the toilet.
After the coroner left, Kevin remembered something Gwen had told him when her mother died, how the death of a parent removes the last blindfold keeping us from seeing our own mortality. Kevin hadn’t experienced that when his father died. He did now.
At his desk, he found a pen and a clean sheet of paper. He made a list—people to call, funeral arrangements, an obituary to write. He reached into a file drawer for three folders, back-burner projects he had hoped to initiate one day.
“No more waiting,” he said aloud.