I swear Dad looks more yellow than when I left ten minutes ago.
“Vance. Wake up,” I say.
His eyes pop open. “Is he dead?”
I toss my head back and forth. “No, but Marnie said he’s shutting down.”
Vance swings his legs over the side and stands. We are eye to eye. “Marnie was in here, and you didn’t wake me up?” He pushes me aside and stomps to Dad’s bedside. He lifts the sheet. “Does she know that his feet are swollen?”
“She does.”
He glares at me, his face red. “You’re an asshole, Oscar! Why didn’t you wake me up?”
The fact that we continue to argue over our comatose father’s body suddenly feels obscene. Dad is right here, right underneath us. My voice is barely a whisper, “I thought I’d let you sleep. You seemed wiped out. I’m sorry.”
Vance attacks me every day, every single day. He enjoys upsetting me. This anger is different. He’s scared. I can see it in his eyes.
“Can we not fight, please?” I say. “Not…now.”
Vance gives the arm of the recliner a few fresh punches, and then we both take our seats. I take his silence as a “yes” to my question. I’m okay with this.
After some time passes, he says, “Still three breaths.”
I haven’t been counting. Why haven’t I been counting? What is my problem?
“He’s not going to see me graduate, is he?” Vance says.
Graduation is in five weeks. Our father probably has five hours to live. He will absolutely not see Vance graduate from high school. I swallow hard. He won’t see me do it either. “No.”
He won’t meet our future wives or children. Won’t cut down another Christmas tree or roast another chicken. Won’t curse like a maniac when trying to parallel park. Won’t dance around the Blue Mountain when his favorite reggae song comes on. I’ll never hear him call me to dinner or tell Vance to play harder on the field or ask me if my homework is done.
This is it.
This is the end.
Vance says, “Do you think he knows we’re here?”
“Marnie said when he sighs it could be Dad’s subconscious, and that it’s his way of telling us he knows we’re here.”
Vance winces. “I don’t know if I believe that. He’s in a coma.”
My lips form a tight, thin line. I’m not sure I believe it either. It sounds too much like something a hospice nurse would say to a weeping son. “He’s probably just breathing.”
Vance turns and rests his forearms on the bed. “Dad? Can you hear me? Do you know that Oscar and I are here?”
One of Dad’s regular labored breaths releases. There is no sigh.
I lean in on the bed too.
Vance keeps going. “Dad, Oscar and I are here with you. We have been the whole time. I don’t know if Joey and Bill talked to you when they were here, but they came over to see you tonight.”
Dad’s hand jerks. Vance and I yelp.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! Why did he do that?” Vance shouts.
I panic, thinking Dad’s heart stopped or something, and I repeat the same hand hovering over his mouth. When his warm breath hits my palm, I exhale along with him. “He’s still alive.”
“Sh-should we get Marnie?” Vance asks.
I return Dad’s hand to underneath the sheet. “She was just in here. There’s nothing she can do. She keeps saying he’ll go when he’s ready.”
Vance stands and faces the window. “What if I’m not ready?”
Who is ever ready for death? Mom died suddenly. One moment she was there, and then she just wasn’t. Dad’s decline feels both fast and slow. We know it’s coming, but we’re not prepared.
“I’m not ready either,” I announce sharply.
My brother doesn’t turn around. He exhales onto the window, fogging it up. “Why are we arguing again?”
My eyes go wide. Typically I’m the one who acknowledges when we bicker. He’s always been too busy being Vance. This is…new. “It’s what we’re programmed to do. We don’t know how to find common ground, Vance.”
He rests his forehead on the glass. “Maybe we should start trying sometime soon.”