My social studies teacher, Mr. Misuraca, distributes a test up the aisle. He moves like a trained bear, and every test, no matter what the alleged subject, ends up being about the nineteen sixties.
Brenda Mason strokes the shoulder of her sweater as she writes her name on the test, almost as if she’s patting herself on the back.
I write my name but nothing after that.
They leave the house at dawn.
They stop for coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts, but Dad isn’t allowed to have anything. Mom puts two honey-dipped Munchkins in a wax bag for later, should Dad choose to accept them.
Uncle Marty drives because Mom and Dad were up most of the night, and Mom’s too tired to drive. In the passenger seat, Mom navigates with the map.
The landmarks of Route 1 pass their windows. A lighthouse, a ship, and the tower of Pisa, all of which are really restaurants. An orange Tyrannosaurus rex that guards a miniature golf course. They’ve seen it a hundred times, but this time it startles them, and they wonder whatever possessed someone to put it there. Questioning, questioning.
The traffic doubles and redoubles. The Boston skyline ascends, gathering memories of family trips around it like a broad gray skirt.
Coolidge Hospital is the size of a town. Marty follows signs for Building G. He drops Mom and Dad in front, then goes to park the car.
They sign in at the front desk.
They take the elevator down to the basement.
The basement is a plain, concrete-walled clinic.
Dad is wearing his snappy first-day-of-school clothes.
The other patients are all in pajamas and bathrobes, because they’re living here.
A nurse calls “Bill Morrison,” and Dad looks up.
He and Mom are shown into a second room.
In the second room is a new doctor they’ve never met before.
He and a nurse take Dad into a third room.
Dad lies down on one of three beds.
The nurse straps him in and gives him an injection.
His body relaxes and his eyes close.
The nurse smears something on Dad’s head.
She places an oxygen mask over Dad’s mouth and nose.
The doctor presses onto Dad’s head two circles attached to a wire.
He seems to be asleep now.
The doctor throws a switch.
May God forgive me.
That I would do nothing while a doctor sent fire through my father’s body.